Ghost in the Apples

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Today was Lisa’s day to visit Grandma. Mom dropped her off at Grandma’s house. Sometimes, Grandma played games with Lisa, read to her, or let her help bake cookies. Grandma had apples stored in the attic. They were shiny, red, and yellow. Grandma stored them on straw so they wouldn’t get bruised.

Today Grandma said, “Lisa, please, get me a basket of apples from the attic. I want to bake apple pies.”

“But it’s dark up there,” Lisa complained.

“There is a light switch by the door,” Grandma said.

Lisa sighed, took the apple basket and slowly climbed the stairs. It was really dark at the top. The door squeaked when she opened it. Lisa searched for the light switch. There it was. Click! The light bulb lit and dangled back and forth on a rope. There were shadows everywhere.

What if someone is hiding in a corner? Someone who would like to take some apples? Lisa got all shivery. Her heart thumped right up into her throat.

Quickly, Lisa filled the basket. The apples smelled so good. She felt like eating one. But first she wanted to get back downstairs.

Lisa switched off the light and closed the squeaky door. On the way down the stairs, she heard a sound. “Sssst!”

Lisa stopped. The sound stopped. She went another two steps. Again, she heard, “Sssst!”

Her heart thumped even more. Quickly, she looked back. No one was there.  But ghosts cannot be seen. Are they in the apple basket? Lisa crept down another two steps.

“Sssst!”  With a scream, Lisa dropped the basket. Apples rolled everywhere.

Grandma came running. “What happened?”

“A g-g-ghost! Behind me.” Lisa started to cry.

Grandma hugged her. “No ghost in my house,” she promised.

“But it hissed at me,” Lisa whispered.

“Let’s look,” said Grandma.

Grandma put on her glasses. She rummaged around in the basket. “Here is your ghost!” she said. A long, thick piece of straw poked through the bottom of the apple basket. It had caught in the basket while Lisa had filled the basket with apples. The straw had scraped along the wooden stairs, making a hissing sound every time Lisa took a step.

Lisa dried her tears. She munched on an apple and giggled. “Even ghosts would like these apples. They’re so-o-o good,” she said.


Ghost in the Apples by Gisela Woldenga


I was born in Germany, immigrated to Canada in 1954 and married, three children (girl, boy, girl). Played piano for ballet studios, taught as well, three granddaughters. Have been writing forever: short stories, poems and my book # 6 just got accepted. My acting came as a bit of fun.
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