Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire) by Clay Held Page A

said, smiling. A moment later he added, “But all the same, probably best not to say Mr. B’s name around here, okay?”
    Simon nodded. “I didn’t mean to--”
    “You didn’t know,” said Mr. Winters over Nathan’s shoulder. “I think food’s ready,” he said, as another, louder clang of pots and falling pans erupted from the kitchen. “Cookie!” shouted Mr. Winters. “Cookie! Are you done yet?”
    A tinny, hollow voice floated into the dining room from the kitchen. “You don’t rush art!”
    Mr. Winters rolled his eyes. “Art is for the museums! Not the boiler deck!” He made for the galley door. “Cookie!”
    “All right, all right,” came the voice from behind the door. “Honestly, how many lives have I saved, how many of you even know how to work a stove.” Simon looked up when the kitchen door swung open, expecting to see a man, short or tall, thin or fat, whatever it was, a part of him figured the voice had to belong to a man , of all things, but to his surprise, it did not.
    A large, fat ghost drifted through the galley door into the dining room. He held a large bowl and a spoon, and while Simon could see partially through the ghost, the bowl and spoon appeared solid, and a foul, putrid smell wafted it across the room. Simon continued to stare as the ghost made his way to the end of the table, where it looked frustratedly at the freckle-face boy.
    “Packet! You forgot to set the table!” The small freckled boy jumped up from his seat and scurried into the galley, leaving the ghost drifting in place a few inches off the floor. “Always forgettin’ the table settings,” he said to Mr. Winters. “Earl, I tell ya, one of these days that grandson of yours.” But the ghost did not finish his thought. Instead, his eyes fell on Simon and Nathan. Its translucent jaw hung open.
    “Guests?” the ghost said, surprised. Then more irritated, “We have guests ?” The ghost jammed the big wooden spoon in the bowl, already heading back towards the galley door. “Oh, figures,” he mumbled quiet loudly, “figures nobody tells the cook, nothing ever makes it back to the kitchen, these animals think these meals just plan themselves...”
    “Cookie…” Mr. Winters started. “Don’t start with us now about guests, and you get my grandson out of that galley of yours right now. I don’t need him getting into any more trouble…” Another clang, the loudest one yet, erupted from behind the kitchen door, accompanied by an unearthly howl that froze Simon’s bones. Mr. Winters sprang to his feet. “What do you have in there!” he shouted, heading for the galley door, barreling straight through Cookie and bursting unceremoniously into the galley.
    The ghost flipped around in the air and began gliding back to the kitchen, completely ignoring Mr. Winters. “Guests!” he shouted. “Of all nights! I have to change the whole menu now. Packet!” he shouted as he entered the kitchen. “Packet! Put the bowls back and find my large platters! Guests! Of all nights!”
    The kitchen door drifted shut behind the ghost. Simon stared for a long time while the crew eventually fell back into their murmurings. Without Packet to talk to, the old man with the white mustache stood and was walking his way over to Simon. He stood there, for several moments, fiddling with an old tobacco pipe before finally speaking. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “Not everyone speaks of the river same as I do.” He pocketed the pipe and straightened his jacket. “There, I am completely forgetting my manners!” He stretched out his hand. “Forgive me, my boy. I am Hannibal Hewn. Born by the river.”
    Simon looked over at Nathan, who gave a small nod, and Simon stood and tentatively shook the old man’s hand. Despite his age Hannibal was surprisingly strong, and he gripped Simon’s hand with confidence and determination.
    “Simon Warner...” Hannibal said, his mustache twitched wildly when he spoke.
    “How did you know my