art by Tim Stewart
by Cat Rambo
Grandma always said, "Don't yawn with your mouth open, a ghost will fly in."
I didn't believe her until it happened.
I yawned. Something rushed through the air, stuffed itself between my jaws, like slimy pop rocks in my mouth. I yelped. I stuck my fingers in my mouth. Like trying to grab Jello, it melted away as my fingers closed.
When I tried to talk, my words changed. I shouted, "Get out!" but what emerged was "Luccombe oaks!" I tried to say, "There's a ghost in me!" Instead I said, "Gash, they're fair ripecherry!"
I kept trying to spit it out. It kept squirming around in there.
Grandma died three years ago, so I went to Grandpa. He was sitting watching a crow sidle along the porch railing near him. He claims he'll tame one, but the birds just humor him in order to get French fries.
He nodded at me, keeping an eye on the crow, when I stepped onto the porch.
I said, "Unuchorn! Ungulant! Uvuloid! Uskybeak!"
He squinted at me.
I said, "Hep there."
He looked thoughtful.
I said, loud as I could, almost shouting, "Four ghouls to nail!"
He said, "What you got in your mouth, you fool boy?"
I opened my mouth as wide as I could.
He came over to pry it open an inch more with his thumb and forefinger and peer inside.
He said, "You've got a ghost in there, son."