Post # 294 The Ghost Who Ate Peanut Butter

October 10, 2014 at 11:21 AM | Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on Post # 294 The Ghost Who Ate Peanut Butter

It’s coming up on Halloween time and in the spirit, I thought I’d share a story I’m working involving a ghost and some food.  I hope you enjoy!

boo-cartoon-ghost

 

The Ghost Who Ate Peanut Butter by Joe Copeland

The ghost was eating my peanut butter sandwich when I stepped into the kitchen.  Sitting at the table as though he belonged there, in my chair.  I stared at him for several moments, thoughts colliding in my brain.  A, I didn’t know ghosts could eat real food, but the sandwich was disappearing before my eyes; 2, why was this ghost sitting in my kitchen in the middle of the day instead of at night; and last, why the heck wasn’t I running screaming from the house in a blind panic?

The ghost looked at me for a second, a glance only, and continued eating.

So naturally I spoke up about the most important part of this visitation.  “That’s MY sandwich, you know.”

He looked at me and said, “It’s pretty good.  What is it?”

“Peanut butter and blackberry jelly.  And it was supposed to be my lunch.”

He grunted in acknowledgement.  “What are the hard little bits?”

I was still miffed at him for eating my lunch, but decided polite was the way to go.  “Peanuts.  I like crunchy better than smooth.”

The ghost nodded.  “I think I’d prefer smooth.  Don’t like the hard little bits.  Blackberries are good, though.”

“I didn’t make it for you,” I retorted.  “And that was the last of the bread.”

He shrugged his shoulders and I noticed that he was slowly becoming more solid, less amorphous.  I don’t know why I kept thinking of it as a he except that’s what he looked like to me.

“Use crackers,” he suggested, just as heartless as my big sister.

I nodded, familiar with that routine.  I edged around the table to the cabinet where the crackers were, then sat across from him.  Now that he was more solid, it was easy to see details and I realized why I knew the ghost was a he.  Broad shoulder strained a blue uniform shirt.  I couldn’t see he trousers, but assumed they’d be blue, too.  His dark hair was short and wavy and hung around his face in a disheveled manner.  It was the five o’clock shadow around his jaw that was the dead giveaway.

I ate three or four crackers piled high with peanut butter while he finished the sandwich I’d made for myself.  Finally, he looked up at me.  He had an air of exhaustion about him.  “Do you have anything to drink?  That peanut butter is hard to swallow.”

I nodded.  “Water, lemonade, juice, soda.  What do you like?”

He smiled faintly.  “How about a beer?”

I laughed.  “Not in this house, buddy.  Mom won’t allow it.”  I got up and poured two glasses of lemonade and set one in front of him.  I accidently brushed against his arm and it felt like I’d brushed against a fog bank, cold and a little tingly.  I was still surprised I was so calm, as though eating and talking with a ghost was an everyday occurrence.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Martin,” I replied.  “Yours?”

He looked puzzled.  “I’m not certain.  Maybe, uhh, call me Hewitt.  That seems right.”  He reached out his hand and I grasped it in a friendly handshake without thinking about it.  He was solid, but unsubstantial at the same time.  And cold.

We sat silent for a time.  I didn’t want to break the spell.  Who knew when I’d have a chance to talk to a real ghost again?

“How old are you, Martin?”

“Fifteen.”

He nodded.  He still looked lost in thought.

“Hewitt?  What are you doing here?”  I managed to ask the question that was uppermost in my mind.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Sitting here in my house, eating a sandwich.  It doesn’t seem very ghostlike.  At least, not what I’ve read about ghosts.”

“You can read?”  He looked impressed.

“Can’t you?”

He shook his head.  “No, I’m just a farmer.  Or, I was a farmer until the war started.”  He stopped abruptly, staring out the window.

“When am I?”

He got up and looked through the back door.  From there, it was just a view of streets, houses, telephone lines, trees.  “I’ve never seen this place before.”

I told him the name of the town, but he didn’t seem to know it.  His frown deepened.

“How old are you, Hewitt?”

He shook his head, thinking.  I could tell he was distressed, trying to put things together.  “I was 16 when my brother left for war.  Pa was pretty upset at him.  A year later, I left to join his regiment.  Pa was gone by then, Ma too.  Sally was the only person holding me there.  Sally, who was she?”  He was muttering to himself by then.

I stood and moved next to him.  “You okay?”

“I get the feeling there’s something I need to do, but I don’t know what it is.”

I nodded.  That was in line with everything I knew about ghosts.

He looked at me a long while.  “Kid, I’m gonna need your help.”

I smiled and nodded.  Suddenly, the boring summer that stretched in front of me didn’t look all that boring anymore.

************************

That’s as far as I’ve gotten on this.  Hope you liked it.  Let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

ghost

 

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