Rules for Ghosting (18 page)

“Papers,” Oliver told Poppy, also busy searching once again. “Like a journal, or photographs, anything that could be a keepsake. Holler if you find anything.” He was over by the window, opening up the wooden chest that rested below the sill.

“I'll take the dresser,” Dahlia said, feeling she didn't want anyone else pawing through her underclothes.

Poppy lifted the bedskirts and started burrowing underneath. “Musty stockings,” came her muffled voice. “Some kind of lace napkin, uh, handkerchief? A wooden ball …”

“We don't need a running commentary, Poppy. Just tell us about stuff that looks important.” Oliver closed the chest and
moved over to pull a wicker basket out from under an antique rocking chair.

Dahlia sifted through drawer after drawer, but with the exception of some very fine undergarments, didn't find anything of interest. One starched pinafore in a blue poinsettia pattern made a lump rise in her throat. She almost remembered a package coming in the mail, her father's familiar handwriting scrawled over the label … she remembered the hurt that stormed across her mother's face, her own eager thrill as she pulled the dress out of the package.

She held it up now: it might have fit a small eight-year-old, and some bits of leftover memory told Dahlia that she had passed her twelfth birthday when the dress had arrived. The mix of being remembered and yet so misremembered had been a crushing blow. Yet, looking closer, Dahlia could see that careful snips and stitches had changed the fabric. It was no longer the pinafore of her memory. This had been painstakingly worked over by—she looked closer—by
childish
fingers. She herself must have transformed the too-small dress into a frilly top that would fit her just right.

But she suddenly knew something with absolute certainty: she had never actually worn the top. It was like the rest of her past life—not quite right to begin with, nearly fixed, but ultimately left forgotten in some dark corner. And suddenly it was all too much. Dahlia gripped the fabric and ripped it clean down the middle.

“Hey,” said Poppy, darting over to her side. A long dust
bunny dangled off the end of her ponytail. “What are you doing? What is that?”

“Nothing,” Dahlia muttered, ripping it again. “Just some old”—
rip
—“long-forgotten”—
rip
—“completely useless piece of—”

“Wait,” Oliver said gently, pulling the fabric from her hands. But it was too late. The pieces were tiny and as they drifted down to the wood floor, past her now-ghostly legs, she saw the sharp image of the expired top pulling away. Instinctively she reached up her hands to catch it, looking down at her outfit and wondering whether it wasn't too late to try it on, to reclaim some piece of her former self. But her hand—still corporeal from the last Seesaw jolt—passed right through. The lump in Dahlia's throat grew as the blue-patterned top slipped through the attic ceiling and was gone forever.

She took a moment to compose herself. “Never mind that,” she said at last, trying for firmness but unable to keep a wobble out of her voice. “It's just some old stupid part of my past.”

Oliver looked unconvinced, but Poppy jabbed him aside. She grabbed Dahlia's hand, tugging it gently in her own. “I had this splinter one time,” she said. “Oliver said it was stupid baby stuff but it wasn't, it was big and jagged and it hurt like crazy. I didn't want anyone to touch it and, okay, I went nuts when Dad got out his tweezers. But you know …” She scuffed at the floor with her shoe. “It had to get worse before it could get better. It hurt to get it out … but then, in the end, it was better.”

Dahlia blinked. And then she smiled slowly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Beside her, Oliver was looking at Poppy with surprise. Then he turned to Dahlia. “You've remembered your past then?”

“Not everything. I've got some bits and pieces, but I need to remember how I died. I suppose that's the splinter I need to dig out. And I think the only way I can remember everything is to find my Anchor.”

“What about that big bump before, when we came in here the second time?” Poppy asked. “What was that about?”

“I don't know. It felt …” Dahlia stretched her mind back. “Like some kind of energy force. Like something not all the way there. Not completely whole.”

“Could the energy have just vanished? Gone out into the air?” Oliver asked.

“I don't think ghostly energy can just, um, dissipate. It's not like an actual ghost that would cross over—these kinds of energies have to go somewhere else. Matter won't just disappear, even ghost matter.”

“So do you think it's got anything to do with that Laura person, like we thought?” Poppy asked. “Or with the curse?”

“Again with the curse,” Oliver said with a groan.

Dahlia smiled wanly. “It can't be a ghost—I'd have seen her if she hadn't crossed over. All I know is that this force or curse or whatever it is has been trapped in here for a very long time. And now it's out.”

“It's out?” Poppy said. “Oh, man. We've set the curse loose in the house, haven't we? And just in time for the party too!”

And that was when they noticed that the clomping and banging they had been hearing for the last few minutes was not ghostly at all, but consisted of footsteps climbing the attic stairs. This was followed by the voice of Jock Rutabartle: “What is all this talk I'm hearing about ghosts and haunting and a curse being loose in the house?”

To Oliver, Rutabartle sounded more annoyed than angry, like they should know better than to make haunting jokes in a normal house that was soon to be sold to and inhabited by normal people. “Be cool,” Oliver whispered to the others. “He can't possibly guess what we were really talking about—he'll think we were just goofing off.”

“Oliver? Poppy?” Mom was in front, and she came up the stairs at a brisk pace, with Rutabartle immediately behind her. “Good, you're both here. I've set out a cold lunch downstairs and as soon as you've eaten I want you to change for the party. Guests may begin arriving as soon as three o'clock, and that's not much time at all. More likely not until five, but one can never be too careful. Isn't that so, Mr. Rutabartle?”

Rutabartle stood frozen in place. His eyes bulged and his face looked like it was being colored in with an invisible red crayon. Wait, invisible?
Oh!
Oliver gasped and turned quickly
around, in the direction both Mom and Mr. Rutabartle were now staring with open mouths. Next to Poppy hung the old-fashioned torso, right arm, and smiling face of Dahlia Silverton.

“Is … that—is that … tell me, are any of you seeing that …,” Rutabartle stammered.

“Good grief,” said Mom, bringing her hands together with a sharp clap. “Have you two found yourself a ghost? Do you have a name, dear? You aren't a projection, are you? Oliver? Are you fooling around with us?”

“I'm Dahlia Silverton, ma'am,” said Dahlia, sounding rather wispy as her remaining arm disappeared and the nothingness started to chew up toward her neck.

Mom started slowly circling around Dahlia. “And you seem to be … disappearing? Is that supposed to happen? Are you all right?”

“Oh, well—yes. It's because of the—”

“Just the way things are! With ghosts!” Oliver cut in quickly. He didn't like the way Rutabartle's face had gone from red to white and was now inching toward green. Bringing up the Seesaw right now was probably not the best idea.

“She's nice,” said Poppy. “We're trying to help her remember how she died. We opened up the secret room, see?”

Mom seemed to notice the sliced-through wallpaper for the first time. She ran her finger along the dusty wall and frowned. “You shouldn't have disturbed things without asking me.” She tilted her head toward Rutabartle, whose mouth was
now opening and closing in an obvious attempt to bring his brain up to speed with what was going on.

With a barely noticeable
snick
, Dahlia's face winked out. As if that were the last straw in a whole hayloft of offenses, Rutabartle exploded. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF NORMALCY IS GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE?” he roared. “Have you given no thought AT ALL to the instructions so clearly stated in my Normalcy Questionnaire?”

Mom took a step back, but Rutabartle was just getting started. “It's bad enough that pranks are being pulled around every corner, and that you display the very worst possible taste in party decorations. Now your reprehensible family has the gall to launch some sort of ghostly projection? Do you really think I'm going to fall for this type of trick, after all the time I've spent planning for this sale, after everything I've put into it? Can you even begin to imagine—”

“Mr. Rutabartle!” Mom said frostily. Her voice wasn't even raised, but it silenced Rutabartle for a second.

Only for a second, though. He shook his head, and a steely look came into his eye. “Very well. You leave me with no alternative.” He whipped out his planner and began to flip through the pages. With his other hand he pulled out his phone and pressed a button. “Hello, Greta? Yes, it's me. No, this is urgent. Drop everything else you're doing. Yes? No, that too. It's about the auction.”

Oliver took a step forward. “Please, wait,” he said.

“Yes,” Rutabartle went on, taking a step farther into the
hidden room and raising his voice, like it was part of their collective punishment to hear every word of what was going to happen. “No, I realize it was supposed to be held in April. But there have been some unforeseen developments, and we need to send out an emergency update. Hmmm? Oh no, I don't think so. I believe we can turn this to our advantage—catch people off guard, so to speak. Spike up the enthusiasm, you know. I want you to start making calls immediately. We'll hold the auction at the house sitters' Halloween party. We'll hold the auction tonight.”

The words hung in the still attic air, echoing in the confined space and bouncing up to the narrow ceiling space and coming back down to land on Oliver's head like a ton of bricks. All his plans, all his hopes, all his dreams—they were all going to come to nothing. So much for having time to plan, to scheme, to save up more money. He'd counted up the coins in his jar and they came to a grand total of $89.21. Not even a hundred times that much would be enough to buy the house. And not only were they not going to get to stay in the house for good—now they weren't even going to get their six months!

He wondered where Dahlia was and what she was thinking right now. Rutabartle had finished his call and stood, grinning smugly, as though satisfied to have gotten one up on his ghost-loving house sitters.

Then Mom's voice broke through the strained silence. “Mr. Rutabartle, we signed a six-month contract. You cannot simply change deadlines around to suit yourself!”

Rutabartle jutted out his chin and stroked his mustache. “I think you'll see if you look at the contract carefully, Mrs. Day,” he oozed, “that there is a small-print clause that stipulates a stay of six months
or until such a time as the property ownership should pass to anyone other than the current principal
. You will be given thirty days after the sale to collect your belongings and find other employment. And then”—he drew himself up with a chill smile—“you can hit the road.”

“We didn't bring Dahlia into your stupid house,” Poppy steamed, marching up and standing so close to Rutabartle that she had to tilt her head all the way back to glare at him. “And she's not a projection, either. She was here before we came, and all we're doing is helping her.”

Oliver wasn't sure if it was better or worse for their case that Rutabartle didn't believe Dahlia was real. Not that it would make much difference either way, it seemed. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to make things better.

Rutabartle reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out his mirrored sunglasses, which he slid onto his nose. He adjusted them, turning his head to either side as though taking in the view, then clapped his heels together. “I must be off,” he said. “I have legally binding paperwork to draw up, an auction to organize, and a house to sell. As for
you
,” he sneered, “I suggest you all begin repacking your belongings.” With that he spun around and marched down the attic stairs.

“Oh,” Mom said. Her knees seemed to give way, like a
balloon leaking air, and she dropped slowly to sit on the floor. “That's a bit out of the blue. Who would have thought it? I suppose we had better tell your father.”

“Mom,” Oliver said, squatting down next to her. Silverton Manor was supposed to be
their
house. This couldn't be the end of it. “We haven't lost yet! He's going to hold an auction, but do you really think anyone's even going to bid? Think about it! What about the curse?”

“Yeah!” said Poppy. “We even found papers and news clippings and stuff. The curse is real! Plus, the house is haunted. Who wants to live in a haunted house?”

“Haunted?” chirped a voice. “Did somebody say ‘haunted house'?” Oliver hadn't even heard the telltale pitter-patter of feet, but now JJ burst unexpectedly above the attic threshold in a wild explosion of freckled enthusiasm.

“A new bedroom! Look, there's a new bedroom!” they chorused. “We want to go inside!” They had somehow learned to time their jumping so that when one was up the other was down, and vice versa, and they could go on like this for full twenty-minute intervals. Mom leaped up and put a hand on each of their heads to keep them grounded. Doing this seemed to jerk her back into her businesslike self.

“Well, there's nothing we can do about all of this for the moment,” she said briskly. “All we can do is finish our job with dignity. I, for one, intend to see this party through and leave with my head held high. Wouldn't you agree, children?”