It all started with a guy wearing a sheet. Gentle Readers, I need your help today. If you would be so kind as to play armchair therapist, I have a problem. No, it’s not my Mommy issues. This goes deeper.

First, a little background. I am a fan of Rob Zabrecky. The Musician/Magician/Actor is always a treat to watch. So, when I heard he was in a movie called “A Ghost Story,” I decided to give it a go.

Film review site Rotten Tomatoes had a high rating from their own staff of reviewers: “In this singular exploration of legacy, love, loss, and the enormity of existence, a recently deceased, white-sheeted ghost returns to his suburban home to try to reconnect with his bereft wife.”

A guy comes back from the afterlife. As a ghost. Not a Patrick Swayze, sexy lovelorn ghost, but a person wearing a sheet with two black ovals where the eyes are supposed to be. The ghost does not talk. It does not move (much). Like a creepy neighbor watching you sunbathe through their window, the “ghost” just stands there. I use quotes because, again, it is an actor under a sheet. Think Charlie Brown Halloween costume with a few less holes.

It was a cinematic train wreck, yet I could not look away. Apparently, the editor died before post-production began, because the unnecessary lingering shots were only paralleled by the score, which made the three-chord musical belches of U2 sound symphonic in comparison.

The optimistically described “action” of the film features the man’s widow eating an entire pie, in real-time, only to regurgitate it. While the deceased husband watches. Wearing a sheet.

There is another scene where a hipster holds a party hostage as he bloviates about the meaninglessness of existence. While the husband stands and watches. Wearing a sheet.

In the movie’s version of a car chase, the guy wearing a sheet goes full Poltergeist, trashing the dishes in the kitchen of a poor Mom and her two sons.

“Is it purgatory or hell,” my Bride asked. What, for the actors in the film or the poor saps watching it?

I am not alone in my stultification. Viewer reviews from Rotten Tomatoes included such gems as “Movie version of extending a one-page report into a five-page report by messing with the font and margins,” “Imagine a joke that takes 90 minutes to tell, you never get to hear the actual punchline, and part of the point is how long and incredibly boring it is to get there,” “Oh, dear Lord. A most awful ghost bore,” and “Literally created my IMDb account just so I could comment how horrifically awful this movie is.”

I now consider this the worst film I have ever seen, and I sat through “Dirty Dancing.”

You’ve heard the evidence. I hope you have been spared the horror of actually seeing the film yourself. My question to you is, do you think I have a serious case for suing the movie studio for the loss of 92 minutes of my life?