Grandma Martha

Peeking from behind cream colored curtains, I watched as my parents’ sedan pulled into the driveway. It was misty out, a faint trace of orange dusting the horizon. But no matter the time or weather, it was important that they made it out here tonight.

To my relief, they didn’t look mad. Mom was even holding Tupperware full of spaghetti in her arms like a football player. She matched my stare from the window and rolled her eyes. Then, she gestured to my father who was taking out a large black duffle from the backseat.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Jen, my twin sister, said from the couch, hugging a pillow close to her body. This was probably the twentieth time she said that since she flew in from Connecticut yesterday where she left her husband and two boys.

“No, I think it’s a fantastic idea.” I shot back, pulling the curtain to a close. “No, I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Before Jen could reply, I jerked the front door wide open. “Mom, Dad, it’s great to see you.”

“Where is she?” My father demanded, glancing around the room. He quickly dropped the duffle, unzipped it, then, pulled out a large silver object shaped like a high-tech bazooka. It was loaded. I could tell from the faint neon green coming off of the handle, but not powered on yet. My father lowered his weapon when Jen gave a small wave. “Not you. Where’s Grandma Martha?”

I placed myself delicately in front of the bazooka, nudging it a little to the side. “I don’t think grandma would appreciate you waving that around, dad.”

Shoving me away with the butt of his weapon, he removed the safety and rotated the power gauge to dial seven. It hummed to life. “Where is she?” He asked again, though this time he didn’t need a response. We could all hear the clanking of dishes from the kitchen.

I take a quick glance at Jen. Once she nodded, I grabbed a fistful of my dad’s jacket and tackled him to the ground. Pressing a knee to his back, I wrestled his arms behind his back. Jen grabbed the weapon with quick hands and pressed herself at the far corner of the room.

“Should have seen that one coming, honey.” My mom said with a disappointed frown on her face. She watched as I pulled rope from underneath one of the couch cushions and tied it around her husband’s wrists. Her hands still delicately holding the Tupperware that was getting colder by the minute. “Kids, I’m going to go ahead and put this in the fridge. Why don’t you let your father get settled on the couch? You know how stiff his joints get."

“Of course, mom.” Jen replied automatically, putting back the safety of the weapon and unloading it for good measure.

I dumped my father onto the couch and placed a pillow under his head. A gesture of goodwill I thought he would appreciate. He started to struggle a little though when Grandma Martha floated into the room with a tray of warm cookies in her see-through hands.

“Hello, son.” She greeted with a gentle smile, taking a seat opposite of my father. She took a long glance at the unloaded bazooka in Jen’s hands, then, laughed derisively. “I’m afraid you won’t be using that on me today.”

--

Every year without fail, Dayton family ancestors would miraculously rise from their graves and haunt their descendants for a time period of at least one week and usually no longer. It wasn’t that big of a deal. They’d scare a few neighbors, break some plates, pet the family dog, and then, zip off back to wherever they came from.

But for the past couple of centuries, these ghostly visitors just didn’t seem to want to leave. They started off staying for a month, which then became a year, then two years. It had become somewhat of a nuisance for my living relatives, not because they didn’t enjoy their company, but because of our family’s position.

We come from a long line of, for a lack of a better term, ghostbusters.

On one of our family’s annual BBQ cookouts, which was just a disguise for a paranormal conference, I learned the extent of our predicament from Jen. We’d snuck out to watch our great-great granduncles Matt and Danny play a round of paintball with what looked like cousin Cecilia’s stolen limited edition, plasma ray guns. If they actually get shot, well, they’d surely be goners, but maybe that’s what made the game more fun.

“I don’t understand why we keep trying to exterminate them.” I complained with a groan. They upped my quota of paranormal hunting from twenty to forty-five that year. “If it’s that hard to get rid of them, why not just leave them alone. They only get annoying if we bother them.”

“It’s the Yelp reviews. People won’t hire us anymore if they realize we can’t exterminate our own ghosts.” Jen said reasonably. We watched as cousin Cecilia dodged a barrage of laser beams to get to the paintballers. They scrambled away with ease, laughing as they disappeared behind the trees.

“But, it’s too hard to get rid of them.” I argued. “We are literally hunting a bunch of former ghostbusters.”

“True.” Jen acquiesced with a shrug. “But honestly, what do you expect us to do? It’s how we’ve been operating for years.”   

And, that got me thinking.

--

“I think we should ask Grandma Martha to help us in the family business.” I said firmly, grabbing another warm cookie from the tray. Dad was still tied up, but since he stopped trying to escape, we let him sit upright on the couch. He was obediently eating grandma’s homemade chocolate crinkles from my mom’s hand.

“Are you crazy?” My dad exclaimed, crumbs sprinkling from his mouth. “They’re the reason why we’re losing clients. Custom dictates that we must eliminate all ghosts, no matter the familial ties. We can’t just let them run around willy-nilly.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. She was on her phone, most likely watching the baby monitor of her one year old. “Is that why you’ve been eyeing Grandpa Lee like a creep recently?”

“I have not.” He rebuffed, glaring at her. When she stared back, he lowered his eyes a smidge. “He’s getting up to that age. I wanted to monitor him.”

“He’s not a ghost, dear.” Mom patted him on the shoulder. “He’s just really old.”

Dad rolled his eyes grumpily. “I’m just preparing.”

Grandma sighed. “From what I gathered, if even Cecilia, no offense, was just a tiny bit better at ghost hunting, then honestly, I don’t think any of us would still be hanging around here. Matt and Danny are helping to train her in their own way. I’ve asked them.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Howard,” she looked at her son pointedly, “If you’re seriously preparing to hunt down the ghost of a 93-year old man, then you’ve 100% lost your stuff.”

“Dad,” I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I think we could build a beneficial relationship here. She could help us develop our tech and tracking skills as long as she makes sure no one sees her floating about. Plus, as soon as we get our good name back, grandma and the others promised to leave peacefully. We can maintain our reputation as ghostbusters and get better at our jobs. That new sensor I showed you last December? That was all grandma.”

Dad narrowed his eyes. “How long has she been living under your roof?”

I counted my fingers in thought. “Almost eight months now, I think. I asked grandma to come home with me after the conference when you weren’t looking.”

Dad grumbled something unsavory under his breath, then remembered the last time Cecilia went on a mission and shuddered. “No one will know?”

“No one except our family.” I said while untying his hands.

“Will they stop pulling pranks?”

Grandma nodded. “We will only intervene when we deem it necessary.”

“For training.” I amended, grabbing the bazooka from Jen’s hands and zipping it up into the duffle. They won’t be needing that anytime soon.

“And,” Jen waved a chocolate crinkle in the air, “don’t forget, more home-made cookies.”

“Right…” Dad said, worrying his lips. Mom shoved another cookie into his mouth.

I grinned. “Grandma Martha, welcome back to life with the living.”