Rules for Ghosting (14 page)

Dahlia stared in horror as the phoam shot straight toward them. It slopped down over Mrs. Tibbs's flowery hat, her long lean body, her lumpy carpetbag. In two seconds flat it covered her from head to toe.

“No!” Dahlia yelled. Neither the boy nor the horrible man could hear her. Mrs. Tibbs could, though. Through the gunk
Dahlia could see the Liberator's lips form a single word: “GO!” But Dahlia couldn't go. Frozen in place, she watched Wiley rev up his machine. He flipped the switch to start the Aspirating process. Oliver launched himself at the ghosterminator again, but Wiley was ready for him this time, swinging the Spectrometer and clocking him on the head. Oliver toppled to the ground.

It just took Dahlia a split second to turn her eyes and follow Oliver's fall. But when she looked back at the main attic area, the air in front of the door was empty.

Mrs. Tibbs was gone.

“No,” Dahlia said again, whispering this time. She felt as if she were cracking in two.

There was a suck and a gurgle and a satisfied burp from Wiley's machine. Looking craftily in both directions, the ghosterminator packed up his belongings, took one last look at Oliver lying sprawled on the ground, and crept away down the stairs.

The Aspirator sack pushed and bulged on Wiley's back, as though something inside wanted very badly to get out but could not do so, no matter how hard it tried.

Wiley disappeared down the staircase, and Dahlia sat staring after him, feeling tied into a hundred knots. And frozen. And squashed under a blanket of paralyzing inactivity. What could she
do
? She had to save Mrs. Tibbs, but how? If she went after him, Wiley would Aspirate her too. Oh why,
why
hadn't she moved more quickly, found some way to keep Mrs. Tibbs from being captured?

On the attic floor, Oliver groaned.

A few things fell into place in Dahlia's mind all at once. She couldn't get to Wiley. But Oliver could. And … there was that device buried under the floorboards. Of course!

Dahlia swept over to the spot and peered through the floorboards. She could see it clearly now—it was made of some kind of ornate metal. It looked a little like an old-fashioned cash register and on the top, in fancy calligraphy, was the word
Seesaw
. She thought of Mrs. Tibbs's warning about Manifesting and Dialoguing. But who were these Ghouncil people anyway? What had they ever done for her? It was a ridiculous notion, having a living boy right here and available to help but not being able to access him. For every rule there was an exception, right?

Gritting her teeth, Dahlia jammed her hand into the center of the machine. She was ready for the jolt this time, so it didn't throw her completely off balance, and while everything around her still went dark, she didn't lose consciousness. She hit the floor with a thump and took a second to orient herself. Then she jumped up and ran over to Oliver, who was pulling himself into a sitting position.

“Are you all right?” she said, putting a hand on his arm. To her amazement, she
could
!

“Oh!” Oliver goggled at her and she scooted back.

“I'm Dahlia Silverton,” she said quickly. “Is your head okay? That creep clocked you good. And …” Her eyes got blurry. “He trapped my friend, Mrs. Tibbs, in one of his machines.”

“I'm Oliver Day,” he said. “I'm fine. He didn't hit me very hard—I think I just lost my balance.”

“The thing is,” Dahlia said, “I really need your help. We have to find a way to get Mrs. Tibbs back.”

Oliver nodded. “I want to help, but I'm not sure I know how. That guy is sneaky and, well, basically horrible.”

Dahlia looked at him. He looked back.

“I guess the first thing we need to do is get that machine up out of the floor,” he said finally. “Don't you think?”

“The Seesaw,” said Dahlia. “You're right. I saw a crowbar earlier when we were going through the attic.” She walked awkwardly across the floor—she had forgotten how difficult it was to manage with living-person gravity. What a ridiculous way to get around! Figuring she didn't have too long—if her last experience was any indicator—she passed Oliver the crowbar and he dropped to his knees, prying at a board above the Seesaw's hiding spot.

“That ghosterminator will try to skedaddle out of here fast now that he's got what he came for,” she said. “You have to stop him.”

“Stop him from leaving? Are you joking? That's what he needs to do. I'm going to talk to my parents again first thing in the morning. I'll show them my lump and see if they still think I'm imagining things. He'll be on the road before breakfast is over!”

“No!” Dahlia grabbed his arm. “You can't! Don't you see? He'll
want
to leave now; he got what he came for. But if he
leaves,
he takes Mrs. Tibbs with him
! I'll never see her again and she'll be trapped forever in that evil black box, and who knows what he'll do to her? He'll dissect her in the name of science and she'll never be with her Charley again!” A sob rose in her throat. She had to make him understand.

Oliver didn't seem to have a clue what she was talking about, but he passed his hand across his forehead. “So what do you want me to do?” He pried the crowbar alongside the other end of the board and kept working at it.

“Try to delay him for a little bit. Tell him … there's another ghost he needs to look for. That will keep him here.”

“No!” said Oliver. “Then he'll go looking for you—and you definitely don't want that.”

“Well then, something else. Make up some other ghost room,” she swallowed, “like my cubby.” An idea struck her. It was painful, but the only thing she could think of. “I have a garden outside. A real ghost garden. You can tell him about that—but don't tell him where it is until later. Only if you have to. See if you can keep delaying him, or tell him you need to look for the garden or something. More stuff for him to study. And meanwhile, we can find a way to free Mrs. Tibbs.”

“The day after tomorrow is Mom's big Halloween bash—there's going to be all kinds of stuff going on, people coming in and out. Maybe we can find some way to break her out then.”

Before Dahlia could reply, another voice cut through the quiet attic. “Hey, what's going on up here?”

Oliver let out a groan. “Poppy, not again,” he said. “What are you doing out of bed? It's the middle of the night!”

“Well,
you're
not in bed, and I heard all this arguing going on up here. Did you know there's some kind of ventilation passage between here and the turret? Who knew, huh? Hey, who is
that
? Why is there a strange girl in our attic? OLIVER?!”

Oliver had dropped the crowbar and dashed across the attic floor to silence Poppy, putting both hands across her mouth. Poppy's eyes bulged.

“SHUSH!” Oliver whispered. “We don't want Mom or Dad to …”

Poppy shoved his hands off her face and started thrashing from side to side. “Mom and Dad are down on the second floor. They won't hear a thing. But you—need—to—get off me NOW!”

“Fine—as long as you HUSH!” Oliver let go and went back to his floorboard.

Eyes wide and shining, Poppy scuttled over to Dahlia. “So who
are
you? Wait, your legs—what happened to them? Are you going invisible?”

Oliver sighed. “Poppy, meet Dahlia. She's … um, a ghost. She lives in this house, and I only just met her.”

“HAH!” Poppy called out, loud enough that Oliver clamped his hand back over her mouth. She shoved him away again. “Sorry—I'll be quiet. But didn't I tell you that there was
something
going on with this house? Am I EVER not right?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “You thought there was something creepy-weird about this house, not cool-weird.”

“Close enough,” said Poppy. “So what exactly are you guys doing?”

“There's this machine that makes her solid and non-ghostly for a supershort amount of time. That's the thing I was trying to pull up out of the floor before you barged in.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Poppy asked, leaning over to watch him work on the board. After a few minutes Dahlia felt her molecules go back to normal. She drifted up toward the ceiling, doing a happy little air-flip to celebrate.

Down below her, Poppy let out a startled yelp. “Hey! Where'd she go? She was here, like, a second ago!”

“Shush already,” Oliver said with an exasperated groan. “If you're going to stay, you might as well make yourself useful. Grab the other side of this board.” He tossed down the crowbar and the two of them hoisted up the long plank.

“Whoa, look at that! It's a … wait, what is it? It's
old
!”

Oliver reached into the empty space under the floor and pulled out the device.

“Seesaw,” Poppy said, running her finger along the words on the side. “Is this the de-ghosting machine, huh? Oliver? Is this it?”

“Poppy, if you don't calm down I'm not going to tell you a single thing.”

Dahlia looked at them, and then at the Seesaw. She slid down a moonbeam and landed right in between them—still
invisible to their eyes, she knew. She hated giving up her ghostly form, even for such a brief time. But these living kids were the only hope she had. Oliver was right: that Wiley guy wasn't going to be talked into giving up the prize he had waited for so long. Something new had just occurred to her, though. If she found her Anchor, wouldn't the Ghouncil
have
to get involved? They would call for Mrs. Tibbs, would see what had happened to her and send some kind of reinforcements to the rescue. Hadn't Mrs. Tibbs said the Ghouncil was kind of like the police? Well, there you go. And getting free of the Boundary would also mean that
she
could follow Wiley home and try to figure out some way to help.

It wasn't the most foolproof plan, but it was a start. The biggest thing was it all had to happen
soon
. In spite of Oliver's assurances, she didn't think he'd be able to keep Rank Wiley on the premises for long.

Dahlia reached out her hand and stuck it into the center of the Seesaw. It was going to be a long night, and she had a complicated story to tell.

Oliver woke the next morning feeling like a truck had run over his head. Then he realized he was lying on the narrow strip of Matchbox floor, and Poppy was flopped across his bed, her foot resting smack on the bridge of his nose. He sat up, blinking. For a second he couldn't remember why he was so tired, but as soon as he did, he jumped to his feet. The ghost, Dahlia! The other one, Mrs. Tibbs, sucked away into captivity! And Rank Wiley and his evil device! He had to get to work.

Jabbing Poppy in the ribs—she was lucky he didn't shove her on the floor, after she'd stolen his bed like that—he shook out his shirt and smoothed down his jeans so it didn't look quite so much like he'd slept in his clothes. Not that Mom was likely to notice these days, with her one-track Party Zombie mind.

“Hunnnh?” Poppy said groggily, sitting up. “Where am I? Why's my room turned into a teeny-tiny box?”

“Get up,” said Oliver. “You're in
my
room. And we need to
save the ghosts, remember? I have to go make sure Wiley doesn't leave. You start looking for clues.”

“Good morning to you too!” Poppy yawned and slid out of bed. “So, that was quite a story last night, huh? Did we ever figure out what type of clues we're looking for?”

Oliver was already at the door but stopped to look back at her. “No idea. She said they've already searched the house. I don't know what we could find that they didn't, except … when she was talking I kept thinking about the house itself. Silverton Manor. Remember that curse we keep hearing so much about?”

Poppy perked up. “Yeah?”

“Dahlia had no idea where that rumor started or why. It seems like
something
must have kicked it off. Maybe you can find out about that?”

Leaving Poppy to digest her new mission, Oliver dashed down the attic steps and began the long trek toward the first-floor guest bedroom. When he was halfway down the second-floor hallway, something shot out of a far corner and zipped right under his foot. He swerved to avoid it, saving himself from stepping on it just in time. Bending down he saw an old-fashioned roller skate with long straps dangling off the sides and a yellow smiley face beanbag filling the base of it.

“JJ!” he called, looking around for his offending siblings. They were nowhere to be seen, but gleeful cackles from around the corner confirmed his suspicions. He pushed the skate back toward the noise and continued down the hall.

He came upon Wiley a minute later, his long legs sprawled out across the hallway. What on earth? Rank Wiley leaped up in a flash, looking first alarmed, then annoyed when he saw it was Oliver. He was busily stuffing a tiny camera into a messenger bag on his shoulder.

“Mr. Wiley,” Oliver said, swallowing all the extremely unpleasant things he wanted to say. It was hard enough to make his voice sound friendly, without having to say nice stuff too! He took a deep breath and tried again. “Are you packing up all your hidden ghost cameras?”

“I am rather flush with success at the moment, if you don't mind,” Wiley said smugly, turning around and starting down the hall toward the stairs. “Seems like high time to move along, set my sights, focus on the next goal—that is, to begin dissecting the evidence.” Up ahead of them, Oliver thought he heard a telltale giggle. He brightened. Maybe he wouldn't
need
to say anything nasty to get a nice little bit of revenge. Maybe if he kept the ghosterminator distracted …

Wiley walked on a few steps and then apparently decided that talking to an annoying boy was better than no one at all. He beckoned and Oliver scooted closer, eyes darting from side to side. The edge of a red hair ribbon stuck out from around a corner right ahead of them. “I am confident,” Wiley intoned as they walked, “that the evidence I've collected this week—culminating in the remarkable capture of a live specimen!—will catapult me to international fame and fortune. I will be immortalized forever. I'm Rank T. Wiley, my boy, and the
T
stands for
Timeless
. Timeless! And if I should be able to discover what comprises the essence of those creatures, well!”