The Ghost in Me (18 page)

Even though the corner feels safe, less exposed than the center of the bedroom, I join Mrs. Gertestky and Gram to make a circle of three. A breeze blows through the room out of nowhere, and the blast of a train's whistle pierces the silence.

Mrs. Gertestky pulls Gram and me over toward the bed with an iron fist. "Don't let go! Stay close!"

The walls rattle violently around us. Within seconds, the gunning silhouette of a steam engine, followed by its coal car and passenger cabins, barrels into the room, passing through the doorway and over the stairs at the end of the hall.

Wheels squeal and grind, and pipes hiss and moan, as the ghost train comes to halt in front of Gram's purchased client. With the clink of metal, the door opens before him. Pausing, he smiles for the first time in weeks up at the windows reflecting darkness back at him. After a moment, he tucks his pocket-watch inside his coat pocket, and with tip of his hat and a flip of his cane, steps aboard.

Gram mmm-hmmms with knowing delight. "Well, would you look at that." She returns his wave, which comes moments later through one of the dark panes of the passenger car. A woman holding a young child stands by his side.

As the last of three whistles stretch into silence, both the train and its passengers vanish into a brilliant flash of light.

"Well, what do you think of that?" Gram asks.

I look through the open doorway--empty and looming large. "Makes me wonder, was that the end for him? Or, another beginning?"

Both Gram and I look to Mrs. Gertestky, who considers a moment. "We all have our beginnings, Myri. We are born with them, and we die with them, too. We carry them with us wherever we go. They keep our future open and unwritten... like blank pages waiting to be filled at the beginning of a journal, or those that lie waiting at the end of a book."

Gram nods. "Endings fold over into new beginnings. They keep us moving forward, reaching out, striving to make our lives better."

I consider her words, wrap my chest up in a hug. Finally, I let out a long, contented sigh, thinking how much I like that idea.

I give Gram and Mrs. Gertestky a grin. "I know how to end this seance."

They look at each other, then back at me. "How?"

"By starting a batch of Gram's lemon cookies."

Gram laughs. "I'll race you to them. Last one to the mixing bowl welcomes the next ghost that walks through the door."

If you liked
The Ghost In Me
, there are more stories to enjoy from the author.

• • •

Here is an excerpt from:

Disasters of a Tween-age

Half-Vampire, Half-
NOT
!

by Shaunda Kennedy Wenger

MUST - DO !!!

A.S.A.P. !!!

• • •

1. Bury the hack saw.

2. Bury the buck knife.

3. Bury all red body paint.

4. Bury the scissors, the thread--
wait, not yet
. I need these.

5. Bury latest project--not in the yard, but DEEP in the closet.

Chapter 1. Why

It's because of the whole dead bunny thing, topped off with two rabid cats, four amputated limbs, and a dozen good-luck rabbit's-foot charms that I've taken up lying.

Okay, let's not call it LYING. Let's call it,
keeping secrets
. Out of necessity.

Because of the dead bunny.

Or, what they did to my costume. (There was actually no real bunny involved.)

Of course, I wasn't planning on the dead bunny look. I was supposed to be a cute bunny. A soft, furry, sweet one. The kind most people keep as pets.

But no. My parents had to go and change it. At the last minute. Like they always do.

Given my past experience, I suppose should have seen it coming.

Well, actually, I did. Which is why I planned for it. But then my parents went and mucked up that brilliant P.O.A., too. (That stands for Plan of Action).

What I'd
planned
on was to hold off on the bunny costume until after the annual family photo was taken. Look like myself for the picture. After all, that's what mother does. And then, when the coast was clear, I'd put the costume on, sneak out, and trick-or-treat to my heart's content.

But no. They insisted on my costume for the picture.

Until they saw it.

Then they insisted on a few improvements, i.e., cats, limbs, feet.

Which sad to say, is par for the course. The bunny was one in a long line of screw-ups.

Before the bunny, I'd suffered through being made into many other dead things on Halloween night. . . . There was year of the frog. That was really
quite super
--especially with the tire tracks going across my belly. And the year of the fairy (
another favorite
--they made me pluck my wings and carry them). Then, the queen--headless; and the doll--torn to shreds; and the girl--simply dead--(I gave up that year and let them paint me).

But the worst year of all was the year of the mouse. And not just any mouse. THE mouse. As in red-and-white dress, big black ears, and big, fat feet.

Yes, Minnie Mouse.

And they wound up killing her, too. It was lovely. . . .

"Perfect," Mom said, taking a step back to admire me.

She'd painted blood around my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth.

Albert, the family skeleton, rattled his bones in agreement. "Yep, Claudette, she looks like a winner!"

"A chip off the old block!" howled Uncle Earl from his crypt.

"Nothing scarier than a dead little mouse!" cried Aunt Wilma, her voice rising shrilly with delight.

"Well, maybe a blood-sucking one," said Dad, wrapping Mom up from behind in his long, black cape. Dad was dressed as a phantom, and he was right. I, Little Miss Big Ears, looked more like a flesh-eating cannibal than a dead little mouse. It was truly terrifying, again.

But trick-or-treating was worse.

Mother went as a vampire (she's so creative), and she kept saying, "Aren't we just two peas in a pod?"

I couldn't, wouldn't, disagree. After all, it pays to be polite to a woman with fangs, even if she is your own mother.

The neighbors cringed when they opened their doors, which was what Mother wanted, of course. "What exactly are you?" they'd ask, scanning the darkness, looking for others like me.

"She's Minnie Mouse, and she's dead," Mother answered. She said this happily, matter-of-factly, as if I was one of many roaming streets that night....

But I wasn't. Thanks to the number one family rule--the one about dressing as something dead or scary on Halloween--I was one of a kind....

I'm always one of kind, simply because my idea of a happy-fun costume never passes inspection. This is why I KNOW my idea of getting dressed up in a beautiful way for Woodruff Middle School's Halloween ball will be dead in the water before I can say, "Mother, may I?"

Thus, the new plan.

The one about keeping secrets.

Since I already keep secrets on a daily basis, it may work. After all, I've had lots of practice.

You see, my mother,
Queen MV
, really
is
a vampire.

Yep, a vampire. Complete with fangs, black hair, stylish clothes....

Having a vampire for a mother is not the sort of information I can share with just anyone. If I did, there'd be things like holy water, silver bullets, and stakes-through-the-heart to worry about. Not for me--those things probably wouldn't do a thing to me. Well, I guess they would.... Silver or not, a bullet's bound to hurt....

But mix any of those things up with my mom, and it wouldn't be good. And actually, completely unnecessary, because for the most part, she's safe. I mean, she's not active. She doesn't hunt pure flesh and blood. Not entirely--she satisfies that craving with raw meat bought from the butcher. And she doesn't sleep in a crypt like Uncle Earl. She sleeps on a California King with my dad. (He's a big guy.) And she doesn't turn into a bat at night and fly around, but once I did see her fly out the window and catch my brother when he fell from the oak tree.

Me? Despite being born to my mother, I've never flown. Never had an inclination to hunt. And unlike my brothers, never licked a cut or scrape.

Basically, I've shown no interest in anything that turns vampires on.

Even the thought of immortality isn't appealing, because someday, someway, I do want to die, so long as it's WAY, WAY, WAY out in the future. Which for me is a long ways off. Right now, I'm thirteen.

Or, almost thirteen.

In nine months.

And I'm thinking it's about time I remind Mother.

Because thirteen is when I should be able to start doing my own thing, start making my own decisions, start taking control of my life--especially the little things.... Hmmm. Maybe I should remind Father....

After all, thirteen is when grown-ups start expecting you to act like what you're destined to be, or what you want to be, or what others think you should be when you grow up. It's an age all about... it's an age about--Eeeek!--it's an age about DESTINY!

I think I'll remind NOBODY!!!

Cripes. This business about being a vampire--or NOT being a vampire--is really going to ruin my life.

About the Author

Shaunda Kennedy Wenger is a co-author of
The Book Lover's Cookbook: Recipes Inspired by Celebrated Works of Literature and the Passages That Feature Them
. She has also written children's books, such as
In Black Bear Country, How Many Muffins?
and
Caterpillar Can't Wait
, for the education market. Her children's poems have been published in
Babybug
and
Cricket
magazines. She lives in Utah, where she is perpetually entertained by her children, their friends, and the students that find themselves stuck in her science classroom. This isn't her first middle grade novel, but it came out ahead on the road to publication. To find out more about Shaunda and her other books, visit www.shaundawenger.blogspot.com.