The Hungry Ghost of Rue Orleans Read online

  Text copyright © 2011 by Mary Quattlebaum

  Jacket art and interior illustrations copyright © 2011 by Patricia Castelao

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Quattlebaum, Mary.

  The hungry ghost of Rue Orleans / by Mary Quattlebaum ; illustrated by Patricia Castelao.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Fred the ghost is perfectly happy haunting his ramshackle New Orleans house until Pierre and his daughter Marie move in and turn the house into a restaurant.

  ISBN 978-0-375-86207-6 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-375-96207-3 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN: 978-0-375-98018-3 (ebk)

  [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Haunted houses—Fiction. 3. Restaurants—Fiction.] I. Castelao, Patricia, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.Q19Hu 2011 [E]—dc22 2010037063

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  First Page

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Many thanks to my editor, Jennifer Arena, who suggested New Orleans as Fred’s hometown, and to my insightful agent, Jennifer Carlson. I am grateful to April Whatley Bedford, Interim Dean, College of Education and Human Development at the University of New Orleans, and to Louisiana librarians Terrence E. Young, Jr., MEd, MLS, Jefferson Parish Public School System, and Anna Campos (recently retired), St. Ann School, for their kindness in reviewing the story. And a huge thank-you, as always, to Christopher and Christy.

  To Jana, a big fan of crawfish and pralines

  —M.Q.

  To my brother Javi and my friend Marta. Thanks a lot for your support. It gave me the courage I needed. To my mom, my dad, and my brother David. I’m so proud of you. My most sincere thanks to Jan and Justin. To Claudia and Marcos. I love you.

  —P.C.

  FRED LIVED ALONE AT 28 RUE ORLEANS. Once the house had been a jazzy-snazzy, sweet-and-spicy spot, but now? The floors squeaked, the roof leaked, and dust coated the chairs.

  But Fred liked his rickety house. All night he moaned and clicked his fingers and tended his tiny cactus. If he got hungry, he gobbled some air. The perfect life for a ghost.

  One day, Pierre and his daughter, Marie, barged through Fred’s broken door.

  “Our new restaurant!” they shouted.

  “My house!” Fred cried.

  But no one heard.

  Pierre banged nails and washed stairs. Marie swept away cobwebs. They polished windows and painted walls.

  “Nooooo,” Fred wailed.

  But no one heard.

  In came tables, chairs, and a giant stove.

  “No more!” Fred stomped his wispy foot.

  But no one heard.

  Trucks arrived with celery, peppers, and paprika spice, crawfish, onions, red beans, and rice. Then such a noise!

  CHOP, whisk, sssss … sssss, whisk, CHOP.

  One evening, quiet settled over 28 Rue Orleans, and Fred heard a different sound.

  Clank.

  Had Pierre and Marie left? Had a new ghost moved in?

  Fred slipped down the polished stairs, past the gleaming stove and …

  CLANK, CLANK, CLANK.

  Twenty forks rattled like ghost chains. Twenty people shook their napkins, raised their glasses, and dined upon gumbo, crawfish, and red beans and rice.

  “Welcome to our restaurant!” Pierre shouted.

  “My house!” Fred hollered.

  But no one heard.

  Now Fred was tired of no one hearing. This place, so horribly spick-and-span, no longer felt like home. His beloved dust—gone. His squeaks and leaks—gone. His cobwebs—gone.

  Who had invited these munchers and clankers?

  They needed to go!

  And before you could say “hungry ghosts gobble air,” Fred began to moan. Ooooooo.

  He tossed the gumbo. SPLAT!

  He juggled the crawfish.

  Whoosh-whoosh!

  He flipped the red beans and floated the rice.

  Flip-flip-FLOOOOO!

  The diners cheered.

  “Ahem.” A portly man coughed pompously. “I must, I simply must, comment on this food and this, er, strange performance.”

  Conti, the critic! He loathed everything: butter balls, carrot curls, pralines, and pie.

  Marie held her breath. Fred rubbed his hands happily. He’d soon have his home back, for sure. Conti would hate a haunted restaurant.

  “The food is spiced nicely and served up with style.” The critic dabbed his lips. “But this show, this mysterious show”—he threw out his hands—“makes this restaurant an OUTright, OUTrageous, five-star … SUCCESS.”

  Conti beamed at Pierre. “A ghost makes your restaurant unique.”

  Fred hid behind the stove for the next few nights, but still the diners came.

  CLANK, CLANK, CLANK.

  “Enough,” said Fred sadly. “I must find a new home.” So he packed his valise and hoisted his cactus.

  “Good-bye,” he moaned from the door. But as he turned, his plant pricked Marie.

  The girl stopped her hurry and scurry. “Are you the ghost?”

  “What did you expect?” said Fred tartly. “A floating sheet?”

  “I thought you were steam from the kitchen,” said Marie apologetically. “And you speak so softly. Now I can tell you’ve been here all along. Wait, are you leaving?”

  “You took my home,” said Fred, opening the door.

  Pierre whisked by with a special dessert. “My masterpiece!” he cried. “Powdered Ghost Puffs.”

  “Named for me?” asked Fred.

  “This is the ghost,” Marie told her father. “We took his home.”

  “Oh, no!” Pierre dropped the beautiful puffs.

  Fred caught the tray and … sniffed. Ah, that smell! That wonderful powdery-sugary smell! It smelled like 28 Rue Orleans on a bright and busy, jazzy-snazzy day.

  Fred picked up a dainty puff. “Why, it’s light as air,” he said.

  “Your house!” said Pierre. “We are so sorry.”

  “Would it be possible to share?” asked Marie.

  “Absolutely not.” Fred took a teeny-tiny bite. “I need squeaks and leaks and dust. This place is nothing but clean and gleam and shine.”

  What to do? Marie pondered. Pierre puzzled. Fred nibbled another puff.

  And another.

  And another.

  “Oof.” He gazed at the last puff. “Do I have room for one more?”

  “Room for one more,” Marie slowly repeated. Then she smiled and dashed up the stairs.

  For the next three hours, Marie banged and thumped while Pierre kept Fred busy with puffs.

  Finally Marie led Fred to the broken door and he saw the sign …

  FRED

  He could hardly believe his eyes.

  Dust everywhere.

  Squeak went the floor.

  A slow drop dripped from a leak.

  “My own room!” cried Fred. “Let’s celebrate with Ghost Puffs.”

  Marie and Pierre named their restaurant The Hungry Ghost. And 28 Rue Orleans became, once again, a jazzy-snazzy, sweet-and-spicy spot.

  If you ever visit, listen ve-e-e-ery carefully. Right after t
he eight o’clock ghost show, Pierre offers dessert in Fred’s private room. What’s being served? Powdered Ghost Puffs, of course!

  CLANK, CLANK, CLANK.

  A Note from the Author

  A big bowl of gratitude goes to the city of New Orleans, where I’ve enjoyed delicious meals, delightful strolls, lazy river trips, and snazzy jazz. I didn’t want to try to replicate, duplicate, or in any way infringe on the city’s own lively Orleans Avenue or any of the restaurants and guesthouses located there. Rue Orleans is a fictitious street, and 28 Rue Orleans, where Fred lives, is not based on any specific house or restaurant.

  The city’s cuisine deserves a huge dollop of thanks. In fact, I couldn’t decide whether the restaurant should feature Cajun or Creole dishes—and so, you might notice, both types are served. As for the Powdered Ghost Puffs, they were inspired by New Orleans’s delectable beignets.

  Mary Quattlebaum is the author of fifteen children’s novels, picture books, and books of poetry, including the Jackson Jones series and Sparks Fly High, which was a Bank Street College of Education Best Children’s Book of the Year and a Capitol Choices Selection. She writes frequently for the Washington Post, reviews children’s books for Washington Parent, and teaches creative writing. Mary shares her home in Washington, D.C., with her family and her dog but, alas, no hungry ghost.

  Patricia Castelao was studying medicine when she decided to quit to pursue a career in illustration. It has turned out to be a good choice, and not only because she can’t imagine writing prescriptions day in and day out. (She just knows she wouldn’t be able to resist adding doodles in the margins!) Patricia has illustrated such classic books as Great Expectations and Peter Pan. She lives with her daughter and husband in Corunna, Spain, where she works every day to improve the quality of her art.

 

 

  Mary Quattlebaum, The Hungry Ghost of Rue Orleans

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