My Ferret Sees Ghosts

By Megan Gerig

Oscar nipped my ear and whined. I yelped and swatted at the ferret on my shoulder, unease blossoming in my chest. “I heard you the first time.” But it wasn’t like I could go in there.

The house in front of me wasn’t really a house. It was a mansion, all spires and towers and polished windows. The aromas of freshly cut grass and overturned earth, of roses and honeysuckle, danced under my nose.

Bags of groceries weighed down my arms, straining my biceps. Mom expected me back any minute. I didn’t have time to stop.

But Oscar batted at my hair, insistent. There was a ghost in that house, and it was my duty to tell the owners. Or so my ferret thought.

I glanced down at my rainbow tie-dyed, hand-me-down shirt and hole-ridden bell bottoms. I couldn’t waltz up to the door of the wealthiest family in town looking like the daughter of a hippie. I’d come to learn only hippies appreciated hippies.

Unfortunately, Oscar had other plans. The minute I passed the mansion gates, he launched himself from my shoulder and scuttled through the iron bars.

I dropped my grocery sacks and shouted after him, but the little demon pretended to ignore me. Grabbing the fence, I pressed my face against the sun-warmed bars and watched Oscar bound through the grass and into an open window on the side of the house. Faint notes of music drifted out on the gentle breeze. Everything about this place screamed that I didn’t belong.

But I knew Oscar. If there was a ghost here, he wouldn’t leave until I’d warned the occupants and offered my services.

Not that anyone had actually paid me to banish their ghosts. So far, every time I’d told someone I knew their house was haunted because my ferret told me so, they’d slammed the door in my face. Or called the police to put me in the crazy house.

Mom hadn’t been happy to get me out of that one.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, a niggle of curiosity and duty calling me forward. That was Oscar telling me he was in. I imagined his velvety nose twitching in the air as he checked every floorboard and wall for signs of the haunting.

We’d need to have another long talk tonight.

I scaled the fence and shuffled up the long walkway to the front door. I knocked, preparing myself for another door in the face or “Sweetie, where’s your mother?”

Locks clicked, and the doorknob rattled. I clasped my hands behind my back, straightened my shoulders, and assumed the most dignified expression I could manage.

An older gentleman with white fuzzy hair peered around the side of the door. When he spotted me, his eyebrows drew together, and he opened the door a little wider. “Can I help you?”

I sucked in a deep breath then recited the speech Oscar and I had formulated at the start of our business ventures. “Greetings, sir. My name is Hazel, and I am here to offer you my services.” I thought the word “greetings” was way too formal, but Oscar had assured me it was dignified. So far, no one else had agreed with him, but that’s what I got for listening to a ferret.

“Your services?” The man’s frown deepened, and he looked me up and down.

I wanted to shy away, but I puffed out my chest. “Yes, sir. I am a certified ghost banisher, and you have a ghost in your house.”

“A ghost?” The creases between his eyebrows deepened. “But how do you expect to banish this ghost? You’re only a… well…”

I bit my lip. I’d never gotten this far in a conversation before, and I wasn’t about to reveal my ghost-hunting secrets. Thankfully, Oscar appeared at the man’s feet and barked at me to hurry up.

The old man gasped and leaned toward Oscar. “Where did you find yourself a ghost sniffer?”

I blinked. “Um, is that a yes?”

“Of course, of course.” He shuffled back and waved me inside. “What do you charge?”

I thought of the two bags of groceries outside on the sidewalk. Maybe I should’ve put them inside the fence so no one would take them. “Um, ten dollars?” That would cover another round of groceries and maybe even a treat for Mom if I was careful.

Oscar growled and I winced. He was right. I should’ve said five. Ten was a bit greedy.

The man crossed his arms over his chest and studied me for a long moment. “Clean up after yourselves and I’ll make it fifty. Deal?”

My eyes nearly popped from their sockets. I’d never seen fifty dollars all together in my whole life. But before I could get over the shock of the number—and that the man was even letting us in the house—Oscar wriggled out of my arms and hit the ground running.

I bounded inside after him, then called over my shoulder, “We’ll be sure to clean up! Thank you, sir!”

Oscar led the way down the winding hallway, feet skittering on the squeaky-clean hardwood floors. I prayed his claws wouldn’t gouge the wood and cause my fifty dollars to disappear before it was even in my hands.

We turned a sharp corner, and I jerked to a stop. Before us loomed a solid wood door, antique brass doorknob covered in a layer of dust. Its long shadow stretched down the hall, and the light above us flickered. I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. It seemed our ghost loved theatrics, and those were the most difficult kind to handle.

Oscar met my gaze, and we both bared our teeth in a mischievous smile. His body began to fade, and I knew mine mimicked his milky white appearance. Good thing we were dramatic ghosts too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Megan Gerig has been known as the hermit in Spare Oom to her family. She prefers reading to socializing, and by middle school, even the librarian had difficulty recommending a book she hadn’t read. She lives in a cottage in the midst of a busy city with her librarian husband and book-devouring son. You can contact her at her editing website or find her on Instagram.

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