The Elevator Ghost Read Free Page B

Carolina Giddle simply said, “Oh, my. I love to see boys and dogs clean as a Sunday-go-to-meeting shirt.”
    She plugged in a fan and blew all of the bubbles back into the bathroom, where she opened a window. Clouds of soap bubbles drifted out into the night, and the boys took turns watching the surprised looks of passersby on the street below.
    Meanwhile Carolina Giddle dried Barkus gently with a huge towel, and he gave her several appreciative licks on her hand.
    The twins were pretty tired by this time, so their attempt to stage a fight, complete with ketchup for fake blood, wasn’t really their best effort. Still, there was a good chance that Carolina Giddle might faint at the sight of so much blood. Or she might get hysterical and call an ambulance.
    Instead, she dipped her finger into the blood, tasted it and said, “I think this could use some hot sauce, too.”
    â€œI’m gonna watch a movie on TV,” Dwayne declared when she told them it was time to get ready for bed. He and Dwight flung themselves onto the couch in the living room and began fighting — for real this time — over the remote control.
    And that’s when all the lights went off, and the TV died in the living room.
    â€œHey!” the twins shouted.
    In the next minute Carolina Giddle stood silhouetted in the light from the kitchen door.
    â€œJumpin’ junebugs!” she said. “Looks like a couple of fuses have blown. But never mind, I’ll tell you a story instead.”
    â€œThat’s for babies,” Dwight grumbled.
    â€œWell, you don’t need to listen, but I’m in the mood for telling. I think this dim light is what’s putting it in my mind. I’ll just get out my candles.”
    She eased herself onto the other end of the couch.
    â€œIt’s a ghost story,” she added, lighting several tea candles and arranging them in a circle on an end table. She reached into her bag and drew out the cage with the tarantula in it. Chiquita looked up at the twins and seemed to wave one of her hairy arms in greeting.
    â€œChiquita hates to miss a good ghost story,” Carolina Giddle noted. “And, oh, yes. I nearly forgot. I’ve brought along a snack — some bone rattlers. They’re from a favorite recipe of my grandmother’s. She always had some on hand when I visited her for the holidays.”
    â€œBone rattlers?” The twins sometimes said the same thing at the same time, and this was one of those times.
    Carolina Giddle fetched a plastic container out of her handbag, snapping the lid free. She pulled out some white items that looked like a skeleton’s finger bones. They glistened in the candlelight. A delicious smell of peppermint filled the air.
    The boys watched as Carolina Giddle crunched into one of the treats and sighed ­between chews.
    â€œMmm-mmm, so deelish,” she said, picking a bit of peppermint out of her front teeth.
    Dwight reached over and got a bone rattler for himself. He slipped a sliver of it into Chiquita’s cage.
    â€œShe’s not a vegetarian,” Carolina Giddle said. “But she does love the smell of peppermint.”
    Dwayne’s fingers curled around a bone rattler, too, as he dropped the remote and leaned back against his brother.
    The tea lights flickered in the dark room. Everything was quiet as a grave, except for the sound of the boys crunching their treats, and Carolina Giddle began.
    Some ghost stories are old as a Chattahoochee levee and others can spring up — why, even yesterday. I heard this one a couple of years ago. It was told to me by an old woman who lived on a little island in the swamp country on the edge of town, just back of the Chattahoochee River.
    Seems there were two boys. Jimmy Joe and Oren lived no more than a hop, skip and a holler from the old woman. Those boys — I think they were about nine years old — were up to constant devilment. Especially whenever