What I did see was a bag of flour, which wouldn’t have been that unusual, except for the fact that this bag was floating through the air.

“Biscuits of glory,” sang the voice, as the bag of flour opened, seemingly by itself. “Lighter than lovin’, floatin’ to heaven, straight from my oven . . .”

A measuring cup drifted into the air, then dipped into the flour bag. As the cup came out of the bag, a little thrill ran down my spine. Suddenly I could see the hand that was holding it! That was because the hand was now covered with flour.

The hand repeated the action. It was an eerie sight: a floating hand, seemingly unattached to anything else, dumping flour into a big ceramic bowl.

Next came the baking powder. Lots of baking powder.

“Biscuits, biscuits of glory . . . ,” sang the ghost. Her voice caught as she choked back a sob.

I couldn’t help myself. Stepping through the door into the kitchen I asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

The flour-covered hand jerked sideways, knocking over the container of baking powder. “Who are you?” asked the ghost in a soft voice, almost as if she was frightened of me.

“I’m Benjie Perkins. I live here. Who are you?”

“Elvira Thistledown,” whispered the voice, so lightly it was as if the words were floating. “I died here.”

I shivered. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making biscuits,” she replied, setting the baking powder upright once more. “I make biscuits every Saturday night. Saturday at midnight. It’s my curse.”

“Sort of a strange curse.”

“It was a strange death,” whispered the ghost of Elvira Thistledown, as her one visible hand picked up a fork and began to stir the flour.

“Care to talk about it?” I asked.

My mother always said I was a good listener.

“I can talk while I work,” she said.

Taking that to be a yes, I pulled up a stool and sat next to the counter. Soon I was so involved in her story, I stopped paying much attention to what she was doing. Oh, how I wish now that I had watched more carefully!

“I always loved to make biscuits,” said Elvira Thistledown. “My mother taught me when I was only seven years old, and soon my daddy was saying that he thought I was the best biscuit maker in the county.”

“You must have liked that.”

“I did,” she said, sounding happy for the first time since we had begun to talk.

“I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but is it possible for you to become visible? I might feel less nervous if you did.”

“Well, it’s not easy. But you seem like a nice boy. Just a minute and I’ll see what I can do.”