The Other Side of the Attic Window

Twin girls live here. Cute as buttons they are. And now a new tinier button has arrived. Yeah, yeah, just as cute as the other two buttons, but this new button is different: he can see me. And, as the resident ghost, I was not expecting that. As well, I was not expecting to be peed at as I showed up to have a peek at this new baby on the changing table. Had I been my human self I’d have been squirted in the ol’ eyeball. This one’s gonna give me trouble. I’ve seen peeing babies before, but this one had a target in mind: Me!

The red-headed twin buttons have their suspicions about me, but they’ve never seen me. They’ve only witnessed my antics after the fact and giggle at the results. Like when the dogs are in the kitchen. My favorite thing is to pop up out of the kitchen floor, let out with a blood curdling howl, and whump! instant dog poop. Ha. You should see the look on their dog faces. And boy do they get yelled at. Ha. Ha. Ha.

One’s a Great Dane, the other a Boston Terrier. I call them Abbott and Costello, after the famed comedy duo. (If you’re asking your self “Who the heck are Abbott and Costello, you lame ol’ fool.” I suggest you treat yourselves to the Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein movie. You won’t be sorry.)

Now, back to the hideously cute, grumpy-faced button boy. That’s right, grumpy-faced. I’ve yet to see him smile. He just stares a stare of all stares until I disappear. Giving me a complex, he is. Even scaring me a little. You heard me right. This ghost is being spooked. I’ve been a failure at many things in my blood and bones life, but never at being a ghost. I’m pretty good at this. I hiss, I howl, I rattle door knobs. I even mush my face against the front door window whenever a nosy neighbor shows up asking about the flashing lights and pouring rain they see on the other side of the attic window. They’ve learned to stay away.

You see, I have the power to create my own weather: rain; shine; snow; hail storm. You name it. Hailstorms are my favorite. Especially when they’re baseball sized. Oh, the racket they make on the ceiling below! And the commotion they cause those inside their rooms.

But whenever the police show up after several complaints from the neighbors, they find the attic to be nothing more than a musty old harmless attic filled with the sort of things folks no longer need, but with attached memories so strong they can’t bare to part with them. That’s why I prefer being a ghost. I don’t get caught up in people worries. I have enough worries being a ghost. Getting peed at is one of them. I’m very sensitive.

The weather I create is only an illusion I conjure up from memory. You can see it, you can hear it, but you can’t feel it. And, boy, do I miss the feel of weather. But my travels are limited to the confines of this old house. I can only mush my face up against a window pane during an actual rainstorm and long for the feel of it on my tongue. But enough of that sentimental stuff.

There’s a mom and dad here, of course. Two lovely people living in a haunted house with three cute buttons; Abbott and Costello, and a ghost whose ghostly power to frighten little babies is being thwarted by a urinating grump.

Tonight is All Hallows Eve. The night when kids in costumes parade around the neighborhood in search of candy. When I was a living kid in 1930 I was grateful for an apple and a few raisins. And I was happy to have them. Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve heard this complaint before from Depression era kids. Well, I’m sorry, but the kids around here show up with buckets the size of a witch’s cast iron cauldron. Geez Louise! There. I’ve had my say and I’ll move on.

The redheads were in a frenzy to ready themselves as Wednesday Addams and her friend Enid Sinclair. Mom and Dad made an appearance as Gomez and Morticia Addams. And rounding out the ensemble was the cute litte grumpy-faced baby button as Puglsy Addams. They’ve since gone out to get their greedy hands on some candy of their own.

But later that night I heard the creak of the attic’s hide-away stairs being pulled away from its resting place in the ceiling. Then the lights were flicked on and I heard the footsteps getting closer and closer.

Company? On All Hallow’s Eve? I’m not a fan of company. I come to you. You don’t come to me. That’s how ghosting works. Over the decades I’ve had many a resident come to me with suck-up stories about how, “We know you’re in there, ghost! And we’ve come to say that you don’t frighten us!” Then I’d let loose with array of fiery lightning bolts, and off they’d go in search of House For Sale signs.

I sat up in my bed of old movie posters and watched in agitated anticipation as Wednesday and Enid entered the attic carrying a witches cauldron. They’ve no doubt come to hide their stash of teeth-rotting goodies from their parents. I can’t blame them. Parents are just as devious as children when it comes to sweets. But sweets are no good to me as a ghost.

“Hello, ghost,” said Wednesday. “We know you’re here. Pugsley sent us with a gift.”

“He said you’d understand,” said Enid. “He heard you. At least that’s what we think he said. Baby talk is hard to understand sometimes. So, here. And excuse us if we scram. We’ve got a lot of crap to eat. Good night, ghost.”

And off they went. Leaving me with a smile for what I found inside the cauldron: apples and raisins. The unwanted treats of the present, satisfying a soul of the past.

I think I’ll be keeping these young ones around for a while. But don’t for a minute think I’ve gone soft. I still control the weather.