The downstairs printer sometimes printed on its own. Grandma came up with fancy explanations about phantom print jobs since what came out of the machine was never anything that anyone in the household had printed. Oh yeah, and it wasn't one of those fancy wireless printer things, so it wasn't like it was some idiot in a neighboring home sending it to some unrecognizable printer. We really didn't know what to do about it, either. We'd go to sleep, and in the middle of the night, it'd spit out reams of love letters. Most often addressed to the kitchen sink.