Rules for Ghosting (24 page)

As if in reply, Joe was pressed into a ball and lifted up into the air. Oliver shouldered Junie and jumped off the bed, starting in a run for the attic stairs. Poppy was standing there waiting, her legs still trembling, eyes wide and scared. “What's going on, Oliver?” she said.

“Come on, tagalong,” Oliver said. “Let's do this together.”

It was time to break up the party.

Dahlia felt a trickle of sweat starting between her shoulder blades. She had never concentrated so hard in her life. It was one thing to sit on a branch, to rub words onto steamed-up glass—even to pick up a telescope for a few seconds and punch it through a window. But to carry a real living child down three flights of stairs, at top speed? This was entirely different. She forced her arms into steel bars, and glided a few feet off the ground to keep the journey as smooth as possible. Over and over she reminded herself,
Do not ghost through anything
! The last thing she wanted was to slip through a chair or potted plant, and end up with the poor kid splatted on the floor on the other side.

“Come on,” Oliver whispered, looking back over his shoulder at her. “Poppy and I will go run ahead and warn them, okay? Everyone's down in the gathering hall. Hurry!”

With that, he dashed off, with Poppy following weakly
along behind him. She still looked befuddled, but the more she walked, the stronger she seemed. The girl would be all right.

Dahlia knew that she herself couldn't keep up. With everything she had to concentrate on, the best she could manage was a slow creep down the stairs. She wouldn't be fast, but she would get there.

Little Joe, on the other hand … In her arms, his face was pale. His chest was rising and falling, but so very faintly. Dahlia's ghost sight couldn't exactly see all the way through a living body, but certain systems were visible. And Joe's systems were definitely not doing all that they should. Dahlia clenched her arms tighter and sped down to the last flight of steps. Ahead was the hum of voices, the bustle of swishing feet and the clink of glasses. A loud voice—it sounded like that town official, the one with the name like a bad-tasting vegetable—boomed out over a megaphone: “And it's a wrap, folks! Silverton Manor has been SOLD to the eminent Mrs. Poitiers in the far corner. My congratu—”

And then, a collective gasp and Oliver's voice raised loud and clear: “Help! There's been a carbon monoxide leak upstairs. Someone call 911!”

She could feel Joe slipping through her arms, but she rushed on faster. The downstairs hall was a whirl of noise and commotion—people shuffling, voices raised in mild alarm, and the slight crackle of the megaphone and a voice trying to be heard over the noise. Dahlia came around the corner to the
top of the stairs, and she knew she was close to dropping Joe. The downstairs was a buzz of activity, and she couldn't see Oliver or Poppy or their parents anywhere. She had to get the little boy to safety! Lowering her burden quickly to the ground, she shifted him into a better position, scooted one arm under his back and the other under his behind, closed her eyes for maximum concentration, and lifted.

The crowds ahead parted, and she could see Poppy and Oliver standing over Junie, who lay on some cushions on the floor. His parents hovered in close. Then Mrs. Day clapped her hands to her chest. “Joe!” she shrieked. “Where's my Joey?”

Oliver turned in Dahlia's direction, and his eyes widened. He started shaking his head frantically, like in all the rush he'd forgotten something very important.

Mr. and Mrs. Day turned to follow his gaze. Their mouths dropped all the way open and their faces went sheet-white. One by one, the guests turned to look in her direction, and she suddenly knew what they were seeing: a very little boy hanging suspended in the air, unconscious, drifting across the room with no visible means of support.

Oops.

Dahlia sped up. She would get the boy to Oliver, put him down on the floor, and leave. What, would they rather she'd left him in the attic?

The crowd parted like falling dominoes. A whisper started up next to Dahlia and whizzed around the hall:
Spirits! The
child is possessed—he's moving under a foreign power! Is there really nothing holding him up?
And, rising above everything else:
Ghosts! Silverton Manor really
is
haunted!

The screaming started next, a high-pitched wailing howl that went on and on. Then a voice cut through the ruckus, a voice as chilly as the dark night outside: “Step aside, everyone. Let the experts take over. Everything's going to be all right.”

Any remaining bystanders pulled themselves farther out of the way and, into the empty spot marched Rank Wiley, goggles over his eyes, his long, thin Spectrometer in hand, pointing right at Dahlia.

Dahlia's heart started pounding in her chest, and she could feel Joe starting to slip again. What could she do? She couldn't get away when she was holding the little boy, and she didn't want to drop him, either. She was hovering about six feet off the ground, and could see the floor below her feet. If she set Joe down right now, she could make a quick getaway—zip right through these people and be gone for good. Joe would probably be all right.

But what if he wasn't? She could feel the palpable panic around her, and could see the bleary looks in the eyes of the partygoers. Even now people were shoving and pushing; the little space around her was kept open only for knowing that a
ghost
was trapped inside it.

Smash!
A wineglass went hurtling across the room and crunched on the ground at Dahlia's feet. That settled it. Dahlia
shot higher into the air, above the guests' heads. She had to get to the cushioned area where the Days were gathered. She'd leave Joe there and then make a dash for safety.

The screeching rose as Dahlia swirled around the chandelier.

“Come back here, dread specter of the deep!” intoned Wiley. He had put away the Spectrometer and lifted up the goggles, apparently realizing he didn't need a device to track her since she was holding Joe. But would he really spray her when she was holding a kid? Dahlia sneaked a look over her shoulder at Wiley's determined face.

Oh, yes. No doubt about that.

Dahlia circled the far side of the chandelier, dodged a pair of elderly biddies, and finally—
finally
!—came down near the Day family.

“Right here,” Oliver whispered, scooting over. “Now you have to go! I'm so sorry about Wiley …”

Dahlia set Joe down, stroked his forehead lovingly. The boy's eyes fluttered open. He was only half-conscious, Dahlia could tell, and for a moment, his form stuttered between looking see-through and fully formed. Joe looked right at Dahlia, seeing her, and smiled. He blinked twice and opened his eyes again, fully see-through once more to Dahlia, and jabbed the still-unconscious Junie in the ribs. “Hey, move over, dummy! You're using all the cushions!”

Junie grumbled and poked him back, and Dahlia let out a long sigh. They would be okay. The twins were safe.

From the back of the hall someone yelled. “The ambulance will be here in two minutes!”

And then a quieter voice behind Dahlia: “Do not move a muscle, ghoul. I have you in my sights, and this time you're not getting away.”

Oliver's relief at seeing Joe and Junie open their eyes and start squabbling was short-lived. Rank Wiley was clearly on the warpath, and as far as Oliver could tell, he had Dahlia trapped. Wiley pressed the button on his Aspirator. The phoaming mechanism started to warm up. The pilot light came on, tracing a red pattern in the air and outlining Dahlia's form like a 3-D Etch A Sketch image hanging in the air ahead of him.

“Do not move!” Wiley hissed. “It will be far more painful for you to be in motion, and at this point there is no possible escape.”

“Wait!” Oliver yelled at Wiley.
Hurry up and escape!
he thought at Dahlia. But instead, to his horror, he saw Dahlia's outlined form stop in midjump and glance at him expectantly. She thought he was talking to her.

The pilot light coming from the Aspirator turned green.
No!

Dahlia finally started to move, but it was obvious she would be too late. With no clear plan in mind, Oliver dove past Dahlia and tackled Wiley.

Wiley tumbled backward, but didn't let go of the Aspirator. Roaring in frustration, the ghosterminator aimed the nozzle over Oliver's shoulder. Oliver threw his weight on the offending bag, but not soon enough. With a triumphant crow, Wiley jabbed the ON button so hard that Oliver winced. Wiley was accomplishing his mission and wanted everyone in the room to know it.

The machine started to gurgle. Oliver could see the power revving up and knew the phoam was starting to churn inside the device. The belly of the backpack squirmed faintly. There was a ghost inside there already, Oliver knew. Mrs. Tibbs. He couldn't let Dahlia share her fate. But what could he do? Pinpricks of phoam were popping out of the nozzle. There were just seconds left.

In desperation, he looked over to Poppy, who was flopped weakly on the floor. Her body was still limp from her carbon monoxide poisoning, but her eyes were crackling. She was making weak gestures. Trying to tell him something. But what?

He frowned at her. “The twins!” she called over the hubbub. “What would JJ do?”

Oliver froze as his eyes fell on JJ who sat watching, eyes wide. Of course! He didn't have their Bag of Pranks handy,
but … maybe he could make do. With a grin for Poppy he leaned over and, quick as a flash, grabbed a soft dinner roll filled with egg salad off a nearby tray. He stuffed the roll into the nozzle of the Aspirator.

The machine stuttered, and Wiley turned his head to look at Oliver, then down at the body of his machine. “What did you do?” the man growled.

Oliver turned so his body hid the nozzle from Wiley's sight. He shoved the roll farther up into the spout—now pushing, he could tell, against the force of the gathering phoam.

Poppy cheered. “Another!” she squeaked.

Oliver quickly grabbed a second roll and shoved it in after the first.

He scrambled back, breathing hard, while Wiley shook the Aspirator, still unsure what had happened while his view was obstructed, wondering why the phoam wasn't coming out yet. With Joe down, Oliver couldn't tell where Dahlia was anymore. He wondered if she'd escaped, or if she was lurking somewhere nearby, watching to see what would happen.

And what
would
happen? The machine was starting to steam, and Wiley was thumbing the button, an increasing look of panic in his eyes. Oliver started to laugh. Had Wiley really pushed the button so hard he'd broken it? Well then, they made a good team.

But the Aspirator wasn't finished. More steam was rising from the motor, and Oliver yelled, “Get back, everybody!” He
scooted over and pulled JJ and Poppy aside. Gawking partygoers scrambled out of the way.

And then—

—the Aspirator imploded. It didn't spiral outward but burst in on itself in a puff of black smoke. Black smoke … tinged with a pale-green powder. A second later, there was another explosion, the kind of explosion you'd get if you let a vacuum cleaner loose in a flour factory.

Pale-green, powdery phoam—blended with yellowish clumps of egg salad—erupted from the Aspirator's sack like a giant sneeze, coating all the bystanders. Maybe that's why it took a few seconds for people to notice what Oliver saw immediately. At the heart of the eruption, something thin and wispy lay curled up in the tattered remains of the Aspirator. Something which, still caked in goop, slowly stretched out into the shape of—a tall, wiry woman wearing a giant straw hat, a paisley carpetbag tucked firmly under her arm.

A minute later the first guest saw the phoam-encrusted ghost, which was now beginning, slowly and steadily, to glow. If they had needed any further confirmation that the house was haunted, this was it. The party turned into a stampede as the guests ran screaming for the nearest exit.

Wiley dropped to the floor in the ruins of his Aspirator.

Rutabartle, still wielding his megaphone, called out, “Please wait, Mrs. Poitiers! I need your signature right here to confirm your bid!”

“Not on your life,” shrieked the woman from the far side of the hall. “I wouldn't live in this house if you paid me! Consider my bid retracted.”

There was a loud
BANG
as the front door burst open. “Police! Where is the emergency?”

A half dozen uniformed officers pushed into the room. Two of them bent down and started examining Junie and Joe. A third began speaking with Mom and Dad. “Carbon monoxide poisoning, you say? And you didn't have any alarms installed?”

Oliver seized his chance. “It was him!” he yelled, pointing at the distracted Wiley, who was pressing the edges of his ruptured bag together, as though hoping it would magically repair itself. “He was pretending to be a handyman. He's been lying this whole time!”

Mom's eyes widened and swung to Wiley's face. “You!” she exclaimed, taking in the ghosterminating equipment. “Do you mean to say you have been here under false pretenses, pretending to work and
living in our house
while secretly conducting a hunt for
ghosts
?”

Oliver frowned at the floor. Mom didn't even seem to remember all those times he'd tried to warn her about this creep. But when he glanced back up she was staring right at him. “I guess some of us take longer than others to see what's right in front of our noses,” she said, with a smile that promised pancakes every day for a week and maybe even an extra hour of nighttime TV. Oliver saw Poppy doing a mini-Snoopy dance over in her corner.

A tall policeman stepped up to the beaten ghosterminator and cleared his throat. “I think you'll need to come with us, Mister …?”

“Rank T. Wiley,” Oliver put in helpfully. “And the
T
stands for
Terminated
.”