The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories by Diane Awerbuck, Louis Greenberg Page B

again, Lady Anne?’
    Jayne stared pointedly at the steaming teacup next to Fred’s. The teacup just sat there: didn’t even ripple.
    â€˜She says it’s about unleashing your inner poltergeist.’
    â€˜Oh. Good for her, I guess.’
    Fred plopped his cup down, dabbed his tea-soaked moustache with his sleeve, and said: ‘Well, ma’am, I guess it’s time for me and the Lady to get to work. Do you have the table all set up?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Good. Let’s get going, then.’
    She followed him outside to the table waiting by the pool. Fred zipped open his duffel bag, procuring a bucket of KFC chicken, a bottle of Klipdrift, a two-litre Coke Light and a bottle of Vin de Constance. ‘For the Lady,’ he winked as he took this last bottle from his bag. ‘Reminds her of the good old days, she says. Even if that frog, Bonaparte, spoiled it a bit for her by proclaiming it his favourite tipple.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜We’ll need some glasses. And a plate for the Colonel.’
    â€˜There’s a colonel here too?’
    â€˜No, ma’am’, he chided her. Colonel Saunders. The Kentucky colonel. The chicken, ma’am. I’m talking about the chicken.’
    â€˜I understand,’ she said. But she wished that she didn’t. This house, this Parow Arrow with his mangy moustache and his invisible friend, was becoming too much to handle. What she really needed was a hot bath and a bottle or two of Merlot. Maybe a tub of ice cream or a cupcake thrown in for good measure.
    Instead, she went to the kitchen to find a plate, a tumbler and one of her most elegant long-stemmed wine glasses. She didn’t want to be told that she didn’t know how to entertain a famous dead English hostess. When she stepped back outside, Fred had lit an army of fat white candles and had arranged them in clumps around the pool. He sat at the table, where one remaining candle flickered furiously. She laid the table and he proceeded to mix brandy with Coke Light, then poured the wine and heaped chicken onto the plate.
    â€˜Come, ma’am, grab a chair. We’re ready to start. Have you ever been part of a ghost-eating ritual before?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜It’s a centuries-old tradition. We’ve been performing it in my family for a long, long time. My father was a ghost-eater, see. And his father before him. And my father’s father’s father was a kaaskop ghost-eater all the way back in the Netherlands.
    â€˜What I’m gonna do now is help the spooks move on from this place by transferring all their sins into my KFC and Klippies here. When I eat the chicken and drink my karate water, their sins will move down my digestive system and into my soul, and the spooks will be free to move into the light. Easy.
    â€˜Some of them might not be so keen to leave, though; that’s what the Lady is here for. She’ll have a chat with the difficult customers, let them know that there’s a whole world out there for spooks who don’t want to move on, and there’s no need to hang around your swimming pool for all eternity.’
    â€˜And what if they don’t listen to her?’
    â€˜Not to worry. She can be quite persuasive, Lady Anne. Besides, most spooks prefer to move on after the ritual has been performed. Let’s sommer begin now. It’s getting quite dark already.’
    With a solemn expression, Fred closed his eyes, dropped his chin and proceeded to chant: ‘I give easement and rest now to thee, my good spirits. Come not down the lanes or in our yards, homes and swimming pools. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. I give easement and rest now to thee, my good spirits. Come not down the lanes or in our yards, homes and swimming pools. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. I give easement …’ One, two, seven, eight times he chanted the incantation and then dug into the chicken and brandy in a frenzy,