Rules for Ghosting (12 page)

“Uh, certainly …”

“Excellent. That's what you should tend to next, then. Last night the temperature dropped below forty degrees, and the insulation on this place is practically nonexistent. We've got space heaters running in every room, but I don't want to keep using those all winter. Will you conduct a full inspection of all the vents and the boiler, and make sure that all is as it should be before we turn the heat on? It probably hasn't been used in years.”

Wiley cleared his throat. “Of course, Mrs. Day. I can do
that. In fact, I will begin this very instant.” With that, he spun around, somehow managing to keep his Spectrometer and other tools out of Mom's view, scooted past the alcove—catching Oliver's eye with an annoyed scowl—and slunk down the stairs toward his guest room.

Oliver leaned farther back out of sight, but thankfully Mom marched off in the other direction. Just when he thought he was safe, a voice hissed in his ear: “What are you doing in there?”

“Hey!” Oliver yelped, coming out of the shadows with a frown for Poppy. “Are you sneaking around behind me? I told you not to do that!”

Poppy shrugged and fell into step beside him as they walked down the hallway. “I'm bored. My room's all set up and nothing else is going on.”

“Don't let Mom hear you say that. Or better yet,
do
let her and you'll be out of my way for a good long time.”

“I know you're up to something. Why won't you tell me what it is?”

“I'm not up to anything,” Oliver said with a groan.

“I helped you with that questionnaire when I didn't have to. You owe me.”

Oliver thought fast. “Listen, what I'm really doing is trying to find a way for us to keep this house.
Remember
?” He felt bad saying this, because Wiley and the questionnaire had so occupied his time recently that he actually
hadn't
been putting
any time into that side of things. He quickly added, “We really need to think of how we can talk Mom and Dad into it.”

A door opened right in front of them and Dad emerged, blinking like a mole coming out of its burrow. “Talk Mom and Dad into what, exactly?”

Oliver froze. He hadn't expected to make his argument so soon, but … “This place, Dad,” he said. “This house. Isn't it amazing? We keep moving—how many houses have we been to in the last five years? And don't even get me started on all the new schools.”

Poppy kicked him, but it was too late. Dad reached up to stroke his chin. “Schools! Yes, that's right—we got a call from the vice principal of Longwood Elementary and Middle School a few days ago, and I've been meaning to call her back. You still have the packets from your correspondence course, but it might be good for you to finish out the year in town, don't you think?”

“Dad!” Oliver said, exasperated. This wasn't how he'd imagined the conversation going. “I don't want to talk about going to school. Don't you get how awful moving is, how much we hate it? We need a
home
, somewhere to belong. And we think the best place to stay is right here!”

Dad thought about this. Then he sighed and straightened the brim of his hat. “I don't know what to tell you, son,” he said, beckoning Poppy over to his other side and putting an arm around each of them. “This is our job, house caretaking.
Of course it was all fun and games when we started out. I'm the first to admit that over the past couple years, it's gotten more challenging … but it's what we do! And I know it always seems like prosperity is right around the corner, that
big success
that will let us settle down somewhere. But now with The Jolly Marzipans starting to take off … well, who knows? I think they might be the one!”

“Dad, you always think your newest troupe is going to be the one,” Poppy said gently.

“But you haven't seen this show yet! It's like nothing that's ever been done before. My lucky hat is humming! Once the show is up, we'll have many more options. In fact, I was thinking we could do a live demonstration for your mother's Halloween party. Wouldn't that be a nice touch?”

“So you think,” said Oliver, steering Dad back onto the subject, “that if this show does well, and if we have enough money in April—for a good down payment, at least—maybe we could buy this place?”

“We'll just have to see,” said Dad. Which was better than
no
, if just barely.

Poppy rolled her eyes, shrugging out of Dad's grasp and scooting over next to Oliver. “Like that's going to happen,” she whispered. “Didn't you hear Rutabartle? He's going to
auction
it off. A house like this has to be worth tons of money.”

“I don't know,” Oliver said thoughtfully. Dad kept walking, probably lost in some circus dream, but Oliver pulled on Poppy's ruffled sweatshirt, dragging her off to the side. “What
about all that talk of curses in the village? People are scared of this place. And think of how the grounds look, and all the work the house needs, even on the inside. Plus, we're out in the middle of nowhere. Literally. How much could a place like this go for?”

“More than Mom and Dad will ever have in their bank account,” said Poppy shortly. With that she straightened her sweatshirt and marched off after Dad.

Oliver frowned. He knew Poppy was right, and yet … he couldn't let go of the idea. The house had crawled inside his head—he would have said his heart, even, except that was just weird—and whatever it took, he had to find some way for them to keep it. “My coin collection!” he said suddenly. He had a huge monster jar of coins that he'd been saving up since his eighth birthday. Obviously there wouldn't be enough in there to buy a house, but … it would be a start. He'd count that up, and then start figuring out how to save as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

Six months wasn't very long, but it would have to be long enough. His future at Silverton Manor depended on it.

The rest of the third floor was a bust: Dahlia and Mrs. Tibbs found nothing—not a single scrap of paper, suspicious prickling object, or even anything interesting to look at. The third floor had obviously not been used in many years and, with the exception of the portrait-turned-puppet room, nowhere else appeared to have been touched by the Days either.

It was late into the night by the time they made it up to the attic. Dahlia was all ready to practice her new glowing skills, but Mrs. Tibbs explained that Lightening, as it was called, drew a lot of ghostly power. With Wiley sticking his Spectrometer in every nook and cranny, they had to be very careful. So they stayed dark while moving through the house and always used Clearsight to make sure the ghosterminator was away from his instruments before they switched themselves on (as Dahlia liked to imagine it).

Now Wiley was sound asleep in his bed, as were all the
members of the Day family, and the various gutter cleaners, landscapers, and random repairmen had long since left for the night. The house felt nearly as empty and quiet as it had been before the Days moved in. Now that she was getting the hang of this Contact business, Dahlia had a crazy desire to find a random floorboard to squeak, the better to feel like a real ghost. But she restrained herself and floated along next to Mrs. Tibbs as they made their way up toward the attic. They could have just gone straight through the floors to reach the top, but Dahlia liked following the twists and turns of the hallway. It felt comforting somehow, especially since they were looking for clues from before she'd died.

On the last flight of stairs Mrs. Tibbs crossed her feet at the ankles, folded her hands in her lap, and slid up the banister. Dahlia laughed so hard that a ribbon on her dress came loose and started drifting upward. She yanked on it and smushed it back into place.

But in spite of these moments of lightness, Dahlia couldn't help but worry. They had searched almost the whole house. What if her Anchor couldn't be found?

“So here we have the attic,” Mrs. Tibbs mused as they came up through the wide opening. To the left of the stairs was a garish yellow-and-orange-checkered wall. It was, in fact, the only wallpapered surface; the rest of the landing area had been slapped with an uneven coat of sky-blue paint. This wall seemed excessive for some reason Dahlia couldn't figure out, and even more strange—when she tried focusing her Clearsight, she
couldn't see through it at all. With a jolt she realized that this was the dull, smudgy part of the house that looked so rotten when she'd scanned the house that first day.

“Can you see through that wall, Mrs. Tibbs?” she asked, and when the other ghost shook her head, looking just as puzzled as she felt, Dahlia continued, “It's almost like one of those black boxes downstairs, the ironite you told me about.” She ran her hand along its surface. The wall seemed to be charged with some kind of electrical energy, and no sooner did she move away than a low rumble shook the floor around them. Dahlia jumped back. “What
is
this place?”

“Most peculiar,” said Mrs. Tibbs. “It does appear that a barrier has been erected, but not by a living person. This is ghost-driven.”

“Maybe that's where my Anchor is,” Dahlia exclaimed. “We haven't found anything in the house—it must be in here!”

But Mrs. Tibbs was shaking her head. “I don't think so, dearie. Your Anchor wouldn't just board itself up all on its own. It's an inanimate object, you know. Much more likely the interference derives from a buildup of ghostly energy—we might need to call an Investigator if it doesn't resolve itself before too long. It feels rather old, as well. Has this blockage always been here?”

The truth was, Dahlia didn't know. It sounded silly to say that she hadn't noticed the bad spot before, but she had been so busy avoiding the upper floors that she hadn't paid them close enough attention. And even now, it was almost as though
she didn't
want
to delve deeper into this area, like the energy in the room was pushing her away. If she hadn't been on a specific mission, she wondered if she would have recognized it even now.

It was just as well that her Anchor wasn't in there, since there was no way inside. There was still a great deal of attic to explore, and where could be better to hide treasures? To the right of the landing was a closed door, which led to a tiny finished bedroom. Oliver lay inside, sprawled on his bed fully dressed and sound asleep. Behind his room opened a much wider space, which filled the whole rest of the upper area of the house—the real, bonafide storage portion of the attic. Dahlia rubbed her hands together gleefully: a veritable junkyard. They would hit the jackpot here for sure!

Dahlia activated her Lightening the moment they passed into the storage area. Light flooded the room. She smiled. “I can't tell you how good it feels to be able to do that. All those nights I spent in darkness—I can hardly imagine it now! I'm a girl-shaped lightning bug.”

Mrs. Tibbs chuckled. “Tut-tut, my dear. You're a good deal more than that!”

The storage area was jammed full of boxes, twenty or thirty or more crowded into the small space. A row of clothes on hangers cut across the far corner: fur jackets and out-of-date suit coats and lacy, old-fashioned dresses. Two long, low shelves held dozens of pairs of shoes. An assortment of parcels and packages filled the last corner.

There was no telling what might be important, so they began in opposite corners. Mrs. Tibbs started moving among the clutter, lifting boxes and opening the flaps, peering at the contents, leafing through books and papers, reading scraps and humming tunelessly all the while. Dahlia, no matter how hard she tried, still couldn't lift anything heavier than a piece of cloth, so she settled for ghosting through things. Beginning with the stack nearest to her, she ran her hand through each object, paying attention for any special prickles that might indicate buried memories or any type of connection. There would be a certain energy, Mrs. Tibbs had told her, making it plain when an object was connected to her Anchor.

“Mrs. Tibbs,” Dahlia said, as she swept her hand through a rusty tin of marbles, biting back a giggle at the gritty chill of so many tiny glass balls passing through her hand. “I've been meaning to ask you—how did you become a Liberator?”

Mrs. Tibbs gave Dahlia a broad smile. Pausing in her search to reach into her carpetbag, the older ghost pulled out an ornate pocket watch on a long gold chain. The outer case was etched in small swirls, and it looked half-transparent.

Dahlia's mouth dropped open. “That watch is not expired, is it?”

Mrs. Tibbs shook her head. “This belonged to my poor dear Charley. My other half. He's still alive, I'm sorry to say. Oh, child, I missed him so much the first few years after I crossed over. For a while I hung around him just because. But the Ghouncil finally got me going—they don't appreciate
deviations, and they threatened me with all kinds of … well, enough of that. Suffice it to say that it was time for me to go, but before I did, I took his watch. Something to remember him by, and it was so dear to his heart. I hope he doesn't miss it too much.” She sighed. “But he'll get it back someday. And I don't mind saying I hope he hurries up.”

“How long has it been?” Dahlia's voice was soft.

“Twenty-one years next month,” Mrs. Tibbs said. “But don't let me look like I'm complaining! I'm keeping busy while I wait.”

“So you took up being a Liberator.”

Mrs. Tibbs nodded. “At first I thought I might be able to hang around Charley, but it doesn't work that way. I have been able to stop by every so often, between assignments. It keeps me on this side of the Divide and more importantly it keeps me busy. Keeps my mind off missing him. And”—she smiled—“as a bonus, I've gotten to meet some quite excellent ghosts in the process.” She leaned back against a large square package. Dropping the watch back into her bag, she stretched her arms up over her head. “Come along then, my glimmering gosling. Let us keep calm and carry on, as they say.” And she turned her attention to the box nearest her.