Rules for Ghosting (3 page)

Mrs. Tibbs leaned up and probed around the side of her hat. With a grin and a wink, she extracted from the side a thick shiny hairpin that was longer than her hand. She grabbed the other end, pulled the two sides apart, and the pin opened wide into a shimmering high-tech scroll. “Personal Intelligence Nub—
Pin
—what do you think of that? Now, let me check in.”
She waved a hand over the top of the glowing screen. “Silverton Manor, 1 Manor Drive, Longbrook?”

Dahlia nodded.

“Good. Now if you could supply your print here.” Mrs. Tibbs slid the Pin over. There were lines and lines of text, and a spot marked
PRINT
. Dahlia sank her palm into the center. It closed around her fingers like a handful of soapsuds, then after a moment gave a refined ding. Dahlia pulled her hand off.

Mrs. Tibbs took the Pin back. She paged through a few screens, her fingers moving at lightning speed. “Thank you. Now, date and manner of death? Just for the record, you understand.”

Dahlia scuffed at the rug with the sole of her patent-leather shoe. Was it weird that she had no idea when or how she had died? What would Mrs. Tibbs think?

“Ah,” said the Liberator. “We'll leave that blank, I'm guessing. Don't be alarmed, my dear—it's not at all unusual.”

“Will that make it harder to … to Liberate me?”

“Well, it certainly does add a level of challenge. But luckily, to me, challenge is nothing more than a great bundle of fun in disguise.” Her eyes twinkled. “Never you fear, my good little gadfly. We'll crack this house open in no time and dig out its mysteries like walnut meat.”

In spite of her uncertainty, Dahlia grinned. She had never thought of Silverton Manor as a walnut, nor as being very mysterious. But now that she thought about it, being stuck
here all alone, not being able to leave for years and years, just wasn't normal. And now she knew something else too: Mrs. Silverton—no,
her mother
—was looking for her.

For as long as she could remember, Dahlia had tried to shut herself off from any emotion relating to her mother. It was easier that way, living as they did in their separate dimensions, unable to interact between the ghost and the living worlds. And she'd never had any sense that she was on her mother's mind, or that her mother missed her at all.

But now, this! Her mother had crossed over to the other side—had
died
, that was what it came down to—and one of the very first things she'd done was ask after
Dahlia
! All those years in silence, had her mother been missing Dahlia just as much as Dahlia had missed her?

A lump rose in Dahlia's throat, even as her emotions crystallized into a hard core of determination. Whatever it took, she
would
delve into her past, figure out what there was to know, and then find a way to leave Silverton Manor.

And then she would find a way to cross over once and for all.

The old iron gate looked like it had come straight out of one of Oliver's creepy gothic novels. The bars were topped with ancient rusted curlicues, and the two heavily padlocked sides came together in an elaborate letter S. It was exactly the kind of place that would be expected to have its own curse. By the time Jock Rutabartle got the gate open and they all drove through, Oliver was hopping up and down in his seat with excitement.

Up close, the cranberry paint was obviously peeling, and the turrets and spires didn't gleam so much as glower. But to Oliver it was a dream house: at least three stories high, maybe four if those were attic windows peeking out of the very tip-top. This was a house that could outlast a hundred games of hide-and-seek and still feel brand new; a house that had its own face and its own brain, and probably talked to you in your sleep; a house of spooky mystery and mayhem and charm.

The cars ground down the gravel driveway and skirted the edges of the forest on their left, passing wide neglected fields—like the ghosts of ancient lawns and flowerbeds—on the right.

Oliver had a strange feeling in his middle—a feeling like hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, like the first big pool splash of summer … a feeling like coming home. He turned toward his parents in the front seat. Did they feel it too?

Dad was peering out the front window from under the brim of his lucky hat, his mouth curved sharply downward. His face looked like an hourglass with the sand slowly draining out. “I …,” Dad mumbled, swallowing. “Perhaps I should have come to see it before signing all the paperwork.” He glanced at Mom, then shifted as he took in the look on her face.

Mom was starry-eyed and a little unfocused. Her hands were moving in her lap, twitching to one side and the other like they were warming up for a marathon stint of chores. “Landscapers,” she said absently. “Painters and ironwork restorers. First impressions are the most important, you know. That broken window needs immediate tending.” And she trailed off, lost in her own world of house restoration.

The house had seen better days, sure, but couldn't his parents see its potential? As far as Oliver was concerned, his feeling about Silverton Manor was growing stronger by the minute.

Poppy yanked open her door before Dad even turned off
the engine, and Oliver followed her across the driveway. Car doors slammed as the others clambered out behind them.

“Wow,” Oliver breathed.

“
Wow
?” Poppy said, spitting the word out like an overcooked brussels sprout. “
This
is our new place? Really?”

“I think it looks mysterious,” Oliver said. “And totally awesome.”

“If by
mysterious
you mean creepy, and by
awesome
you mean falling apart in the worst way,” Poppy said. But Oliver noticed that she was pretty quick to take off around the side of the house, probably looking for an open back door so she could be the first one inside.

The twins, meanwhile, were running in circles around Rutabartle, who had been leaning next to his car while the Days took in their new surroundings. “Our house! Our new house!” JJ chorused. “Let's all go in!”

Rutabartle's hands shot up in the air and he wobbled, fighting for balance. Oliver couldn't figure out what was going on until he saw that Rutabartle held the old-fashioned skeleton key to the front door. But going up against JJ was to play a losing game. “Let us in!” they clamored, and Joe started jumping in place like a key-hungry piranha. Junie, meanwhile, was innocently bending down to poke around the ground by the town official's shoe. There was something in her hand, and Oliver was immediately suspicious.

“We need the key!” Joe yelled. “We can do it! We're great door openers!”

Finally Rutabartle let out a loud groan and lowered his hands, reluctantly thrusting the key at them. Joe nabbed it and Junie followed him as they shot up the steps toward the front door.

“They are quite the little dervishes, those two,” Dad said, shaking his head fondly.

Rutabartle looked like steam might billow from his ears at any minute, but he composed himself with effort. “Well. Let us move on to the important matters we have to discuss, shall we? I'm sure you have heard of Silverton Manor's
reputation
around Longbrook. The primary reason you have been hired is to help restore that tarnished image. And so the thing to remember, as you get settled,” he said, his voice casual and conversational, “is the need to act as normal as possible.” Deliberately straightening his sunglasses, he took a big stride across the paving stones.

His right foot shot ahead; his left foot stayed stuck in place.

Rutabartle toppled face-first, like a felled tree.

A giggling titter erupted from inside the half-open front door.

“Junie! Joe!” Mom called reprovingly after them, while Dad bent over to help Rutabartle extract his shoe from the paving stone, to which Junie had apparently fastened it with supersticky bubble gum. Oliver sighed. It sure hadn't taken JJ long to get up to their tricksy ways!

Oliver couldn't feel entirely sorry for Rutabartle, though.
Something about that guy gave him the creeps. If anyone needed to be pranked, it was Rutabartle.

The man's biggest concern right now appeared to be his sunglasses, which had gone spiraling across the ground when he fell. They were extra fancy, with embellished frames and some kind of a Bluetooth phone device built into the side. Rutabartle was polishing the lenses with a soft cloth, puffing and blowing on them, lifting them up to the light as if to make sure all was in tip-top running order. After a moment he replaced them on his nose, adjusted them with care, and turned toward Dad.

“I was just beginning to speak,” he resumed, clearly intending to act as if nothing had happened, “about acting
normal
.” Placing one arm around Mom's shoulders and the other around Dad's, he started walking them toward the front door, with just the slightest pause each time his still-faintly-sticky shoe connected with the ground.

Oliver had been ready to head off and explore, but something in Rutabartle's tone stopped him short. Why was the man so hung up on things being
normal
? Something about that seemed, well, not quite normal. It also seemed like something that could have an effect on all their lives.

Scurrying quietly after the adults, Oliver kept close and paid attention to Rutabartle's words.

“As I began to say, you will undoubtedly have heard that Silverton Manor has been the victim of some, ah, unfortunate rumors—and completely false ones, I might add.”

“The house is haunted!” chirped Joe.

“And cursed!” said Junie. They were standing in the open front door, hands on their hips and eyes gleaming with excitement.

Rutabartle steamed. “
That
is precisely the kind of dreck I have hired you to dispel. It's long past time these scurrilous rumors are put to rest. The house is not
haunted
! And the Silverton Curse? What could be more laughable! But you will find many townspeople who have completely swallowed this blather. Thus, you see the importance of my plan: by witnessing a family—such a
normal
family, with …” He paused and frowned slightly, then continued a little too quickly, “… very normal children—well, I should think those rumors will be forgotten in no time. Wouldn't you say?”

“Hmm, yes, and you'll send all the necessary repair and restoration people? At your agency's full expense?” Mom had a notebook in hand, scribbling furiously what Oliver was sure was the start of a multipage, fully annotated to-do list, which no doubt meant lots of work ahead for him and Poppy.

“Yes, yes. I have already contracted with a landscaping company, and they will begin reconstructing the grounds next week. You may inform me of anyone else you wish to hire, and with my approval they can have full rein as needed. As agreed upon, I've already had the place set up for wireless Internet.”

The three of them moved inside the house and Oliver trailed behind them up the stairs.

“There's a calendar in every room!” Mom exclaimed, poking
her head inside a door. “And every one of them fifteen years old. It certainly has been a while since this house has been lived in, Mr. Rutabartle.”

“Naturally,” the town official replied. “This is why you've been hired.”

“There is a lot of work to be done,” Mom continued. “But I'm up for the challenge. We all are.”

“Next April,” Dad said thoughtfully. “That's the date you've set for the auction?”

Rutabartle waved a hand. “Give or take, you know. I can be flexible at this point, though I do wish to turn the property around as promptly as possible. Six months should be long enough to restore the image of the house. As you can imagine, current interest in the property is limited at best. With your help, I'm sure we can bring this sale to a much more satisfying conclusion.”

Mom seemed to come to a decision. “I think perhaps we'll start with a party,” she said. “A combination housewarming, getting to know the townspeople, introducing ourselves, and so on. A Halloween party, I'm thinking. Isn't this house just right for it? And with Halloween only two weeks away. How perfect!”

Rutabartle frowned. “I don't think that is quite the impression—”

“Nonsense!” Mom flipped a page on her notepad and started scribbling. “It's
exactly
the right impression. People will see those rumors are just part of the house's charm and
mystique. Everyone loves a haunted house on Halloween, don't you think?”

“Well, I'm not sure—” began Rutabartle, but it was obvious that Mom wasn't waiting for his approval.

“Excellent. We've only got a couple of weeks and there's a lot to do, so we'd all best get busy.” And she zipped off down the hallway, with Rutabartle fast on her heels. JJ clattered away in the distance, probably planning some new and spectacularly evil prank, and Poppy had disappeared. Oliver stood next to his dad in the huge entrance area. Under its thick coat of dust, the dark wood floor was heavy and smooth. The staircase with its fancy marble banister curved invitingly out of sight, like a finger beckoning him to come. On the walls were oil paintings and one very tall vase with Egyptian-looking etchings.

Six months didn't seem nearly long enough to inhabit a place like this. It was the kind of house you wanted to take your time to explore, savoring every room and introducing yourself to each doorframe and wall hanging. It was the kind of house you wanted to make friends with slowly, because you knew it would be a friendship worth keeping, one that could last a lifetime.

Years and years ago, almost as far back as Oliver could remember, the Days had been a normal family, and Dad had had a normal job as a tax accountant. But one day, as Dad told it, he had accidentally walked into the wrong convention center and had come out reborn into a brand-new career. For the last six
years, Dad had been working hard to make it big with his online puppet show, The Jolly Marzipans. The side job of being professional long-term house-sitters had fit perfectly well with Dad's new life goals. Which was all well and good for a while. But Oliver was tired of constantly packing and unpacking and moving and getting to know new places and trying to make new friends over and over, as often as once or twice a year. More than anything, he wanted a home of their own, someplace they would never have to leave.