My mom loves Halloween. Pumpkins, gourds, cider, witches, black cats, and the occasional ghost, of course. She loves it all!

Mom also loves children’s books. She wrote this Halloween story – featuring a witch called Grantie Grackle – back in the mid-1960s. My oldest brother, Harry, collaborated as her illustrator back when he was just 10 years old.

Three decades later, Mom made copies of “The Whitewashed Ghost” and shared them with her increasing number of grandchildren. With her permission (and Harry’s), here is their Halloween tale. As with all children’s stories, it’s best when read out loud.

The Whitewashed Ghost

The damage was already done when Grantie Grackle realized she had added honey to her favorite newt broth. Any fool would know it should have been vinegar. And what was honey doing in a witch’s kitchen anyhow?!

“Buddy,” she croaked to the dark bird sitting on her shoulder. “Goody Sunshine has sabotaged my larder again. I can’t turn my back one minute but she’s tampering with my work. How did she manage to get in?”

“Gack,” said the grackle, peering into the steaming cauldron. He was afraid of Goody Sunshine who was forever trying to pour a little salt on his tail and tame him. Goody believed that all birds should pollinate flowers in the manner of bees.

“Come into my garden and be kissed, my little sweet,” Goody coaxed.

“Gack!” Buddy shuddered at the thought of it.

Grantie threw her spoon down in disgust. “It’s ruined; she spoiled the whole batch. And that’s not all the harm she’s done.”

Grantie remembered the earlier bad news she had received from her old broommate at All Hallows High, Blanche Ghost. Her friend had come to her in tears (terribly unseemly for a ghost) to plead for advice about her son, Little Creep – her pride and joy – who had fallen into the clutches of Goody Sunshine. Goody had dyed his sheet and renamed him Little Blue Cloud. And Creep had shown such promise at Spectre Hall: he had skulls at the top of every paper.

“She must have some of her old power left to put such a spell on him,” sniffed Blanche. “He’s not that kind of boy.”

“That sneak would do anything to strike back at me,” snarled Grantie. “But destroying a child’s character is her dirtiest deed yet. I’ll trim her sails this time. Now don’t you worry, dear.”

Her friend composed herself at last, reassured that Grantie Grackle would redeem her son. She floated home with a jar of jellyfish jam that Grantie had made before Goody invaded her kitchen.

Grantie decided the indirect approach might get results. That afternoon, anxious to see the extent of Goody’s damage, she lay in ambush behind the brambles Little Creep would pass on his way home from school.

“Lovely day, Buddy,” she cooed as the wind whipped around her. “Gack,” agreed the grackle. Then they saw the little ghost.

“Boo!” cried Grantie, pouncing at him from the thicket.

“Oh, dear,” cried the startled ghost. “You frightened me.”

“What kind of language is that? I’m ashamed of you.” Grantie was clearly shaken up but she composed herself quickly to ask, “How is your cemetery choir doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Little Creep, “and I don’t care.”

“But you had a solo! I’ll always remember that magnificent moan of yours,” she flattered.

The young spook shrugged. “That’s all in the past now and I’d rather not discuss it.”

Grantie pushed on. “Well, never mind. What I really wanted you for is to help me harvest a bumper crop of my burrs and nettles. After midnight, naturally.”

Little Creep shook his head. “I really can’t. I promised Goody I’d make a bouquet of her Sweet Williams. Besides, those prickers were pretty sharp the last time I helped you. And it’s way past my bedtime.”

Grantie had to control herself to keep from screeching at the little wretch.

She turned sharply and flew off into the wind.

A frantic rapping on her door woke Grantie Grackle. She had fallen into a sound sleep after gathering all her burrs and nettles. Without Little Creep’s assistance, she had finished much later, but the pounding roused her at once.

“Never mind, I’ll let myself in,” said a familiar voice, and Blanche Ghost slipped under the door. She floated to Grantie and burst into tears.

“He’s lost! There’s no shred of hope left; my little spook is gone for good. How did I fail him, Grantie? What did I do wrong?”

“What do you mean, Blanche?” Grantie shook her. “What happened to Little Creep?”

Blanche shivered. “He has run away to Goody Sunshine. I found his note saying he couldn’t live with us anymore. Goody promised ‘to end his evil ways and help him find his place in the sun.'”

“How horrible,” Grantie whispered. “She has him in her clutches. I fear for him.”

“O Grantie, don’t you despair,” pleaded Blanche. “You’re my last resort.”

Buddy had buried his head in the witch’s shoulder at the terrifying news. Grantie gently stroked the grackle as she struggled for the right words to encourage Blanche.

“I don’t know how I’ll save him, dearie,” Grantie soothed, “but I will.”

Little Creep tried not to wince at the sun as he worked in Goody Sunshine’s flower garden. He managed to keep his head down most of the time, so he didn’t see the dark figure slinking behind the hedge.

“Psst!” whispered Grantie Grackle through the leaves.

“Who is it?” cried the little ghost.

“It’s Grantie, dearie. What are you doing out in the blazing sun; I’m nearly blind myself.”

“I’m helping Goody weed her garden.”

Ugh. Grantie shivered. Her enemy was heartless. Poor weeds. Creep continued to root them up and toss them in a wheelbarrow. Grantie thought lovingly of her own thriving bed of weeds.

“Stop for a minute and see what I have for you.” She held up the oboe so he could see it. “You’re so musical, lovey. We’re all dying to hear your summoning song for Halloween. Your mother said the graveyard’s all set.”

For a moment, Little Creep looking longingly at the instrument: he loved to play it even more than he enjoyed the choir singing. Then he turned to the wheelbarrow of weeds and flared, “I’m not going home with you; go away! Goody, where are you? Make her go away!”

Grantie was stunned: Creep had bolted toward the pudgy figure hurrying down the path.

The witch swallowed hard; the time had come. She must face Goody and demand the boy’s return.

“Naughty, naughty,” admonished Goody Sunshine, wagging a fat finger at Grantie. “Mustn’t frighten my darling Little Blue Cloud.”

Grantie Grackle steadied herself to hide her disgust and rage. “Goody, I want to ask you a favor; you know what it is.”

“Oh, but I don’t,” Goody trilled. “You’ll have to tell me.”

“Let the boy go; his parents need him more than you do.”

“But Grantie dear, I have no power over the child. He’s as free as a bird.”

“A caged bird!” snapped Grantie. “I know you’ve done something to him. If you don’t let him go, I’ll — “

“What will you do?” snorted Goody. “You can’t threaten me.”

Grantie stared straight into Goody’s eyes. Then she said very slowly, “I happened to remember something you wanted to forget.”

Goody’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

The witch sneered and nodded her head. “Some of your friends might like to know that I remember you when you wore a pointed hat, Hagatha …”

Goody raised her rake menacingly. “Don’t you ever call me by that name, you old crone, or I’ll — “

“All right then, we understand each other,” continued Grantie. “Now this is what you have to do. Release Little Creep within one hour or Grantie might be forced to tell all that Goody Sunshine wasn’t always so good.”

Goody shook with rage. “I’ll have my revenge yet.”

“Isn’t that a nasty word for someone of your sweet nature to use? Remember: One hour.” Grantie pointed a finger, turned, and flew off.

Goody also turned and walked toward her cottage. Quite deliberately, she dragged the rake in her hand to one side, savagely beheading flowers all the way.

“Oh, Grantie, are you sure?” asked Blanche, the teacup trembling in her hand.

“I’m positive, dearie. Now enjoy your drink. You know prickleberry punch is a festive specialty of mine. Just keep your eye on the front window.”

Blanche sighed. “What a true friend you are, Grantie. We’ll never forget you, what you’ve — oh, he’s coming, he’s coming!”

Blanche had seen Little Creep running up the path outside. She opened the door and they rushed to each other.

Grantie stood quietly stirring her punch as mother and son embraced and then received a hug herself from the young ghost.

“When did you decide to come home again, dear?” asked the happy mother.

“Well, I was still working in Goody’s garden,” said her son. “I looked up and saw a sheet hanging on her clothesline. It was so white that I suddenly got very homesick and ashamed of this blue thing. Then I realized I had been pulling all those beautiful weeds and I couldn’t stand it. I threw away all the sticky gumdrops in my pocket and ran here. I thought Grantie could help me explain it all to you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all over now,” consoled Blanche.

“But I’m so BLUE!” wailed Little Creep.

“Not for long,” said Grantie. “Have a look in that pail.”

“What is it?” asked the young ghost.

“Whitewash!” croaked the witch. “I’m going to paint you right now. Come outside.”

The little ghost smiled as he watched himself changing to white again. Grantie painted quickly, anxious to end all evidence of Little Blue Cloud. Only as a last resort had she dared to terrify Goody with her threat. She wondered what would happen when they clashed again.

“The Whitewashed Ghost” © 1965 Joan Vayo & Harry Vayo. All rights reserved.

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