Barty's Biscuit Bonanza

The air in Mrs. Crabtree’s prize-winning petunia patch crackled, not with the usual buzz of happy bees, but with something… thicker. It felt like trying to swim through lukewarm jam, and I knew instantly it wasn’t just the lingering scent of Mr. Henderson's suspiciously strong cologne that was making my teeth ache. Leo, bless his video-game-addled brain, was busy trying to explain the intricate plot of “Galactic Goblins: Revenge of the Spork” to a bewildered squirrel. “See, Elara,” he’d said, pointing a dramatic finger at the twitchy rodent, “the Spork-Lord is actually a misunderstood hero, just like you!”

I’d managed a weak smile. Leo’s comparisons were usually about as accurate as a blindfolded archer in a wind tunnel, but I appreciated the effort. Right now, though, my internal “weirdness meter” was doing a frantic samba. The jam-like feeling intensified, swirling around a faint, almost imperceptible scent of… cinnamon and regret. And then, there he was.

He wasn’t exactly *there*, you know? More like a smudged charcoal drawing against the bright afternoon sun. He was a ghost, alright. A very grumpy-looking ghost, all wispy and translucent, with a magnificent, if slightly faded, handlebar mustache. He hovered just above Mrs. Crabtree’s prize-winning petunias, his spectral arms crossed, his translucent brow furrowed into a permanent frown. He looked like he’d just discovered his favorite armchair had been replaced by a cactus.