Whitney Writes…

He still could not believe his luck. Never in all his childhood dreams had he imagined he would be able to purchase the old Victorian house at the end of the street he grew up on. And for a reasonable price, at that. Yes, it needed some work, some TLC, but he knew it would be worth it in the end. He would restore it to its former glory, and state in which the house had not been in at least a quarter-century.

It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. As though he were helping an old friend.

All through his childhood, his neighborhood friends had spread stories about this old house. That it was haunted. That the last owner had died there. That the owners before that and their family died there. Now as an adult, though, he highly doubted anyone had actually died here. The realtor would have had to disclose it.

That first night, in his new-to-him house, as he lay snug in his bed, just about to drift off to sleep, he heard rattling from downstairs. A rattling, followed by clanging, shuffling, more rattling, more shuffling, and yet more rattling. At first he opened his eyes wide, listening. Then he sat bolt up-right, clutching the covers to his chest. After that, he moved to his bedroom door, listening. He crept out onto the wooden landing, down the wooden steps with their word burgundy carpet runner.

It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

He tip-toed down the hall and gently nudged open the swinging door to the kitchen. There was a soft popping sound. He stuck his head in. There was nothing there. Just all his kitchen boxes. He did a double take, he did not remember opening any of his kitchen boxes. But he was exhausted from his day of moving, he thought himself lucky to even remember his own name.

Shrugging, he turned and headed back upstairs to bed.

The noises continued every night for the first three weeks that he was in the house. But never could he catch anyone in the house. At first he had thought some kids were playing tricks on him, sneaking in a door he had forgotten to lock. But he knew he would have caught one of the little hooligans by now, if that had been the case. He was beginning to wonder if those old rumors of being haunted actually did have some merit to them…

On the Thursday night of his fourth week after moving into the house, he was ready for the noises. He slept downstairs, in the parlor, on the sofa. At the first sound of clanging, he jumped off the sofa and raced to the kitchen as quietly as he could. He had kept the swinging door propped open, so he did not need to waste a single moment in opening it. He stopped, framed in the doorway, and his jaw hit the floor.

There was a ghost in his kitchen. A ghost. There was no other word for it. It had a pink-hue to it, long bobbing hair, the detailing of what looked like a chef’s outfit. It was rummaging in his refrigerator, pulling out veggies and meats. A sauté pan was already heating on the stove, he could smell the oil. He was about to speak, when the ghost turned towards him.

Her face was the description of classical beauty. High cheekbones, a long, slender nose, deep set eyes, and a quirk of a smile forming on her plump lips. “It’s you!” she exclaimed, her voice having a strange, echoing quality to it. “You’re finally awake! And you finally unpacked this kitchen properly!” She motioned to one of the barstools at the island. “Have a seat, have a seat!! I’m going to make you some of my famous spicy Cajun stir fry!”

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, sitting down for some reason, “but who are you?”

Her smile broadened as she turned back towards him, holding the sauté pan and performing a skillful, utensil-free, flip of the sautéing garlic and onions. “Why, I’m your Kitchen Ghost, silly!”

Inktober 2023, Prompt #12: SPICEY