Rules for Ghosting (7 page)

“Now you're talking like one of those old Longbrook guys,” Oliver said, grinning. “But anyway, spooky is cool, right? So we're agreed. We'll figure out a way to stay at Silverton Manor.”

Poppy just shrugged, and that was good enough for Oliver. He could work with that.

“I don't think it's going to be easy,” he said. “That Rutabartle guy said they're putting the house up for sale in the spring. Why can't Mom and Dad just buy it, skip over the auction altogether?”

Poppy snorted. “Good luck with that. Mom and Dad couldn't afford to buy a duck pond. Or a duck to live in it. So what's your big plan for staying?”

“I haven't exactly figured that out yet,” Oliver confessed. “Let's both do some exploring, gather up ideas, and we can talk about it more later.”

Poppy perked up. “We could go explore together!”

“No!” Oliver said quickly. “I think this kind of sneaking, er, works better alone.”

“That's not fair!” said Poppy. “You never let me do stuff with you.”

“You're noisy,” he said.

“And you're mean.” Poppy flopped back on her bed, scowling.

Oliver felt bad about shutting down Poppy's plans, but he
definitely
didn't want his little sister tagging around with him all day. Some things were just too awful to bear.

“We'll figure out more plans later, okay?” he said, pausing at the door.

The plush
Princess
pillow hitting the wall beside him was Poppy's only answer.

Feeling vaguely guilty, but no less determined, Oliver tromped back down the turret steps, looking both ways down the hall first to make sure Mom wasn't around. He hadn't seen Wiley for a while, and wondered what project the fix-it guy was tackling first. Oliver thought he'd said something about the plumbing, and he had seemed very busy lugging around some impressive-looking machinery.

As if on cue, there was a low rumble from somewhere in the upper house. It didn't sound like plumbing, though. It almost sounded like … a moan? For a second Oliver thought about the stories they had heard about the house in Longbrook. Then he laughed at the way he was obviously letting Poppy's
superstitious worries get to him. Ridiculous! And that was when he heard Mom's voice, trumpeting loud and clear—and right around the corner.

“Why yes, Beano, that is original wood. Antique, of course. Yes. One of our last house-sitting jobs—simply a delightful woman. She was scaling back and couldn't keep it all. We got it for a song, I tell you! No, right there. Wait! Yes, just like that. A little more to the right maybe? I've got such a decorating job ahead of me, you have no idea! I'm going with all new drapes, minimal paint because it is
so
messy, but a few classy stretches of wallpaper, because of course—”

Mom was in a mood, there was no doubt about it. Anything not nailed down would be sucked into her vortex of usefulness. Oliver looked around wildly. He had to stay out of sight. Right in front of him was an alcove—a shallow nook in the wall, big enough for an ornate mirror and a fancy end table which had already been topped with a vase full of fresh flowers.

Aha! Mom had already been here. Which meant this nook would be off her radar. She was right at the corner now, maybe two seconds away.

He dropped to the floor and slid under the table, just as Mom swept into view, with two movers behind her lugging their ancient, fiercely ugly grandfather clock. Mom insisted the clock was worth untold riches, but Oliver's toes curled every time he heard its chime. If Mom hadn't been so deep in conversation she would have spotted him for sure, but as it was
he pulled his foot out of her way just in time, and only Beano the mover tilted his head and winked as if to say, “Dude, I totally wish could hide under there for a while myself.”

And they were gone. Mission accomplished! Freedom secured.

Then Oliver noticed something strange. Right under the rim of the table, at about his eye level, was a tiny blinking red light. The light came from a thumb-sized device. He unclipped it and turned it over in his hand. It looked like a tiny webcam … it even had a little lens—and it was turned on.
Broadcasting?
But why, where, and to whom?

There were only two possibilities: either the camera was already in the house when they moved in, or somebody just put it here. But if it had been in an empty house for years and years, would it still be active like this, with the light on?

Oliver had to talk to someone, and fast. Dad knew all about webcams and online stuff. He would know what to do.

Jumping out from under the table, the device clutched firmly in his hand, Oliver scurried down the hallway, his mind racing. This wouldn't give Mom and Dad second thoughts about staying in the house, would it? They'd already been paid half their fee for moving in, and they'd get the rest at the end of the six months. Oliver knew that Dad had invested in new microfiber puppet bodies for the circus troupe that would be joining The Jolly Marzipans in the upcoming Super Online Launch event. No way Dad would want to give that money back, even if he could. But on the other hand, Mom was very
big on Safety First. And if someone was spying on them … that was just beyond creepy.

Nearing the end of the hallway, Oliver was just turning to go downstairs when he heard a scuffling sound. Something tugged hard on the back of his shirt, and he was yanked through an open door that promptly slammed shut behind him.

Somewhere down the long hallway Oliver could hear Mom screech, “What did I say about slamming doors?” But Oliver had no reply to that question. All he could do was gape into the face of Rank Wiley, arms folded and eyes blazing, looking like someone who absolutely should not be crossed. Ever.

“
Ghosterminators
?” Dahlia was laughing so hard at the weird-looking logo that her fingers and toes were going all wispy. “That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.”

But Mrs. Tibbs pursed her lips. “Not so very silly,” she said. “I've dealt with this type of agency before. Rank Wiley could mean all sorts of trouble for us.”

“Trouble?” said Dahlia. “He's a skinny windbag.”

“That may be,” said Mrs. Tibbs, “but he has some nefarious plan in mind, if I'm not mistaken. Why else would he change the logo on his truck, removing the word
ghost
? And all that blather about being a fix-it man? I don't believe a word of it.” She shook her head. “No, he is up to something, and I'm quite afraid that it has something to do with
us
. I would feel much better if I knew exactly what this Rank Wiley has in mind.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go find out!” Dahlia
tried to remember how to work her new Clearsight skill. It was much harder to do from inside the house—being at a distance gave one an advantage, she supposed—and the effort of focusing on seeing through stuff made her lose hold of her Contact skills.

But as she sank slowly into the floorboards, Dahlia managed to punch her sight out ahead of her—through the guest bathroom, the mudroom, the living room with its sheet-covered furniture. Her gaze was like a lighthouse beam sweeping right through the house. She was momentarily distracted when passing through the kitchen, to see a delicious-looking expired sandwich floating away above Poppy's head—maybe they could zip through the kitchen on their way? She would love to connect with a few bites of expired salami on rye!

But then Mrs. Day glanced around the room. “Where is Oliver? It's not like him to be late for lunch.”

Dahlia snapped back on course. She
had
to find that stinky ghosterminator.

She zeroed in on Wiley a few seconds later—and Oliver right along with him. “Come on,” she said to Mrs. Tibbs, who sat regarding her with prideful satisfaction. “They're in the boiler room. I'm not sure what's going on, but something's not right in there.”

When the two ghosts slipped through the boiler room wall, the first thing they saw was Oliver sitting in a dejected heap on the floor. His head was in his hands. Wiley paced back and forth, waving a hideous pair of goggles that looked like
something you'd wear to get your eyesight tested, and apparently coming to the end of a long speech.

“So now I think you can get my drift, comprehend my mission, understand my undertaking, hmmm?” Wiley concluded, waving his arms in a final flourish and stopping just short of taking a bow.

Oliver frowned. “Let me see if I'm getting this right: You believe ghosts are real. You think there are ghosts in this house. You put up cameras to spy on the
ghosts
—not on
us
, you say—but you're lying to my parents about being here to fix up the house. You're not even a handyman. And you don't want me to tell them any of that. Did I leave anything out?”

Wiley bristled. “Lying? Why, nothing could be further from the truth! I am as handy as any man to wear a tool belt, and as for fixing? Pah! I'm Rank T. Wiley, and the
T
stands for
Troubleshooting
. I simply chose to
specialize
, if you will, repairing areas of the atmosphere which are infested with ghostly vermin, purging the specters and restoring the natural balance of the environment.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I know those cameras might
seem
upsetting, but when seen from a scientific standpoint, the logic is clear. Six of them only, exclusively placed in public, yet out-of-the-way places: attic, cellar, alcoves, and so on. Prime lurking spots for spectral activity. No breach of privacy, no wool being pulled over eyes, nothing like that whatsoever! Just clean, honest-to-goodness ghosterminating.” Wiley paused, seeming almost too impressed with himself to go on.

“So why keep what you're doing a secret, if it's all so aboveboard?” Oliver asked.

“That is an excellent question, and the fact is this: I—that is to say, science, humanity, and
the world
—simply
cannot afford
to have these plans thwarted. What I am doing here is too important to risk being turned away. And I think you will agree with me that your town official wants everything around here to be perfectly
normal
.” Wiley turned suddenly and narrowed his eyes. “This is the closest I've come to my goal of capturing a bonafide specter, and nothing is getting in my way.”

Oliver looked up quickly. “So you've never actually
seen
a ghost?”

“Two full decades I've been focusing on my own brand of in-depth spectral studies, and I'll have you know that I've seen
many
a lair and paranormal hotspot. I could tell stories that would curl your hair and bake your brownies! What I have yet to do is lay my hands on an actual living—or nonliving, to be technical—genuine
ghost
. And that is what I intend to do here.”

“I still don't get why you think I won't tell my parents, no matter what you say,” Oliver mumbled. To Dahlia's alarm, he didn't sound quite as certain as he had a minute before. Of course he was going to expose Rank Wiley … wasn't he?

But an evil grin was spreading across Wiley's face. “Well, from what I have seen and heard since my arrival, you are especially keen on staying in this house, young Oliver. Am I correct, hmmm? And what do you think will happen if your parents
discover that this house is haunted by
sinister specters, devouring demons
, and
ghastly ghouls
? Does that sound like a safe location to you? Do you really think they would allow their precious darlings to remain in this infernal mansion?”

Oliver opened his mouth, but Wiley cut in quickly. “Don't think I don't have proof,” he growled. “Don't think I can't lay out a full scientific case that will send your parents running for the hills!”

Dahlia clenched her hands into fists. “Who are you calling sinister, mister?!” she yelled, knowing perfectly well Wiley couldn't hear her, but too mad to care. Oliver was looking at the ground, and it was clear that the ghosterminator had pegged him right.

Oliver loved this house, she realized. He really loved it, even though he'd just gotten here. For a second Dahlia tried to see the place through his eyes … it was rather lovely. But she couldn't help noticing the irony: all Dahlia wanted to do was leave, and all Oliver wanted to do was stay—and this sneaky weasel was getting in the way of both their plans.

“Dahlia, my dear,” said Mrs. Tibbs quietly behind her.

But Dahlia was not in a mood to listen. She marched up and shook her ghostly finger in Wiley's face. “Now you hold it right there,” she spat. Wiley was still talking as Oliver turned toward the door, his sneaker scuffing against the wall.

“I know you can't hear me, but you need to
leave
!” Dahlia growled with another stern finger-shake. Wiley finished his
monologue and curled his lip, shoving the goggles over his head and snapping them into place with a resounding
snick
.

“You need to leave RIGHT NOW!”

Something changed when she spoke those last two words; she could tell that right away. In the process of swinging around, Wiley lifted his head and stared straight through the goggle lenses into Dahlia's eyes. All the blood drained from his face.

“GHOST!” he bellowed. “A ghost! Right here!”

And he fell over in a dead faint.

Time hung by a thread while Oliver looked around wildly. Dahlia was shaking from head to toe. Had the ghosterminator just
seen
her?

“Quickly, child,” said Mrs. Tibbs, grabbing her hand. “He'll come around in a second and we should not be here when he does.”

Mrs. Tibbs pulled Dahlia through walls and floors and furniture until they hit the cold, clean outside air. The afternoon sun hung lazy in the sky and Dahlia couldn't stop trembling as she sprawled out in the air above the branch of her favorite tree.