Rules for Ghosting (22 page)

He remembered how Rutabartle's sunglasses had always drawn his eye, how they seemed somehow too big, all mirrored and mechanized, and how Rutabartle was always fiddling with them at the oddest times. But … not fiddling after all.
Filming
.

Then he thought of that Normalcy Questionnaire he and Poppy had filled out. And the small-print question on the last page:
Do you agree to cooperate in various candid film and photographic shots, to be held at a time of the licensor's choosing, and to be displayed without limitations, in gatherings of no more than seventy-five persons?
He and Poppy had laughed so hard at this question, imagining Rutabartle posing them for family shots on the lawn. And they had checked the box. This was all their fault.

The film ended, and Rutabartle drew in his screen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I think this film speaks for itself. I will allow you some more time to ponder and discuss the matter among yourselves. I will also add that, in deference to the manor's astonishing history and to show how serious I am about launching a successful auction tonight, I have decided to begin the auction with no floor—yes, ladies and gentlemen, I mean
no
lowest starting bid.” A rumble began among the guests. Rutabartle definitely had their attention now. “That is
all, my friends. The auction will begin in precisely fifteen minutes. Until then—enjoy your evening!”

Oliver felt sick. How were any of these wealthy buyers going to resist
that
kind of offer? He could already see several ladies turning rapt eyes toward the banisters, with a look he knew all too well: the gleam of ownership. Others had pulled out their phones and were poking furiously at the screens, bringing up numbers and leaning in close to tap out messages or muttering into their headsets. The food and drink was all but forgotten. Right in front of his eyes, Oliver's dream of staying at Silverton Manor officially fizzled and died.

And if he'd thought things couldn't get any worse, they suddenly did. Across the floor downstairs, a door on the end of the hall opened. It closed again, just as quickly, but this time Oliver knew he hadn't been mistaken: Rank Wiley the ghosterminator was loose in the house.

Well, this at least Oliver could do something about. While taking care to stay out of sight of his parents, of course. Dad was still in puppet-land, but Mom was now buzzing on the far side of the room, refilling glasses and circulating like her best idea of a good hostess. Keeping one eye on her back, Oliver darted out of his hiding spot, skulked halfway down the stairs, and dove into another alcove. This was where JJ had been earlier, when they had gooped the party guest, and if he wasn't mistaken … Yes! Right there on the floor, stuffed under the small decorative armchair, was their Bag of Pranks.

Ducking farther into the shadows, Oliver poked through the bag. There wasn't much. Except … what was Dad's lucky hat doing here? He realized now that Dad hadn't been wearing it during the puppet show, yet everything had gone off without a hitch. Apparently Dad's luck was doing just fine. Still, the hat seeded a plan in Oliver's mind.

Downstairs, Wiley was on the move, skulking through the party like a rhinoceros in a flock of flamingos. No one seemed to notice him, which was the weirdest thing ever since he had a big white dish towel draped over his shoulder. And peeping out of the towel was the telltale neon-orange glow of the Aspirator.

Oliver remembered how the ghostly woman, Mrs. Tibbs, had spoken from inside the little container—just like a real person. And living or not, she
was
real. What would it be like to be trapped in a box, being carted off somewhere to be dissected and analyzed? Oliver sure wouldn't want that to happen to him after he died.

Wiley had to be stopped.

A crazy idea shot into his mind. It was risky, but right now, it was all he had. Dad's hat would come in handy sooner than he'd expected. Pushing it on his head and tugging the brim over his eyes, he barreled down the stairs and into the mass of guests. Wiley was just up ahead … not too much farther. Oliver sped up. He pushed past a twiggy-thin woman and heard a gurgle and splash followed by a refined shriek. He ducked low under two outstretched hands being shaken in welcome. He
heard behind him, faintly, “Arthur? Is that you, darling? Did you get any—”

And there was Wiley. Oliver leaped, landing on Wiley in a full-body tackle that sent them both sprawling across a mercifully empty stretch of floor. At the same time, Oliver raised his head and yelled as loud as he could: “Ghost! There's a ghost in the house!” He turned toward Wiley, who was picking himself up off the floor and said, looking right into his eyes: “The house is
still
haunted.”

Dahlia couldn't believe it—the Boundary was gone.
Gone!
Years and years she'd been waiting for this moment, and now she hardly knew what to do first. Pumping one fist high into the air, she corkscrewed into a plume of whirling ghost-matter and shot straight up. She rocketed through the roof and in a second skimmed through the cool misty clouds, startling a bird and, a few seconds later, sluicing through the far wing of a jetliner. She flew faster than she ever had before, bouncing down on one rooftop, swinging from a distant bell tower, dropping down into the ocean—
the ocean! Deep, blue, rippling water with real live fish everywhere
—before rising up like an invisible mermaid to collapse on some yellow-sand beach with a happy sigh.

She was free! Right now she, Dahlia Silverton, was lying on a beach somewhere miles and miles away from Silverton Manor—so far she didn't even have a clue where she was. She laughed out loud, and giggled at the way the sound was
swallowed up in the wide open space. The sunlight was warm, so unlike anything she'd seen in the tree-lined clearing back home.

Life was good.

Wait! It was not just warmer here, but brighter too. Dahlia opened her eyes and squinted across the beach. About a hundred feet across the water, light was gathering into a glimmering pulse-point. It was stretching out into … a door? Yes. The door opened and a serious-looking man stepped through, obviously a ghost from the way his sharply defined edges stood out against the see-through swath of the living ocean.

As the man approached, he pulled a long stick-like device from his shirt pocket, much like the one Mrs. Tibbs had used the first day Dahlia met her. He opened it up and prodded the virtual screen. He raised an eyebrow. “Dahlia Silverton?” he intoned.

“Yes?” she squeaked, sitting up to attention.

“Rupert Milton,” the man said. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. May I ask what brings you … here?” He looked around himself distastefully. “Is this your Passing Point?”

“Where I died, you mean? Here? Oh no! I just went on a quick joyride. I was so happy to be able to leave my Boundary, you see. Have you come to greet me? Are you the welcoming committee?” Dahlia couldn't wait to see what came next. It felt like she'd been waiting for this moment forever.

But Milton frowned. “Hmm. It's somewhat irregular, but easily remedied. If you'll come over here?”

Dahlia wasn't sure what he meant, but zipped over to hover with him next to the portal.

“Place a hand here, if you please,” Milton explained. “We'll have this rectified in no time. Procedure must be followed, you see. Crossing over should happen from the correct location, or it creates an absolutely atrocious mountain of paperwork! Forms and permissions that you couldn't begin to imagine.”

Dahlia rested a hand on the side of the portal. There was a gushing noise like a faucet on full blast, except it wasn't water but the world sucking by around them, while the door and Milton and Dahlia stayed steady. In three or four seconds the world slowed again and they were standing by the front gate of Silverton Manor. The door was placed so that it overlaid the front manor gate exactly. Dahlia was standing just inside the property—at the very spot, in fact, where she had spent so many long hours trying to cross over. A feeling of satisfaction welled up inside her.

“Well now,” Milton said, looking pleased to have so easily righted things. He leaned toward Dahlia and held up his device. “Place your thumb here to begin the process.”

Dahlia saw her name printed neatly on the screen, with a blue-outlined box labeled
IDENTIFICATION
. She pressed her thumb firmly in the spot. The device hummed lightly, then glowed bright green.

“Excellent,” said Milton. “Now the next step—”

“Dahlia?” came a sudden voice, echoing through space.

Dahlia turned around. “Oh!” she cried. In her excitement at being free, she'd forgotten all about the other ghost. “Oh, Mr. Milton. This is Laura Silverton, an ancestor of mine. Are you here to collect her too? She's been trapped in the manor even longer than I have. In an upstairs attic room, and quite unconscious! Can you imagine?”

Laura still looked a bit wispy as she came to hover next to Dahlia, but her gaze was clear and she didn't seem nearly as wild-eyed as before. Dahlia hoped that, whatever damage had led to her death—some of which apparently still affected her—she would be able to fully recover from it now that things were back to normal. If anyone needed to cross over, Laura Silverton did.

But Milton was frowning at his screen. “A joint crossing over? Most irregular! Has the proper paperwork been filed? Have the correct procedures been met? I cannot be expected to …”

“Mr. Milton, surely you have some sort of, er, missing persons database? Can't you just look her up? The name is Laura Silverton,” Dahlia repeated slowly. Mrs. Tibbs had mentioned paperwork and red tape, but really!

Milton sputtered. “Well, I suppose so, but—” He cocked his head to the side. “Who was the Liberator on this case? That's what I would like to know.”

Dahlia's eyes widened. “Mrs. Tibbs!” she said. “I can't believe
I didn't tell you already. She's trapped! Some ghosterminating guy has imprisoned her in an ironite container and she can't get out. You need to do something to help her!”

Milton's eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his face. “Elizabeth Tibbs has been Manifesting to the Living?”

“No!” Dahlia exclaimed. “She never did. Not once. But she's trapped anyway. You have to rescue her!”

Milton sighed. “Very well. I will file a report. But can we return to the subject at hand? You mentioned a second Liberation. Was Elizabeth Tibbs involved in this subject's case also?”

“Oh, no!” Laura gushed. “Dahlia did everything! She freed me from my prison, awoke me from my long-dormant state, and helped me to regain my past. I did not even know I was dead until she came!”

Milton turned his eyes toward Dahlia, who quickly stammered. “Um, well, I didn't exactly …” Somehow she had a feeling that a ghost of this ilk would not be impressed by her do-it-yourself approach to ghosting. “Things just sort of … came together. You know? Things do, sometimes.”

Milton's forehead wrinkled. “Well, I shall need to file a report with the proper authorities. A number of reports, in fact. The matter warrants further investigation, it seems to me. Be that as it may, all does seem to be in order for you to cross over, and I've located your record in the Circular. Another misfiling, it would appear.” He sniffed. “If you'll place your print right here, miss, we can hold the Crossing at the same time.”

Laura's hand shook a little as she put her thumbprint onto
the screen. She seemed about to faint with excitement. Dahlia knew exactly how she felt. And yet … a thought had started to grow inside Dahlia, something important, something she didn't really want to think about but was suddenly having a very hard time putting aside. “What happens next?” she blurted out. “We cross over, and then what? Can we go anywhere after that?”

Milton let out a bark of laughter, which sent him into an immediate choking fit, as if that idea was so ludicrous he could hardly stand it. “Anywhere you want? My dear child, what kind of outfit is it that you think we are running here?” He snorted. “Nothing of the sort. You will be given the full Rulebook as soon as the Crossing is completed, but you should count on at least fifteen day-cycles to complete your initial Orientation, and then you can begin attending seminars to determine your eventual career disposition.”

Dahlia came back to reality with a sharp thud. In all the excitement of clearing the Boundary, she'd put the Day family and their living world completely out of her mind. But now she thought of what was going on in Silverton Manor while she was gallivanting around the ghostly planes. She'd fixed the curse for herself and Laura, but what about the Days? The carbon monoxide leak was still going on, and no one knew a thing about it!

“Step here, please, Miss Laura Silverton. Right this way.”

“Mr. Milton,” Dahlia said. “Could you wait here for about … oh, half an hour, maybe? An hour at the most. I have one quick thing to take care of before I cross over.”

Milton looked aghast. “Absolutely not! That is not the way the procedure works. The virtual paper trail has been set in motion, identification ascertained, and the subject must cross over within the next quarter hour. It is the way things are done.”

“But I can't do that! Don't you see? The Day children are in danger. They might die if I don't help them!” The idea flitted through her mind that they would then be ghosts—like her!—but just as quickly she dismissed it. It was most definitely not their time. And … time was something that they now had very little of. How long had she spent jetting around the world and conversing with bureaucrats?

“Miss Dahlia Silverton,” said Milton coldly. “I don't think you understand how Spectral Investigative Council operates. We are here to ensure the process runs as smoothly as it ought. You
must
cross over now, or you will be tagged as a No Cross.”