Dybbuks, according to Eastern European Jewish folklore, are the malicious spirits of dead people. And because they’re malicious, they raise holy hell with those of us still shlepping on this mortal coil.

While I don’t believe in dybbuks, ghosts, haints or other such characters from The Great Beyond, it might explain something that’s plagued me since childhood, namely all those things of mine that strangely disappear, seemingly in a flash, never to be seen again.

Take car keys, for example. With every car I’ve had, I’ve always gotten three sets of keys. But, inevitably, within a ridiculously short period, I’ve ended up with only one of them. It doesn’t matter what I do to prevent it. I’ve had a key rack by my front door, I’ve used a key basket, I’ve had key chain fobs as big and garish as Superbowl rings. No matter. Within the year they’re as long gone as cursive writing and essay tests.

And it’s not just keys. Speaking of writing, my pens seemed cursed too. I’m a total fussbudget about pens. I use specific brands, specific models, and only specific widths (and if you must know, only black ink). Because I write every day, on the faint chance there may be a pen dybbuk, I order my pens by the dozen. I’m always careful with my pens, and carry one in my shirt pocket, another in my pants pocket, and a couple in my bookbag. When I finish writing, say in Nori’s, I make sure to put each pen back in its proper place. Still, I go through pens like poop through a goose. I have a big refill stash for my pens, but I’m not sure I’ve ever had a pen long enough to run out of ink.

How about books? The sad truth is I’ve finished only one of the last four books I’ve started because (you guessed it), the others flew off to Dybbukland … on chartered flights. And as further proof of dybbuks having evil intent, I only lose books once I’m three-quarters of the way through them. I read mostly mysteries, and of late have considered reading only Agatha Christie’s precious dreck, since it doesn’t matter who done it, because it makes no sense anyway.

But I have a certain versatility in the loss game. While I have my dybbuk-driven losses, I also have ones that are my fault. Most noticeably among them is my Car Roof Fandango.

The CRF is simple enough. For reasons known only to The Great Spirit (cuz I sure don’t know), I will at odd times and for odd reasons, take something in my hand and put it on the car roof before I get in. Among the MIA’s have been three gas tank caps, two notebooks, one brand new glove, and the entire first draft of an only copy of a short story I’d worked on for a couple of months. I actually found one of the gas caps (metal from one of my VW Beetles), but by the time I retrieved it, it’d been run over so many times, it looked less like a gas cap than a unidentifiable chunk of scrap metal, which is exactly what it was.

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Up on the roof … down on the pavement

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While I don’t mind talking about my dybbuk thefts, for obvious reasons, I keep my CRF’s to myself. So for all I knew, I was the only person on Earth who actually did something that spacey … until last week. For that’s when I found a fellow CRFer, my fellow journalistic hack, Phil Brown.

We were just chatting idly, when Phil said he once took a pair of brand new skis, put them on his ski rack, and drove off — without first attaching the former to the latter. Of course they fell off, and of course made such a racket that he found them. Luckily, aside from some minor dents and dings, they were perfectly fine.

Now here’s the thing: While I’m terrible at holding onto things, I’m great at finding them. I’ve no idea why that is, other than by my finding other people’s stuff, my dybbuk is rubbing my nose in his ghostly thievery. Regardless of why, I find things all the time. And catch this: In the last 18 months I’ve found four cellphones. And best of all, I’ve returned them to their owners — all on the day I found them.

However did I manage that, you ask?

Truth be told, I didn’t manage it — Saranac Lake Neighbor Helping Neighbor did.

SLNHN is a public Facebook group whose goal is share information that’ll help all us local yokels. The admins are Gail Brill and Karen Miemis, who run a tight ship. The rules are few: No buying or selling, no rants, no hate speech, no politics, no negative nonsense, in other words — just post stuff that’ll help each other. It’s a balm, and a refreshing change, from so much of the crap in FB groups.

Anyhoo, SLNHN is my go-to when I find anything. I haven’t had any luck with most of my finds, but have batted .1000 with cellphones, for probably two reasons. One is a missing cell phone is a big hit to the pocketbook, so peeps are looking for them. The other is there’s always someone who knows about the lost phone or recognizes the lock screen, or some something that identifies it.

Now while my telling about finding and returning the cell phones may be mildly interesting, there’s nothing entertaining about it. But here’s something that is: One phone return combined both a dybbuk and a CRF loss.

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A walk in the park

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I found the phone in the middle of Riverside Park. I don’t know what kind of phone it was, but this one was in some kind of camo bullet/bomb/and waterproof case that looked like it was designed by Seal Team Six. As a result, I figured it’d be a cinch to identify — and I was right.

I posted a pic of it on SLNHN and within mere minutes got a call from a young man who said it was his. He asked me where I found it and I told him.

“Riverside Park?” he said. “I haven’t been in there maybe in months. I NEVER go in there.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s where I found it.”

What I didn’t tell him was the reason it was in the park, namely a dybbuk. He sounded like a fine fellow and I had no reason to let him know he was a victim of other-world possession. The poor sod would find out on his own, in due time, I figured, so let him believe in (and be deluded by) the benign nature of the universe as long as he can.

I had a bunch of chores to do in town, and he had the day off, so I told him I’d leave the phone in the ADE office within the hour. I hung up and gather my stuff for town: Two books to return to the library, three postcards to mail, a bill to pay at Evergreen, my bookbag, my clipboard, a Mini IQ puzzle, an apple for my favorite teacher, and somewhere among the pile, Rambo Jr’s cellphone.

Just as I got to my car, Jenn-X pulled over, on the other side of the road, on a return trip from Tupper.

“Hey,” she shouted, “I got you some donuts from The Washboard.”

Donuts? From The Washboard?

Listen, I don’t know if you’re a doughnut lover, but if you live here and you’re not, you should be, because the world’s best doughnuts are in Tupper, in The Washboard, that fabulous hybrid laundromat/donut shop that is one more gem in Tupper Lake’s crown.

I dumped the stuff I was shlepping on the roof of my car, ran across the road, got my doughnut stash, thanked Jenn-X, then ran back to my car, noshing a sinker on my way. Then I took the stuff on the roof, tossed it in the passenger seat and hauled off to town.

I did one chore, then another, then another, and was at the credit union drive through cashing the check, with one chore to do — take the cellphone to the ADE — when I saw the phone wasn’t there. And, with a sinking feeling, I realized where it was — somewhere between the credit union and my driveway.

I cashed the check and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of blue smoke and a 50-foot strip.

On the ride back I retraced my drive in, scanning the other side of the road and the shoulder for the cellphone case. No luck. My heart was sinking and pounding at the same time and I was swearing like an ex-sailor.

If I didn’t find the phone, what would I tell that guy?

“Uh, sorry, dude, I lost your phone cuz I’m kinda spacey with those things, ya know.” Or worse, “OK, so you’re out six or seven hundred bucks, but you learned a priceless lesson.” Or worst of all, “It was all my fault, so I’ll buy you another phone.”

I skidded to a halt just before my driveway, heart hammering in my chest, and hopped out. And when I did, I saw there, in the driveway itself, Rambo Jr’s bullet/bomb/and waterproof cellphone case. I grabbed it, checked it for cracks and scratches and the like, and there were none. In an act of half gratitude and half hilarity, I kissed the case. After all, as opposed to most stuff made today, it had done its job. Then it was time for me to do mine.

I drove back to town, dropped the phone off at the ADE office with a brief note, and walked out, grinning like a jackass eating prickly pears.

That chapter of “Lost-and-Found-and-Lost-and-Found-Again” over, a line from Robert Browning popped in my head: “God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world!”

After that, a line from the InSeide Dope popped into mine, which was: At least for now…