Frightfully Friendly Ghosties (4 page)

9

The Larder

While Wither dictated his poem, Charlie floated off down the staircase, his trilby held thoughtfully to his chest.

I wanted to know where he was going, so I wisped down the stairs to join him. “Charlie, where are you floating off to?”

“The larder, for a private think.”

“What about?”

“We need to call a meeting, Tabitha. I need to think of a time when we will all be together. We ghosties are so frightfully busy.”

“I'll come with you.”

“I think better alone, Tabitha.”

“Me too,” I said.

Just as we were floating in through the kitchen door, Wither wisped down the staircase toward us. “Where are you two floating off to?”

“The larder, for a private think,” Charlie said.

“Just the two of us,” I said. “We think better alone.”

Wither pursed his lips. He looked like he was chewing a wasp. “You don't want me around?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Well,” said Wither, “as long as I know where I float.” And he floated off across the kitchen.

“Wither,” I said, floating after him, “where are you going?”

“The larder.” He floated in through the larder door.

Charlie and I were about to float in after him when Humphrey Bump bobbed by. “What are you three up to?”

“We're floating into the larder,” I told him, “for a private think.”

“I'll join you,” Humphrey said, licking his lollipop.

“If you must,” said Wither, peering out from the larder. “Though I have to say, we think better alone.”

Charlie was about to protest when we heard a rattling sound, followed by a low moan.

“It's coming from the larder,” said Humphrey.

“Rusty,” I said, floating in through the larder door, “what are you doing here?”

“I want to be alone,” said Rusty Chains, and he gave his chains a good old rattle.

I was about to explain that the larder was a place for quiet contemplation when I heard a voice from above. It was Agatha Draft. “How is a ghosty supposed to concentrate with all that rattling?”

“Agatha,” Charlie said, floating up to the larder ceiling, “wisp out of here at once.”

“I'd rather not,” said Agatha, clutching her pearls. “Gertrude and I are engaged in conversation.”

“That is, we were until you lot floated in,” Gertrude said.

“I came in here to be alone,” Charlie said, not removing his hat. “All I want to do is float up and down, scratch the top of my head, and think.”

“What about?” asked Agatha.

“We need to call a meeting. I need to think of a time when we will all be together. We ghosties are so frightfully busy.”

“We're all together now,” Humphrey said, bobbing in through the larder door.

Charlie rubbed his chin. “I rather suppose we are.”

“What is the meeting to be about?” asked Wither.

“The still-alives.”

Wither frowned. “But they're mean!”

“That is what the meeting is about. Their mean behavior, and how to stop it.”

“We could make friends with them,” I said. “Then they won't be mean to us. People aren't mean to their friends.”

“My friends are mean to me,” said Wither.

“I have invented three rules,” Charlie said. “If we follow these three rules, the still-alives will like us, and they won't keep shutting Pamela in rooms.”

“Right,” I said. “What's the first rule?”

“Every day, we say hello to the still-alives. It's the polite thing to do, and it will put the still-alives in a pleasant mood. The rule is called Rule Three because there are three rules. Any questions?”

Wither raised a pale hand. “What's the second rule?”

“I was just coming to that. Each night, we tell the still-alives a bedtime story.”

“Everyone loves a good story,” said Agatha Draft. “What is this second rule called?”

“It's called Rule One because it is one of the rules. Is every ghosty with me on this?”

We nodded our haunted heads.

Wither raised his other hand. “I don't wish to be mean, Charlie, but you promised three rules, and there appear to be only two. Is there a third rule?”

“I was just coming to that. No floating at night. It gives the still-alives the creeps. I have no idea why. We call this Rule Two, because there are two other rules.”

“I'm not sure that makes sense,” said Wither, “but that's what we've come to expect from you, Charlie Vapor.”

Charlie folded his arms. “Now who's being mean?”

10

Playing Cards

When we gathered in the hall the following day, Wither was dressed for bed. He was wearing blue-and-white striped pajamas and a floppy nightcap.

Charlie laughed. “Are you tired, Wither?”

“I thought we were doing Rule Three.”

“Rule Three,” I said, “is the rule where we say hello to the still-alives.”

“That's right,” said Charlie. “Are we all here? Ah, here's Gertrude and Aggie. Anyone heard from Rusty?”

“Had to cancel,” I said. “Something about ten billion years in purgatory.”

“We can't wait that long. We'll have to start without him. Humphrey, would you mind very much?”

Humphrey bumped the lounge door. It swung open, and we floated in.

Two still-alives, the bearded one and the one with the high heels, were seated at a card table, playing a game of cards.

I myself am terribly shy, but Charlie wisped up to them, bold as brass, took off his hat—the polite thing to do—and bid them a good day.

The still-alives were so surprised that the bearded one dropped his cards and dived beneath the table, and the other dashed across the room and hid behind the curtains.

“Perhaps we should have knocked,” said Charlie Vapor.

“We came to say hello,” said Wither. “We want to make friends with you so you'll stop being mean.”

“Let me tidy these cards,” said Gertrude Goo, but all she could do was float above them, dripping a trail of glowing blue goo.

From under the table, the bearded still-alive screamed.

“Don't be cross with Gertrude,” said Charlie. “She was trying to help. Humphrey, offer him a lick of your lollipop.”

Humphrey tried to float under the table, but he kept bumping into it, bump bump bump, until it toppled on to its side.

The still-alive rolled into a ball and pulled the rug over his head.

“The poor dear is shivering,” said Agatha breezily. “It is cold in here, what with that open window.”

“Perhaps he wants us to play cards with him,” I said.

“I used to be a professional poker player,” said Charlie, “when I was still alive. Who will deal? Tabitha?”

I dealt the cards as well as I could, but the deal turned into more of a shuffle. A midair shuffle. The cards ended up all over the carpet.

“Um, nothing up my sleeve,” I said, then floated off to the window, where the high-heeled still-alive had wrapped herself in the curtain.

“No need to be shy. I'm shy myself, but I don't let it bother me. Would you say so, Wither?”

“You're right,” said Wither, wisping across the room. “Though you do talk to curtains, which is the first sign of madness.”

“I'm not talking to the curtain. I'm talking to the still-alive wrapped inside the curtain.”

“Oh, then you must lift the curtain so that the still-alive can hear.”

“I would, had I the skills.”

“Perhaps,” said Wither, “we can ask Agatha to billow it.”

“Aggie?” I called, and across the room she wisped. “Dear Aggie! That's the spirit. Terribly decent of you. Would you mind very much?”

“Avert your gaze, then. Billowing makes one blush.”

Wither and I turned away, and Agatha blew up the most ferocious gale, and when we looked again, the still-alive had gone.

“Oh dear,” said Agatha, clutching her pearls shamefully. “I billowed too hard, and I blew the still-alive out of the window.”

11

Bedtime Story

Wither kept his pajamas on all day. “There's no point dressing now,” he would say whenever a ghosty spookily sniggered. “I'd just put on the second sock, and it would be bedtime.”

We spent most of the day trying to free Pamela Fraidy from the study, but the door wouldn't budge. Poor Pamela. No wonder she was a nervous wreck.

When the still-alives went to bed, we gathered on the landing, and Charlie announced that it was time for Rule One. “Are we all here? Still no sign of Rusty. Has anyone heard from Headless Lesley?”

“He has a headache,” said Humphrey. “He dropped it.”

“Which rule is Rule One?” asked Gertrude Goo.

“Rule One,” I said, “is the rule where we read the still-alives a bedtime story.”

“Everyone loves a good story,” said Agatha.

“Humphrey,” Charlie said, floating toward one of the front bedrooms, “bump this door open, and we'll get started.”

Humphrey bumped the door, and it opened with a creepy creak. The high-heeled still-alive was sitting at a desk, reading a book. She must have been terribly excited to see us. When we all floated in, her hair stood on end, and she flapped her arms with joy.

“You can put the book away,” I said kindly.

“We're here to tell you a story.”

“Everyone loves a good story,” said Agatha. The still-alive let out an excited scream.

“Calm down,” I told her. “We haven't even started yet.”

“Once upon a time,” Charlie began, “a still-alive was alone in a rickety old house. Rain lashed against the windows, and the curtains billowed—”

“Like this,” said Agatha, billowing the curtains.

“—and six frightfully friendly ghosties wisped down the chimney and said hello,” Charlie went on, “and those who were wearing hats took them off, like this.” And he removed his hat.

“It's the polite thing to do,” I said, in case the still-alive didn't know. Certainly she looked confused. She had her knees up to her chest, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

“My nightcap stays on,” said Wither. “I'm bald, Charlie. I get such a cold head.”

“Then,” Charlie continued, “the ghosties danced around the still-alive in a spectral circle, like this.”

And there we were wisping around the room, faster and faster and faster, whoo-whooo-whooo, and I have to say, the still-alive was not impressed. She pulled her nightie up over her head and pressed her hands to her ears.

“I don't think it likes this story,” I said, wisping over to the bookcase. “What kind of stories do you like?”

“Suggest a few titles,” said Charlie Vapor. I began taking books from the shelf and showing them to the still-alive. I'm no better at suggesting books than I am at shuffling playing cards. The books ended up flying around the room.

“Perhaps the still-alive doesn't want a bedtime story,” said Wither, and the still-alive screamed.

“Everyone loves a good story,” said Agatha.

“Not this still-alive,” said Charlie, taking off his hat. “Let's float away.”

“But I'm about to read the still-alive a poem,” said Wither.

“All the more reason to float away,” Charlie said, which was not terribly kind, you have to admit.