The Elevator Ghost by Glen Huser

bowtie. “Look, children. Look at how beautiful your mama is. She should be on the stage tonight!”
    â€œOh, Papa!” Mama Bellini gave him a kiss on the forehead.
    â€œI wanna go, too,” Angelo Bellini scowled.
    â€œSweet baby.” Mama Bellini hurried over to hug her five-year-old. “When you’re bigger you can go. Right now opera is just for Mama and Papa, yes?”
    Angelo pushed his mother’s hug away and opened his mouth.
    For a second everything was quiet in the Bellini apartment. Angelo’s older sisters, Amanita and Corrina, looked at one another and gritted their teeth. Mama’s hand swooped to her forehead as if she were trying to ward off a headache. Papa closed his eyes and shook his head.
    It only took a second. Then Angelo uttered a scream that shook the ceiling lamp and sent the Bellini dog, Alfredo, whimpering for cover under the couch.
    â€œI wanna go!” Angelo howled. He screamed again, so loud that no one heard the doorbell.
    It was only when he stopped to draw breath that they heard someone knocking.
    Mama and Papa both grabbed their coats as they headed to the door to admit Carolina Giddle.
    â€œOhgoodyou’rehere.” Mama’s words were moving even faster than her high-heeled ­opera shoes. She nearly knocked Carolina Giddle over at the doorway.
    â€œWe’ll be back before midnight.” Papa gave Carolina Giddle a nervous smile as he eased past her.
    By this time Angelo was not only screaming nonstop but was stamping his feet faster than a dog trying to get at a flea with its hind leg. The radiator began clanging in time to his dance. Neighbors on both sides of the Bellini apartment were pounding on the walls.
    Carolina Giddle hurried in, picked up the little boy and held him so close that his hollers were muffled in her frizzy sweater.
    â€œHushabye, hushabye,” she crooned, but Angelo managed to give her a couple of kicks. “Mercy me!” Carolina Giddle exclaimed as she released him. Angelo crumpled onto the rug, sobbing and banging his head against the floor.
    â€œHe’s always like this,” Amanita sighed. She was four years older than Angelo. “Maybe we can put him up for adoption.”
    â€œOr take him camping and forget to bring him home,” said Corrina, who was a year and a half younger than Amanita. “Time out doesn’t work. He throws fits that are the ­worstest in the world.”
    â€œWell,” Carolina Giddle drawled, “he may think he throws the worst fits of anyone who has ever lived, but Angelo isn’t a patch on the Tantrumolos.”
    â€œThe Tantrumolos?” Amanita and Corrina said.
    â€œYes, the Tantrumolos. I’ll tell you about them, but first…” Carolina Giddle reached into her bag. She pulled out tea candles, a can labeled Ghost Host: The Drink That Soothes, and a plastic container filled with dessert squares. “I just this afternoon baked up a batch of granghoula bars. My mother showed me how to make them when I was just your age and we lived on a little island off the coast.”
    Angelo had quit banging his head and was crouched on the floor crying softly enough that he could hear what Carolina Giddle was saying. He even paused totally as the babysitter displayed one of the bars and mentioned the ingredients. Strawberry jam and crushed chocolate cookies, pecan nuts and green maraschino cherries with a ghostly cap of whipped white icing.
    â€œAn old sea captain who lived on the island told me about the Tantrumolos,” Carolina Giddle continued as she put the kettle on and arranged the tea candles on the coffee table. “If I’m going to tell you the story the captain told me about the Tantrumolos and the ghost ship of the Southern Seas, it’s best told by candlelight.”
    Carolina Giddle looked over to where ­Angelo crouched, scowling.
    â€œIf you’re going to continue with your fit, Angelo, please keep to