A Real Life Haunted Kitchen
I slide onto the bench, and my eyes are immediately drawn back to the cupboard. At the very top, pushed back against the wall, and almost out of sight, is a cauldron! Ah- hah!
Mrs. Hallovich is disappearing into a closet with Tommy.
“Hey! Where are you going?” I shout.
“Nowhere, Dear. I’m just grabbing a seat for your brother.”
With Tommy on her left hip, she maneuvers a highchair from around the door. I would help her, but if she really needed help she could probably use a magic wand. She drags it across the floor and places it next to me, at the end of the table. She settles him into the fancy, wooden chair and slides a tray into place. I point to the suspicious cauldron, and in my most so-how-do-you-explain-this voice I say, “What’s that?”
Her eyes follow my pointing finger then dart quickly back to my face. I can tell she’s trying to figure out if I’ve figured her out. “Well, I would call that a large black pot.” She pauses. “Would you call it something else?”
“No. It looks like a large black pot.”
She’s still looking closely at me.
“What do you use it for?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. She’s studying me. I’m smarter than she gave me credit for. She eventually plays it cool. “Well, I haven’t used it in years,” she says. “When I was a child, my mother prepared stew in it.
Good answer, I think to myself. I’m wondering, though, what kind of stew it was exactly. “You could practically cook a whole kid in that pot.”
Mrs. Hallovich gives me a strange look. We just stare at each other for what seems like at least 10 minutes, and I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t said that. Then she laughs.
“I suppose you could,” she says.
The next thing I know she’s putting two plates on the table in front of me. One is small, with pats of butter, and a dainty, silver, butter knife. The other is large and covered with a clean, white dish towel. She sweeps the towel away, and the sight and smell that hits my face is . . . oh my! Incredible.
“Blueberry scones!” she announces. “Would you like some milk?”
My friends, we have a situation. These scones could be poisoned. The milk could be poisoned. But, 4:30 is a million miles from now, and those scones are less than two feet away. I don’t want to starve. I don’t want Tommy to starve. (We had cold cereal this morning, but that was practically yesterday).
“Yes, please.” I say. I’m kind of mad at myself for giving in so quickly, but what-do-ya- do?
The scones are delicious. Like a sweet biscuit or maybe a less than sweet cookie. With butter spread thickly over the top and melting down the sides, and blueberries seeping out a little here and there, they are a warm piece of heaven. Since I don’t taste poison, I go ahead and eat three.
Tommy has a few blueberry stains on his face and a hundred on his bib. He grins and holds out his little fist toward Mrs. Hallovich, trying to share a soggy, disgusting piece of scone. I can’t believe it when she takes it and eats it. Yuck!
“Thank you, Tommy,” she says. “You are very nice to share.”
She’s obviously willing to do anything to impress me and get past my defenses.
While she helps Tommy with the last of his milk, I check her out more closely. Her gray hair is piled up on her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing normal looking clothes: capri pants, like my mom always wears in the summer, a white t-shirt with a pink, short-sleeved sweater, and simple, white tennis shoes that cost $6.00 a pair at the Family Dollar. Her only piece of jewelry is a silver locket around her neck. I love lockets, and imagine all kinds of secrets and special photos that you can put inside and keep close to your heart. I had a locket once, but it was tiny, and I never got around to putting anything inside.
“Do you have a photo in your locket?” I ask.
I’ve caught her off guard because she stutters a little. “Uh. . . yes. Yes, I do. Would you like to see?”
I nod. Would I ever! I lean over the table, as she leans over toward me. She opens the tiny silver catch and there, on each side, is an old-fashioned, brown photo. The one on the right is of two children with dark hair, a boy and a girl. On the left is an older couple that look like they’ve never smiled a day in their life.
“Those are my children, Gertrude and Henry.” She points. “And the one on the left is my parents.”
“They look unhappy,” I say. I tend to say whatever pops into my head. I really need to work on that.
Mrs. Hallovich doesn’t seem offended though. “Back then, people didn’t smile much for photos. We had to hold perfectly still for so long that smiles became awkward.”
I know a thing or two about freeze-face. My mom complains about it all the time when I try to take her picture. “Just shoot, Ella, for crying out loud,” she always says. Can I help that I try to get the perfect shot?
It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Hallovich with kids and parents of her own. It makes her seem more real somehow.
“Where are your kids now?” I ask.
“Oh, they’ve been gone for many years now,” she says, and then sighs.
She makes it sound like they died.
“Sorry,” I say.
She changes the subject. “What would you like to do today?” She snaps her locket closed. “We can go out to the backyard and play.”
I think of the overgrown bushes around the front porch, and I imagine a jungle in the backyard, where we could be lost or eaten by tigers. I must look like I need convincing because she goes on.
“There’s a carriage house that has all kinds of interesting things. We can go exploring.”
Funny how she used the word ‘exploring’ like there really is a jungle back there. Like she’s reading my mind.
“Okay,” I say.
As Mrs. Hallovich cleans off the table, I lift Tommy from the high chair, and pull him onto my lap. I’m continuing my visual investigation when I hear the ceiling above my head creaking.
“Is someone else here?” I ask.
“No. It’s just us three. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard someone walking upstairs.”
She looks to the ceiling. “It’s just the house settling,” she replies.
“Does the house settle one footstep at a time across the ceiling?” Once again, I wish words didn’t just tumble out of my mouth of their own free will.
“I think your imagination is getting the best of you, Dear. Come along now. Time for some fresh air.”
I set Tommy down and we follow Mrs. Hallovich out of the kitchen, and into a little back room, where sweaters, rain jackets, and umbrellas hang on hooks. Muddy footprints cross from the back door, over to a pile of boots and old shoes. I see a strange look on her face, like she’s confused. Then, she gives the same impatient huff of breath that my mom gives every time she walks into my room. Is she annoyed at herself for leaving muddy prints? I open my mouth to ask her that very thing, but she is ready for me.
“I was going to clean up this mess . . . that I made . . . before you two got here this morning. I forgot.”
Fair enough. I take Tommy’s hand because he’s probably getting nervous about the backyard. On to our next adventure.
To read chapter 3 click here
