Most Annoying Ghost Ever

By Felicity Nisbet

Twelve-year-old Georgie can see ghosts. At least one ghost. A ghost who has been living in her house for almost eighty years. A ghost who happens to be her great great grandmother.

While Ana, the ghost who wears a giant peace sign and flowers in her hair, has been appearing in Georgie's dreams for as long as she can remember, she has only recently been able to see her when she's awake. Georgie's little brother Matty has always been able to see her. He might be only four, but he's scary smart, and he's learned to keep his thoughts to himself when he's speaking in his head to Ana. It takes Georgie a while longer.

While she's not sure what to make of this turn of events, she's happy to have the company, especially since she doesn't really fit in with her so-called friends at school, and since her best friend and next-door neighbor Nicky has basically dumped her, or ghosted her, as she likes to say. At least now she has someone to talk to. And, although they tend to squabble more like siblings than great great grandmother and great great granddaughter, they have a lot of fun together.

But Georgie's relationship with Ana, the hippy ghost of the 60's, turns out to be a lot more than just fun. While Ana teaches Georgie about fashion, music, and the protests of the 60's, she also helps Georgie find a way to make friends and recapture the friend she's lost. And Georgie helps Ana solve the mystery of why she's still stuck between two worlds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felicity Nisbet
• Release date: Dec 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215911914

Book preview

Chapter One

It started with a wart. A single wart on my left index finger that appeared when I was in first grade. You could barely see it, but I was as stupid as the wart and went and told Marcy Higgins about it. She, who was supposedly my best friend—well, not quite my best friend, but I did think she was my friend—told everyone else about it. And that was that. My life was ruined.

Even though it vanished in fourth grade, thanks to an accident with a pair of gardening sheers, still, no boy, or girl for that matter, wanted to touch my hand. That made the whole standing-in-a-circle-holding-hands scenario a bit challenging. Being the insecure wimp that I was at the time, I didn’t want to make things worse by tattling on anyone and telling the teacher that the person next to me on my left side, refused to hold my hand.

So, you can see, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it started with a wart. A wart that changed my life forever.

Okay, so yeah, I’m only twelve, so I don’t really know if my life has changed forever. I just know that it changed from that moment, and I still feel like I’ve been permanently traumatized. (Okay, yeah, I do tend to be a little overly-dramatic sometimes, but hey, like I said, I’m twelve.)

Maybe I should explain a little more. To put it simply, I was a six-year-old kid who suddenly became an outcast. My classmates who I’d been in school with for all of a month suddenly wanted nothing to do with me. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d been popular for that month, but at least the kids didn’t turn away and cringe when they saw me coming or pretend not to notice me. But suddenly that was exactly what was happening. Even Marcy, who I sat next to and ate lunch with, was suddenly scooting a little further down the bench. Of course, I didn’t exactly want to be all buddy-buddy with her anymore anyway. Not after she’d been the one to spread the news about my wart which led to my outcast status as a first grader, and my suddenly going from being called Georgie, my preferred name over Georgiana, to being called Wart Girl, and basically the ruination of my excitement over being at a new school.

And excited, I had been. That might sound weird, considering that most kids hate being new to a school, but I didn’t. I couldn’t wait. That’s because it meant I finally got to go to the school in my own neighborhood. It meant I could walk to the playground and find kids—kids I knew from school—to play with because I loved playing outside. It didn’t really matter what game. Soccer, kick ball, capture the flag, dodge ball, even just throwing a ball at a hoop or kicking or throwing it back and forth.

And getting to go to school in my neighborhood also meant I could walk to school. I didn’t have to get bundled into a car before I was even awake and get driven to my grandparents’ house anymore. You see, my mom had decided that she wanted to go back to work. Actually now, twelve-year-old me realizes that she needed to go back to work at the time. That meant getting up really early and whisking her kid off to her grandparents’ and letting her grandparents get her fed and ready and off to kindergarten near their house—all the way across town.

Okay, that’s enough of the sad saga of the pathetic little girl whose parents both had to work so she had to go to kindergarten all the way across town. But at least it explains why I was so excited when my mother got to change her work hours and could start a little later so she could get me off to school before heading to work. Plus, she figured I was six by then so I could walk the single block to the school by myself. (Clearly, my mother had more confidence in me than I did.) But fortunately, I didn’t have to walk the single block alone. I could walk with Nicky, our next-door neighbor.

Nicky is my best friend. At least, I like to think of him that way, or maybe like my big brother. He’s a year older than me. And he’s nice to me. Kind of unusual for a boy, especially an older boy. But we’ve been friends since we were little kids because we’d play outside in either my yard or his yard all the time. Sometimes it was soccer, sometimes basketball, or just catch. And sometimes we’d climb one of the trees in our yards or we’d have a squirt gun fight. We had a lot of those over the years, especially during the summer months.

The other thing we both love to do is read. Which might explain why I have such a good vocabulary. At least I like to think I have a good vocabulary. I’m not sure why Nicky likes to read so much, except that maybe he’s trying to escape or something like that because things haven’t been too good at his house for a long time. First it was his parents fighting, then his dad moving out, then the divorce which meant his mom was drinking more and his dad was around less. So, it’s easy to see why he would bury himself in a book every chance he got.

As for me, well, I’m not exactly what you’d call popular. Not being popular leaves a lot of time for other activities in the evenings, like playing computer games and watching television and reading. But since my parents have this thing about electronic devices . . . . Basically, they don’t like them. Okay, let me clarify that. They’re just fine with using the computer themselves. They just don’t approve of kids using them, their kids to be specific.

That means Matty and I only get to watch an hour of television a day. Luckily it’s not the same hour since my four-year-old brother and I like to watch different shows. And we can only use the computer for important stuff like homework, which I usually get done in about fifteen minutes and don’t need a computer for. And since Matty is only four, he doesn’t have any homework. As for having my own cell phone like ninety-nine percent of my classmates? Not a chance, but that’s mainly because my parents can’t really afford to get me a decent one or increase the cost of their phone plan. At least that’s the excuse they always give me. Just one more deterrent to my hopes of ever becoming popular. So, basically, that leaves a lot of time for reading. Fortunately, I like reading which might also partly explain why I’m not real popular, other than the wart thing. And the lack of cell phone thing.

Sometimes I read picture books to my little brother in the evening. Or we play board games. Matty is really smart so, even though he’s only four, he’s good at games like checkers and Monopoly. I’m thinking I should start teaching him Scrabble and chess soon. The truth is, I really don’t mind hanging out with Matty. Especially since he’s the only one around for me to hang out with. And for a little kid, he’s actually pretty cool. And he never minded my wart, even when it was actually there. Neither did my parents. They didn’t cringe when they touched me or held my hand. Not like the kids at school did.

The other person who never minded my wart was Nicky. Even when it was big and fat and resembled a giant Rice Crispy. He still waited for me so he could walk alongside me to school. At the time, he was a second grader and considered himself really grown up. He never teased me or treated me like I was just some dumb little kid. And he kind of took it upon himself to be my protector. I think that’s why the mean boys in first grade weren’t meaner about my wart. Because they knew they’d have Nicky to deal with.

Nicky is different from other kids. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He never once teased me or put me down. And the day I showed him my wart, he didn’t so much as cringe. Not even a little. In fact, he grabbed my hand and studied it like he was looking at it under a microscope, and then he looked up, smiled, and said, Cool.

That helped a lot. It helped me get through those miserable years from first grade on when I was the school outcast. And it helped me not feel so all alone.

Except for now. Now I do feel alone. Something changed. Over the summer. At first everything was good. Nicky would come over and kick a soccer ball around in our front yard with me and Matty. Of the four yards, our front yard is the only place with real grass that isn’t all dry and ugly and full of weeds—really tall weeds that make it hard to play soccer. That’s because my parents work so much that they don’t really have time to take care of the yard, at least not the backyard. They try harder with the front yard since that’s the yard the neighbors can see, and appearance kind of matters in our neighborhood. Unfortunately, not enough to get them to take care of the backyard.

But since we do have decent grass in front, and since I know how hard my parents work, I never complain. Especially since Nicky’s mom doesn’t even do that much. It’s kind of sad because his yard used to be one of the nicest ones in the neighborhood, but that was back before his dad moved out and his parents got divorced. But now Mrs. Davis can’t keep up with working full time and taking care of a house, a kid, and a yard all by herself. At least that’s what she tells Nicky all the time. Even though he helps her a lot, she tells him it isn’t enough. Which makes me feel really bad because I know just how much he helps. Like he does all the vacuuming. He isn’t so good at dusting. But whenever I was over there and his mom wasn’t home, I’d do that part. And when we got home from school, he’d wash the dishes that were piled in the sink. And he even learned how to do a little cooking. Well, the kind of cooking that involves opening the freezer door, pulling out a box, reading the instructions, and sticking the food in the microwave. That kept him from starving when his mom came home from work so tired that she went straight to bed.

He even tried to take care of the front yard at one point, but his mom yelled at him and told him he was doing it all wrong. He didn’t try again after that. Which is why both his front and back yards look even worse than our backyard.

But at least he has a basketball hoop hanging over his garage door. With all the weeds growing up in the cracks of the driveway, it made it a little harder, but the three of us would play horse or one-on-one basketball. Well, Matty didn’t actually play. He mostly sat on the ground and played in the dirt—his favorite thing to do—except when Nicky held him up so he could have a chance of actually getting the ball anywhere near the hoop. That was another thing I liked about Nicky. He didn’t treat my little brother like he was some kind of leper or nuisance. He was nice to him. At least back then he was, just like he was nice to me.

But by the middle of the summer things had changed. First Nicky went off to some kind of summer camp. It wasn’t actually a camp where you spend the night. His parents couldn’t afford anything like that now that they’re divorced. It was a day camp kind of thing that he went to while he was staying at his dad’s for a month.

I hated that month. I really missed him. I was stuck at home all summer, babysitting Matty because my grandparents weren’t there to babysit him. They were in Minnesota visiting their other son and his family. (That would be my uncle and aunt and cousins.)

It’s not like I blamed Matty for that. I mean, he didn’t exactly have any say in the matter. It’s not like he even chose to be born and disrupt my life so that during my last summer of elementary school I couldn’t go hang out at the school playground or the park like the other kids my age. And I had to admit, my little brother was pretty cute. I even thought that when he was a tiny baby and cried a whole lot while everyone exclaimed over what a happy baby he was. But at least he smiled at me whenever I came into the room. I was pretty sure I was his favorite person, at least his favorite person who didn’t have anything to do with feeding him. Well, actually, I did give him a taste of my ice cream sometimes. Starting when he was like ten months old. I’d put a tiny drop on my finger and let him lick it off. He loved it. But, I’m happy to say, he loved me before he loved my ice cream.

It’s a good thing that I love Matty because having to take care of him all summer meant that I was stuck at home, and seeing as how none of the girls in my class seemed to want to come to my house, it meant the only one I could have played with was Nicky. Which was why I was so excited when he returned home to his mom’s after that super long month.

Except that by the time he came back home, things had changed. Like really changed. Like changed so much that he stopped coming over.

I spent my entire summer playing with my little brother. And when school started up, Nicky was going to a different school, middle school, which started earlier than my elementary school. Which meant he couldn’t walk me to school which was on his way. Not that he would have anyway. So, I was stuck walking alone.

So, all around sixth grade pretty much sucked. I still didn’t have any friends. The only real friend I ever did have had abandoned me. And I didn’t know why. But I did know it wasn’t because of some stupid wart.

Chapter Two

Not having Nicky to play with anymore or to even talk to was the worst thing that ever happened to me, other than the wart incident that ruined my life. We didn’t talk at all anymore, not about how our summers had been or about how school was going. Not even about the books we were reading. There was a time, not all that long ago, when Nicky and I would hold up our books to our bedroom windows which happened to face each other, so that we could show each other which book we were reading.

Like I mentioned before, that’s the other thing we have in common. Books. We both love to read. Which pretty much makes us both geeks. Nicky is really into Harry Potter and any books about sorcerers and wizards and even stuff about aliens and space and time travel. I’m more into this time and space. (Although I do make exceptions for the Little House on the Prairie series and the Anne of Green Gables series. At least they take place on this planet and in this reality.) I don’t really care for all that science fiction or other worldly type stuff. But our different tastes in subjects never really mattered. We could still talk about books.

Books are pretty much my savior. Right now they’re my only friends. Considering that I read mostly books with really strong heroines, they’re also the role models in my life, like Anne and Anastasia and Pippi and Grace and Lucy and Ramona and Gilly and Ruby and Margaret and Laura and Matilda and Nancy and Tai and Mila and . . . . I told you I read a lot and that I have really good role models. Of course that includes my grandmother and my mother. My mom is especially cool. It’s just that she works a lot, and when she isn’t working at her job, she’s working at home or taking care of Matty who she says is higher maintenance than I ever was. I think that’s because he’s kind of a dirt magnet.

So, what I’m trying to say is that because of my role models, fictional though most of them may be, I know better than to wallow in self-pity. I know I need to take action. And the action I want to take is to have some friends in my life, some real friends who are my age, some girls who like me just the way I am and actually want to do more than sit at the lunch table and eat with me—not that they have a choice about that since we’re assigned tables—but also want to hang out at my house or actually invite me to theirs. Girls who don’t still think of me as Wart Girl.

That’s something that’s always been missing from my life. Girlfriends to hang out with. Except for this one girl. Well, not exactly a girl. More like a woman. I can’t really say what her age is. But I figure she’s at least twenty. Kind of old to befriend a twelve-year-old, but I don’t care. It’s nice to have a female friend. Someone who isn’t all that busy. At least not at night.

It’s the reason my parents have never had to tell me it’s time for bed. They do have to tell me to turn off my light sometimes though, like when I’m really engrossed in a book, even one I’ve already read. But they’ve never had to tell me it’s bedtime. Because I’m one of those rare—I’m purposely avoiding the word weird—kids who actually looks forward to going to bed, especially to sleep.

Okay, that’s where my story gets a little . . . different. (Again avoiding the word weird.) It has to do with why I look forward to going to bed . . . and to sleep. Because that’s when I get to see my friend, even if she is only a ghost. Not that I believe in ghosts. It’s more likely that she’s just someone I’ve conjured up in my imagination.

Either way, I can console myself with having one friend, even if she does only exist in dreamland. It’s nice to know that at night, when I close my eyes, I get to see a friend. So what if it she’s only a ghost who appears in my dreams? Or my imagination?

"Okay, I’m really getting tired of this only stuff. Only a ghost? Only exists in dreamland? Only in your imagination? Talk about rude!"

Whoa! What are you doing here? I’m awake! At least I think I am. I looked around my bedroom to make sure I was right, that I wasn’t lying in my bed or that I wasn’t wearing pajamas and sleepwalking, not that I was actually walking. But no, I wasn’t actually walking or wearing pajamas. I was wearing jeans and my Giants T-shirt that I’d worn to school that day. And the clock said it was seven which meant I was definitely not sleeping.

So, why was she here? Looking just like she always did in my dreams, dressed in a pair of funny looking jeans with a colorful macramé belt and a fancy blouse and funny looking vest and a wreath of flowers in her beautiful long wavy hair? And why was she sitting on top of my dresser like she belonged there, bare feet and all?

"Well, first of all, I don’t like all this only rubbish. Ghosts have feelings too, you know."

Actually, I didn’t know. Simply because I didn’t think ghosts were actually real. I figured they—or rather, she—was just something I’d conjured up in my imagination and only made an appearance when I was dreaming.

We’re real all right, so stop doubting that.

Uh, excuse me, but don’t you think it’s kind of rude and just a little bit invasive to read someone’s mind?

She shrugged like it was no big deal. Mellow out, dude.

Mellow out? Dude?

And another thing, I’m plenty busy.

Doing what?

Trying to figure out why I’m a ghost! And, for your information, I exist all the time. Just because you can’t always see me doesn’t mean I don’t exist. She shook her head kind of like she was disgust ed or something. You alive people are so egocentric.

I ignored her insult and asked, But why now? Why can I suddenly see you when I’m awake?

"Because maybe I got tired of only being seen in dreamland. And maybe I got tired of all this only rubbish. And your thinking I’m just a figment of your imagination." Her chin rose in the air like she was above me.

Well, considering that she was sitting on top of my dresser and I was sitting on the edge of my bed, she was above me. But I meant superior to me. She had a kind of haughty expression on her face. That was when I noticed how pretty she was. And young, like definitely in her early or mid-twenties. She had this long flowing, almost velvet-like soft brown hair and deep brown eyes. Just like me, except that my hair was straight and it wasn’t all that long and always seemed messy because it refused to stay in the pony tail where I stuck it most of the time to get it out of my way when I was playing outside. But the color was the same, just like our brown eyes were a lot alike. But she was definitely a whole lot prettier than me.

Thanks for the compliment, but you’re just as pretty as I am. At least, you could be if you bothered to try.

There she went reading my mind again. Can you read every single thought I have?

It takes too much energy. So, I’m selective.

I considered this information for a long minute. Let me get this straight. You’re a ghost, right?

Of course, I’m a ghost.

And ghosts can read alive people’s minds?

I’m not really certain. I can only speak for myself. And I can pretty much read your mind.

So, you’re what? A psychic ghost?

I suppose you could call me that.

Can you read anybody’s mind?

Again, not certain. I’ve only tried to read the minds that I’m interested in reading, such as yours.

Fair enough. So, why else did you suddenly decide to make a daylight appearance?

Maybe I thought you needed a friend. While you’re awake.

She was right about that.

Of course, I’m right about that. I’m right about everything.

I considered keeping my next words to myself, but why bother? Apparently there was no such thing as keeping my words to myself. A little conceited, aren’t you?

Another shrug, which is an interesting gesture when made by a ghost. It’s kind of like a feather taking a deep breath. I just tell it like it is. There have to be some benefits to being a ghost. Kind of trippy, huh?

Trippy? Where was this ghost from? Or rather, what era? So, you mean, when you were a person, which I assume you were at some point, you weren’t always right?

She cringed, then snickered. Hardly ever.

Something else we had in common. So, even if now you get to always be right, you’re not really happy being a ghost?

You’re a perceptive one, aren’t you?

Am I?

You know you are. At least sometimes. Other times . . . not so much. She shook her head and her hair flew out like it was weightless. Kind of cool.

What do you mean?

I mean, you seem to understand your parents and your little brother just fine—except for Matty’s dirt thing—but sometimes you don’t see what’s really going on with other people which might explain why you’re friendless.

I’m friendless because of a stupid wart I had when I was in first grade!

And you chose to bury yourself in self-pity, instead of rising to the occasion or stepping up to the plate. Sorry about the mixed metaphors.

Huh? She had me confused now. I didn’t remember her words confusing me when I was dreaming. And, for that matter, she seemed a lot nicer then. At least she didn’t insult me.

I’m always nice, she said. I just need to make some points here, and I need to do it in a way you’ll understand.

Then maybe you could try saying things I actually understand.

Fine, in plain old English, I know it was a bummer, but you were so busy feeling sorry for yourself because of that stupid wart that you didn’t even try to make friends with your classmates.

I did too try!

Chill, dude, lower your voice. You don’t want your parents wondering who you’re talking to, do you?

So, they don’t know about you?

Of course they don’t. You think you’d still be living in this house if they knew about me? She shook her head again with an intolerant look on her face.

They love this house, Mom especially. It’s the house she grew up in and inherited from her parents. It’s been in her family for generations. She’d never move out. It was the reason my parents worked so hard—to keep up with the house payments and taxes. They really didn’t want to lose this house. I’d overheard them discussing it one time. Something else I’m good at, besides being perceptive about my parents—eavesdropping.

You could be right, but this would really blow their minds. Adults aren’t exactly tolerant when it comes to ghosts.

But kids are? Which is why you’re letting me see you in daylight?

Something like that.

I stared at her, trying to make sense of what was happening. But I couldn’t. So, instead, I introduced myself. By the way, my name is Georgie.

You think I don’t know that?

I was just being polite, introducing myself and all.

You do realize I’ve been living with you since the day you were born.

Wow. I hadn’t really thought about that. But I did now. After a minute of thinking about it, I asked, So why doesn’t my mom know about you? She’s lived in this house her whole life, other than when she was in college. Didn’t she know about you when she was a kid like me?

Actually, she did.

I could feel my eyebrows furrowing.

She knew about me then, but she thought she was just dreaming about me, like you did.

You never appeared to her during the day?

I tried, but she didn’t see me.

Why not?

The ghost looked upwards like she was trying to remember. I guess it was harder to remember stuff when you were remembering over a few lifetimes or however long she’d been around. I studied her clothes, hoping that would give me a hint of what era she’d actually been alive in, but it wasn’t anything that looked familiar to me.

Let’s just say she wasn’t quite as open as you are to other-worldly things such as ghosts.

But I’m not. At all. I pointed toward my bookcase and all the books