Ghost Tour

?Cathy said that ghosts eat your face,? my kid sister said.
?So what?? I said. ?That could be an improvement.?
She snarled and slugged me in the gut.
?I wasn?t talkin? about you,? I gasped. ?That was meant for Cathy.?
?I know,? she said.
?Anyways,? I said. I tried to shake the nausea so I could sneak another of those fresh-baked hello dolly bars before we left. ?Ghosts don?t eat faces. That?s not really what they?re about. For them, it?s all about unfinished business from when they was alive. That don?t include eatin? no faces. They didn?t do any of that when they was alive.?
?If you say so,? Ella-Mae said. She got up on her tiptoes and took one of those gooey hello dolly bars from the baking sheet. I glimpsed toasted coconut, chocolate chips, pecans, and even the graham cracker crust as it was flung into the pit of her mouth.
I started to get another for myself, but a twinge in my stomach stopped me.
Mom walked into the kitchen, shaking her keys. ?We?re gonna miss our tour,? she said. ?And if we miss that tour we?ll just have to miss it because we?ve got lunch with Miss Juniper.?
Miss Juniper was one of Mom?s friends who lived in Montgomery. They were going to catch up, though at the time I didn?t really understand the point of catching up. As a nine-year-old, all my friends were either on our street, the street behind us, or at school. And ketchup was a condiment.
We?d gotten to stay home from school, excused, because Mom had worked it out with the teachers that our trip to that historical tavern would be educational. At any rate, that?s what Mom had told us.
There was no trace of the additional hello dolly bar Ella-Mae had scarfed down. We were only supposed to have the one and then have ?actual dessert? when we got back. Ella-Mae grinned at Mom and Mom smiled back.
We were on the road for a couple of hours before we got to Montgomery. The tavern wasn?t like how I imagined a tavern at all but just looked like a mix between a house and an old school building. The windows were tall and thin, though, sort of church-like.
People in Victorian dress greeted us at the door, and pretty soon we?d gotten started in the main room.
?This place has a lot of history,? the tour guide said. ?It was first built not long after 1814, when the federal government opened up settlement in the Alabama Territory after the Creek War. Some interesting people have visited this tavern. People with their own history. It?s little wonder it?s haunted.?
Rocking chairs. Small tables. A fireplace. No cushions or carpet.
The tour guide gestured to the fireplace. The sleeve of his frock coat, two sizes too big, hung from his arm like loose skin. ?A noisy disagreement once bothered the then deceased first owner so much . . . that her ghost caused a gust of ash to fly out of that fireplace. It covered the loudest guests in the room.? He smiled. ?But she?s otherwise pleased to have guests, and she?s pleased with the restorations.?
Next was a couple of bedrooms. The chairs and beds seemed smaller than normal. Everything was made of the barest wood where it could be. Ropes hung on the walls.
?General Lafayette himself stayed here before he died. A war hero. Some guests?ll see him sitting in that chair. Or pacing the room, reflecting on his glory days in the American Revolution no doubt. But that chair?s his favorite. He was also quite fond of the cooking. Speaking of cooking, let?s go to the kitchen.?
In the kitchen, there were many old pots and pans on hangers on the wall, like some kind of exhibit.
?They?d cook up a storm in here,? the tour guide said. ?You can still smell the chicken pie and fried vegetables some days. This tavern was as well known for its food as its hospitality.?
We were clomping down the hallway, getting ready to go outside and scrutinize some other old buildings, when a voice called me back. Playful. But imperative. Less than a whisper in my eardrum.
So I slipped away from the rest of the group and was soon back in the kitchen.
Someone was behind me. When I whipped around, I saw it was my sister.
?You heard it too?? she said.
There was a rustling and the two of us turned to see someone standing over us. He wore a sleeveless undershirt and slacks. Thick hair and long sideburns.
He leaned down. I remember being so scared that I couldn?t even flinch.
?Some ghosts really do like to eat people?s faces,? he said. When he opened his mouth, strings of flesh appeared in the gap. I thought I saw part of a nose.
Ella-Mae and I screamed. The tour guide, Mom, and the others doing the tour all came back to the kitchen. But the ghost was gone when they got there.
We did our best to describe the ghost to our guide?his appearance as well as what he had told us . . . and what he had seemed to be eating.
?But that doesn?t match any of ours. I don?t believe anyone?s reported a ghost like that here. You sure you kids didn?t bring it with you??
It had probably been meant as a joke. The others on the tour got a good cackle or two.
But Ella-Mae and I weren?t laughing. The tour guide must?ve taken note of our expressions, because he quickly changed topics and tried to get the tour going again.
Mom seemed the most shaken by it, though. Afterwards, all during the lunch with Miss Juniper, her old friend kept asking her if she was alright.
I didn?t find out until years later that Mom and Dad had gotten our childhood house cheap, the reason being because a serial killer had lived and died there, one that liked to eat people?s faces. It reminded me of all the times Ella-Mae?s friend Cathy had stayed the night at our house for sleepovers. Maybe that?s where she?d gotten the idea. I don?t really know when the tour began and when it ended.
R
OD


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