Emmaline Gremlin

By John Paulits

At stake—the deed to The Clifton Heights Home for Children. Emmaline Gremlin wants to close the orphanage. Her runaway husband wants to turn the deed over to Mr. Bloober, Superintendent of the Home, to ensure its continuation.*Mickey Allston, age nine, and his friend Warren Towers, who is visiting from the Clifton Heights Home for Children

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781619504103

Book preview

Contents

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Chapter 15

Chapter 20

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

Emmaline Gremlin

by

John Paulits

All rights reserved

Copyright © February 12, 2015

Cover Art Copyright © 2015, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-410-3

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: April 1, 2015

Dedication

For: Susan Smith

RIP

Chapter One

Mr. Bumbey, owner of a large grocery store in the small town of Pennypack, Pennsylvania, inspected the credit card. Mastercard. Very well, Ms. Gremlin.

Grem-line. Grem-line. Emma-line Grem-line. Can’t you read, buster?

Mr. Bumbey, a short, round, not-so-young man with a pleasant, smiling face and very little hair on his head, glanced at the woman in embarrassment.

It’s Bu-bumbey not bu-buster, ma’am, he stuttered. He checked the credit card again. G-r-e-m-l-i-n—Gremlin. How can Grem-lin be Grem-line? Mr. Bumbey wiped his nervous hands on his white apron, an apron he wore for no particular reason since his two hired workers stocked the shelves and cleaned up, smiled uneasily, and said, Ah, yes. So sorry, Ms. Grem-line.

Humph! the woman snorted and called, Shanks! Shanks, where are you? Emmaline stalked off to look for her companion, and Mr. Bumbey stared at the back of the short, thin, hunched-up woman. He would not—could not forget her face any time soon, and he shuddered as he ran the credit card through the machine. She sported a hint of a mustache and wore a baggy black dress, the bottom of which dusted the floor as she moved. Fire-engine red lipstick illuminated her lips and spotted her teeth, and when she opened her mouth, it looked as if a three-year-old had taken a red crayon and gone way outside of the lines. She had muddy brown eyes, and one eye seemed to have settled closer to her crooked, bumpy nose than the other eye. Her teeth seemed to have had an argument and turned their backs on one another. Her hair hung down like overcooked black spaghetti.

As Emmaline shuffled back toward Mr. Bumbey, a tall, slow-moving man trailed behind her. She lifted both hands to her head and ran her claw-like fingers through her scraggly, midnight-colored spaghetti hair. The man she called Shanks dressed in black also, and to Mr. Bumbey he looked like an undertaker. A long face with a black goatee flecked with tiny bits of gray crowned his tall thin body. His droopy eyes stared sadly out at the world, and when he walked, the thick ring of keys he carried in his pocket made a chungly sound.

Take the bags, Shanks, Emmaline commanded, staring up at him.

Shanks muttered to Mr. Bumbey, Carry, carry, carry.

Excuuuse me, Shanks. What did you say? Emmaline demanded in a voice high and mighty.

Don’t worry. I said don’t worry, Shanks answered. That’s all I said.

Emmaline gave a queenly sniff and ran the index finger of her right hand lovingly across her wispy little mustache. Shanks touched his own ear and shook his head, indicating to Mr. Bumbey Emmaline’s creeping deafness.

Mr. Bumbey pushed a bag of groceries across the counter. Here you go, Mr. Shanks, sir.

In a soft voice Shanks said, Armitage Shanks. She calls me Shanks. You can call me Armie.

What are you saying there, Shanks? Emmaline demanded.

I’m saying thanks. Thanks, Shanks answered. That’s all I said.

Take the bags and follow me, Emmaline commanded.

She is a gremlin, Shanks muttered to Mr. Bumbey.

Emmaline spun around and stopped. Excuuuse me, Shanks. What did you say?

Just reminding him you’re a Grem-line and not a Grem-lin. That’s all I’m doing.

Emmaline gave a quick, sharp nod, licked her lips, and said loud enough for only Shanks to hear, Remember, Shanks, I have papers on you. I give those papers to the right people and… She snapped her fingers and headed to the door.

Shanks meekly slid the second bag of groceries into his other arm and hurried to catch up.

Come again, Mr. Shanks, Ms. Grem-line, Mr. Bumbey called after them, hoping in his heart they would do their shopping at the local Acme.

Emmaline paused when they reached the first corner. Shanks, looking over the top of the heavy paper bags, stopped next to her. The tiny woman pointed at three children walking down the other side of the street.

What do you think, Shanks? she said. Do they look like orphans to you?

Who? Where?

There, there, you blind boob, and she reached up and twisted Shanks’ head in the proper direction.

Shanks gave his grocery bags a little shake-up and studied the children, two girls and a boy.

No, they don’t.

Emmaline faced him. Why not?

Because they’re laughing. They’re smiling. I have never seen you do either.

That’s because I was an orphan, Shanks. A poor unfortunate orphan.

Then you should be kind to other poor unfortunate orphans, don’t you think?

Shanks began this same conversation whenever Emmaline got on his nerves as she had back in Mr. Bumbey’s store. It always ignited a red-faced reaction in Emmaline, which delighted Shanks. He mouthed the words along with the angry, sputtering woman.

I will never… never be kind to those who were unkind to me.

Shanks shifted the grocery bags again. He’d forgotten about them in his glee at sending Emmaline into her usual rant about being an orphan.

Can we go? he asked. These bags are heavy.

Emmaline would ignore his plea, he knew, until she finished her standard arm-waving speech.

The other orphans despised me. They wouldn’t play with me. They teased me. They called me… ugly! Do you believe it, Shanks? Me? Ugly! The orphan-keepers wouldn’t stop them. They sent me back for more. They all despised me, and I will never forget. She lifted her right arm and waggled her index finger.

Despised you, Shanks muttered. I wonder why?

Excuuuse me, Shanks. What did you say?

Oh my. I said oh my. That’s all I said.

Emmaline gave a satisfied snort and started across the street.

She and Shanks headed for the furnished house on Clabber Street they’d rented earlier that week. The house, old and thin, and a little scary-looking, suited the two of them to a T. Emmaline claimed the rooms on the first floor, leaving Shanks to take what comforts he could find on the second floor.

You can deal with the stairs, Shanks. You’re young enough, she told him.

Shanks didn’t argue. He knew better.

Do you think we’ll find him here? Shanks asked. Since Emmaline took quick short steps and Shanks took long slow steps, they strolled along in harmony.

We’ve traced him here, Shanks. He must be here, and we have to find him. There’s only a week to go. He’s here. I know he’s here. I will have the deed out of him or know the reason why, and when I get it, see what I do to those who have done to me. She lifted her right hand and waggled her finger again.

Why don’t you get another copy of the deed? Shanks asked, tired to death of trailing this man from town to dreary town.

If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, Shanks. It has both of our signatures, and it needs both of our signatures. It’s worthless without them. If I give him a new deed to sign, he won’t do it. If he gives me another deed to sign, I won’t do it. Whoever holds the original deed will control the rights to the orphanage come next Monday at noon. If we miss this chance, Shanks, my chance for revenge will be lost forever! Forever, Shanks! No, no, I must have the original deed and no other.

What do you want with an orphanage anyway?

Orphanage smorphanage. I don’t want it. I’ll close it down. I’ll be a big bad wolf and blow it down. Blow it up; blow it down; any direction will do. She cackled, pleased with her sense of humor. "Then I’ll build myself a new house there and play and cavort and enjoy every moment on very spot where I was despised and