The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories

by Diane Awerbuck

  Revelations

  Jennifer Thorpe

  Dear God,

  It’s a week before the Rapture and I’m really worried about my dog, Panda. He’s eleven years old and he’s never known any other home than mine. I wish he could come with me to you, but the rules are that you only qualify if:

  1) You have a soul

  2) You have been baptised

  3) You have renounced your sin.

  So Panda probably meets criteria b) because I wash him regularly while praying, but not the others. Dogs can’t really sin.

  Though there was the one time when I saw him mounting that other male dog, Brinjal, from across the street. What a mutt Brinjal is. So I wonder if that counts as sodomy. It probably does. At Sunday school they say boys shouldn’t love other boys.

  Most importantly though, Sunday school also says that Panda doesn’t have a soul. I know he relates to me and he definitely has a personality and misses me and loves me. But, according to the Good Book, he’s soulless, meaning he can’t come with me when I go to heaven. He is, in a sense, yet another possession I have to let go of.

  He’ll be left here among the sinners and the lukewarm Christians and the Jews and the Muslims and the Hindus and everyone else who’s unworthy.

  God, I hope Mrs Leibowitz down the street doesn’t find him. She’s the worst! She’s always leaning out her window and telling me to pick up Panda’s poo off the sidewalk. Like I wouldn’t do it already! She thinks she knows more about dogs than I do because she has two of those hairless tiny things that are always cowering away, shoving their tails beneath their asses. What type of animal always looks petrified?

  I know that I know Panda the best. Which is why I’m so worried. What will happen to him? I guess I’ll just pray that something good will happen. I have to have faith in your decisions.

  In your name,

  Tom

  *

  Dear God,

  You won’t believe it! My prayers to you must have helped. I’ve found a solution to the Panda problem. I was browsing the internet late last night because I’d had too much coffee. I suddenly thought to Google ‘animals and the Rapture’ and you won’t believe what came up.

  There is a guy in the town neighbouring mine who is offering a service where he’ll feed and walk your dog after the Rapture. Even though he’s a sinner, he is a kind soul. He says he was raised a Christian, but doesn’t think he’ll make the cut.

  For only one dollar a month, he will come to my house daily and make sure that Panda is looked after. I signed up immediately using the credit card number Dad gave me for emergencies. The money will come off automatically even after the Rapture, so I don’t have to worry that he’ll forget my Panda.

  He already has over twenty-five thousand people signed up and a team of more than fifty people who will make sure animals are safe and sound until the four Horsemen come to destroy the earth.

  After which, there will be no Panda to worry about in any case. I am so relieved.

  In your name,

  Tom

  The Ghost-Eater

  Ilze Hugo

  Jayne read the ad on Gumtree one morning at walk while sipping on a coffee. It was seven a.m. and no one else was in yet. She was browsing the ’net, postponing the start of her day. ‘Got ghosts?’ read the header. And then: ‘Spirits wreaking havoc in your home? Friends afraid to visit? Neighbours gossiping? Kids wetting the bed? Professional ghost-eater for hire. Reasonable rates. Phone Fred. Cape Town, southern suburbs, Plumstead and surrounds.’ Picking up a pencil, she scribbled the number on a pink Post-it note, glanced over her shoulder, and quickly clicked the page shut.

  Jayne’s house was Victorian. One of those classic double-storey affairs you see all over Tamboerskloof. Broekie lace, high ceilings and the works. With a big, ancient oak tree in front. She’d painted the exterior a dark grey, after reading in a décor mag that this was the in colour right now, and left the broekie lace white. They’d bought it a few months after getting married. It had been part of a deceased estate and every cent they’d ever saved went into the deposit. They moved in on a rainy Monday in September, while the southeaster rattled windows and doors. On the first night, when the noise kept them awake, they thought it was the wind. It’s an old house, they told each other as the floorboards creaked and groaned, the cupboard doors slammed and low moans billowed from the ceiling.

  Fred Mostert was a big man, probably in his early forties, with a beer-and-chops belly and a spietkop moustache that sprouted every which way like an old toothbrush. ‘I think I’ve figured out the problem, ma’am,’ he told her after spending a good hour running a little bleeping gadget over walls, carpets, cupboards and power sockets; pacing up and down her backyard and sticking his fingers in the flower beds while whistling to himself. ‘There’s just one more thing I want to check.’ Crouching next to the swimming pool, he conjured up a collection of sample jars from his bag, and filled them with pool water, followed by three squeezes from a small vial, inside which was a clear liquid that turned the water bright purple. ‘My bliksem … Yes, this is just what I suspected. There seems to be an old slave burial ground underneath your swimming pool.’

  Her lips struggled with the words, ‘A b–burial ground?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Probably around seven or eight spooks, see. Judging by the particular tint of purple of the specimen, I’d say the last body was probably laid to rest here around 1770.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, how can you know?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, my equipment, you see. This is high-tech stuff. The data never lies. Also, guessing by the bumps all over the ugly mug of that fellow lying behind you on your deck chair, I’d say the smallpox outbreak of 1767 was what did most of these guys in.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He tugged a notepad from his breast pocket, pulled a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled furiously. ‘Yes, this is going to be quite a job … quite a job. I’ll have to work out a special quote for this one and get back to you. In the meantime, ma’am, whatever you do, don’t tell the council about this. Otherwise you’ll have a whole other level of bureaucratic bullshit on your hands. Slaves are really political right now, you see. Those donners in the government … Next thing you know the press will be at your door and a few months down the line your house is a museum and your swimming pool some kind of memorial. Um, no, we’ll have to keep this one quiet, I think. Strictly an inside job.’

  She led him to the front door. They said their goodbyes and he promised to call. She watched as he squeezed past her azaleas towards his car.

  Four days later she heard from him again. She was sitting at her desk at work. When she noticed the caller ID, she grabbed the phone and sprinted to the bathroom. ‘Hello,’ she whispered into her BlackBerry as she slipped into an empty cubicle.

  ‘Hello, ma’am. Fred Mostert here. Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Uh, no, not at all, I’m just in the … library, that’s all.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’ve done some calculating and the whole procedure’s going to cost you R6 000 plus R800 for expenses. Considering the high number of spooks we’re dealing with, I’m going to need some extra equipment. I’ve also roped an old friend in the business – she’s quite familiar with the Ou Kaap: the way they did things back then. She also speaks a little bit of Kitchen Dutch, and some of that fancy English of back in the day, so she’ll be able to help us talk to the spooks.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but this is a tricky job. You’re welcome to shop around for a better quote and get back to me.’

  ‘Um, no. That’s okay. How soon can you slot me in?’

  ‘How about tomorrow, ma’am? Around six p.m.?’

  ‘Fine. Perfect.’

  ‘And, ma’am. I’m going to need a white tablecloth to work on. I find I do some of my best work on white tablecloths. Not patterned, not beige: it has to be crisp, Omo-white. Anything else just distracts me. And if you’ve got any decent silverwar
e, please make sure it’s polished and ready.’

  ‘Uh, sure. Whatever you need.’

  The doorbell rang at six p.m. sharp. Jayne’s husband was at the gym. Afterwards, he was meeting some friends at the pub to watch a game. She hadn’t told him about Fred, didn’t want him to know she had resorted to this. He still believed, although somewhat less obstinately than before, that the house was just old: that wood had a habit of expanding and cartracting and gusts of wind and temperamental hinges caused cupboards and doors to open by themselves.

  She’d taken the afternoon off at work and spent it trawling the fluorescent aisles of Canal Walk to hunt for an ‘Omo-white’ tablecloth that wouldn’t break the bank. Arriving home, she’d set up the table by the pool according to Fred’s instructions. She was busy polishing the silverware when she heard the bell.

  He was waiting on the doormat, a large black duffel bag slung across his shoulder. ‘After you, my lady,’ he addressed the thin air to his left before shuffling into the house. Jayne ushered him into the lounge and put the kettle on.

  ‘Aren’t you having any?’ he asked when she came in with the tray, laden with milk, sugar and two cups.

  ‘Um, I …

  ‘Of course, where are my manners, ma’am? I sometimes forget that not everyone has The Eye. Ma’am, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my colleague, Lady Anne. Lady Anne, this is my client, Mrs Jayne Finlay. It’s her spook problem that we’re here to solve.’

  From his posture and the angle of his head, Jayne gathered that Lady Anne was sitting on the sofa, to Fred’s right. She peered at the vacant space and mumbled a quick ‘Pleased to meet you’, feeling an absolute tit.

  ‘Lady Anne is a big tea drinker, you see. She can’t exactly drink it like you and me anymore. But she does like a good warm cuppa in front of her. It reminds her of the good old days.’

  ‘She can have mine. I don’t really feel like tea. But remind me again what exactly she’s doing here?’

  ‘Lady Anne is going to be a great help, ma’am. She used to live here in Cape Town back in the day of those guys in your yard. She was quite the business back then. Lived in Newlands. Her house, she tells me, is a larney hotel now. There’s even a street named after her. She’s gonna help me communicate with the spooks. Explain to them what’s going on before I start eating. It always helps to have a little chat before getting down to business. I find the spooks tend to be much more agreeable that way. Otherwise, you might end up with tables and lawn chairs and all your best china flying about.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If you’ve been dead and forgotten as long as they’ve been you tend to have quite a temper, you understand. Not everyone finds being a spook agreeable, especially if they’ve been spending all those years squashed up in one dark spot like these guys under your pool. Lady Anne, on the other hand, is quite enjoying the lifestyle. She’s spent the past few centuries travelling, meeting like-minded spooks, and she’s even working on her memoirs. She was quite the writer in her day, see. She’s in the city at the moment to give a paper at a spirit conference at the Castle of Good Hope. What’s your presentation on again, Lady Anne?’

  Jayne stared pointedly at the steaming teacup next to Fred’s. The teacup just sat there: didn’t even ripple.

  ‘She says it’s about unleashing your inner poltergeist.’

  ‘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?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We’ll need some glasses. And a plate for the Colonel.’

  ‘There’s a colonel here too?’

  ‘No, ma’am’, he chided her. Colonel Saunders. The Kentucky colonel. The chicken, ma’am. I’m talking about the chicken.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Come, ma’am, grab a chair. We’re ready to start. Have you ever been part of a ghost-eating ritual before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘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.

  ‘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.

  ‘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.’

  ‘And what if they don’t listen to her?’

  ‘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, sucking the bones clean and tossing them into the swimming pool. When the bones hit the pool, Jayne thought she could see little puffs of steam escaping from the water.

  As he polished off the last of the chicken, an icy wind rose, sending ripples through the pool and animating the white tablecloth. Dropping the very last bone into the water, he thundered, ‘I demaaand that you leave this place! Go into the light!’ and Jayne hoped to God her neighbours weren’t home.

  With that, he opened his eyes, downed the last of his Klippies, bowed his head and unceremoniously proclaimed: ‘It is finished. Klaar. Will you be paying cash or by cheque?’

  Mister A

  Calvin Scholtz

  We didn’t know what to expect from Mr Arendse. Some of the older students had had a few classes with him already, and they said he was the coolest Accounting teacher they’d ever had: they called him Mr A. Well, Mr Bosman had been a cool Geography teacher, but he sucked as a cricket coach. Everyone knew that he preferred rugby (or ‘ruck-bee’, as he pronounced it), and he was always too busy with his duties as vice-principal to give us his full attention.

  Then there was Mr Hugo, last season. He was a rea
l character, what with his neon-green tracksuit, aviator sunglasses, and a pipe that seldom left his mouth, even during lessons. At our first practice session, he watched us for ten minutes, made comments to a couple of the players and then wandered off, only to return two hours later. I didn’t go to another practice after that: if the coach wasn’t committed, why should I be?

  However, I felt a lot more motivated this time around. The World Cup was going to be held in South Africa in a few months’ time and Waheed, Jeremy and some of the other guys were already getting into the spirit of things by playing an informal game in the quad every morning before class. They would be on the team this summer, for sure, and I didn’t want to be left out.

  We waited at the nets in the corner of the field. I say ‘field’, but it was more like a sandpit with thorns at the moment. The grass was sparse and burned yellow after a long, dry December. The sun beat down on us now as well and the sky was white with the heat. A slight breeze blew off the sea and gave us some relief. I was the only one wearing sunblock: I looked even paler than usual, but at least my father would be happy.

  A middle-aged coloured man came walking down the steps towards us. This must be Mr Arendse. He was bald and had a hooked nose. He was wearing dark trousers and a yellow pullover, despite the heat. He gave a throaty cough, and when he said ‘Good afternoon’, we could hear that he was a serious smoker. His hands had chalk dust on them. He stood over our team kitbag and looked inside: it was still full.

  ‘What are you all waiting for?’ he said. ‘Three of you get some pads on and get in those nets. The rest line up to bowl at them. Come on!’

  Three of the older guys jumped forward while the rest of us started measuring our run-ups. We found the practice balls and inspected their seams and looked for their shiny sides. While the batsmen were padding up, Mr Arendse’s head moved like an owl’s. Then he stopped and cocked an eyebrow at us. ‘Is this the under-sixteen side? Some of you look older, and some a lot younger.’