Rules for Ghosting Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  Also by A. J. Paquette

  For Zack: for everything

  Chapter 1

  Dahlia was dead, but the sunflower was not. Not yet, anyway. It still looked shimmery and only half-visible, just like all other living things. But the stem was bent and broken, and drooped down from the rest of the plant. Soon it would expire—right into Dahlia’s waiting hands. Then she would carry the new ghost flower to her garden.

  Feeling tingly all the way to the tips of her fingers, Dahlia studied her garden. It wasn’t much—two spiky marigolds, a handful of daisies, and a stunted sprig of lavender—but it had taken her weeks to get right: finding and collecting the ghost flowers; jamming the expired stems deep into the ground and arranging them just so; making sure they didn’t gust away in the stubborn October winds. Not easy, that was for sure. Why did everything dead always want to rise?

  But the sunflower was something special. She’d waited a long time for a flower this perfect. Of course, time was something she had plenty of. For years and years she’d been a ghost, first keeping an eye on old Mrs. Silverton—her mother, Dahlia knew, but the crotchety old lady was so far from the smiling mama she remembered that she almost thought of her as a separate person—and then, after Mrs. Silverton had left, ghosting the manor all on her lonesome.

  And what about that distant past, when Dahlia was alive? She remembered being very young. She remembered that Mrs. Silverton, her own mama, with the curling bob and the smiling eyes—and her father too, tall and stern. She remembered birthday cake and tooth fairy treats and learning to ride a bicycle. And then … nothing. After her tenth birthday, it was like a patch was stuck over her brain. She didn’t even remember how she had died.

  Still, there was nothing Dahlia could do about all that—and today was sunflower day. She rolled onto her stomach, her nose inches from the plant. She curled her hand just outside the stem.

  Any

  second

  now.

  But no. The flower still hung forlornly in place.

  Dahlia sighed. As she did, her ghost breath swirled around the flower, and slowly, so slowly, the live sunflower broke off and fell to the ground. In the same instant, a clear, sharp image pulled away from the dying flower and started to float away. Finally! Dahlia reached for it.

  She had it, right at the tips of her fingers, but then she heard something. A sound—wait—a voice?

  “Hello-o!” came the call again. “Tut-tut in there! Anybody ho-ome?”

  Dahlia froze. A person! A real live person approaching Silverton Manor! Still—this sunflower was awfully perfect. And she’d been stalking it for ages. The person could go ahead and do what people did and Dahlia would investigate further in a minute.

  Then a gust of wind took the choice—and the sunflower—right out of her hands. The expired flower bobbed end over end, heading away from Dahlia’s grasp, heading toward the voice, but also—also—

  —toward the Boundary.

  No!

  Dahlia somersaulted in place for momentum and shot through the air, pushing off on the heel of the wind-wave. She rocketed after the sunflower.

  Dahlia was fast. The flower was faster. Just ahead was the tall wrought-iron gate that marked the edge of the Silverton Manor grounds. The Boundary. The arriving person marched toward the gate. Dahlia kept her focus on the flower. She sprang into a dive.

  It was a gamble, and the second her body hit the airflow, Dahlia knew she wouldn’t make it. She didn’t care; she had to at least try. She pushed everything she had after the sunflower, willing her arms to be longer, her legs stronger, just enough so she could—

  The sunflower slipped through the gate.

  SMACK! Barely a moment too late, Dahlia crashed into the Boundary. She hit it with a crunch that jarred her molecules and turned the world around her into scrambled eggs. Though Dahlia suspected it was she and not the world that was temporarily coming apart.

  She hung there, suspended, for a full second, then slid down the Boundary and hovered in a mushy heap above the ground. Dahlia lifted her head. One of the marigolds had come loose from her garden patch and now bobbed right next to her nose—not laughing at her, exactly, but definitely looking smug.

  Stupid ghost flower.

  With a sniff, Dahlia rolled over and shimmied off the ground. She gave herself a good shake and patted her body up and down, making sure every part of her was in the right place. Hitting the Boundary never seemed to hurt her permanently, but it would take her hours to feel completely right after such a jolt. This time, it felt like something in her had broken loose a little too.

  It wasn’t even that losing the flower mattered so much, though she had wanted it badly. But every time she tried to pass the Boundary and failed, Dahlia felt something inside her sink further, some knot in her chest twist a little tighter, a small voice in her head whisper, You will never leave this place. And you’ll always, always be alone.

  “Hello-o …”

  Dahlia jumped. The voice! It was closer now—just outside the gate. Well, at least she’d have something to distract her from her gloomy thoughts.

  The early morning sun was in her eyes, but Dahlia squinted through the bars of the gate, which looked just as fuzzy and half-erased as everything in the living world did to her. Up the gravel path walked a small, pointy woman. She was shaped like an upside-down exclamation mark, and seemed nearly as excitable. A green flannel coat enveloped a long flowery dress, and on the woman’s head rode a wide-brimmed hat topped with a cluster of bluebells. Dahlia thought how great those flowers would look in her garden. What was left of her garden.

  “Yoo-hoo over there!” The woman was very near now, both hands lifted above her head in an animated wave. In another minute, the wrought iron bars wavered. She marched through them and beamed at Dahlia. “Well, I have arrived, and there’s a mercy. Quite a fine secluded spot you have here!”

  Dahlia’s mouth opened. She hung motionless. “Wait—” she said. “Did you just …” Then something occurred to her. “Would you please say something else?”

  “Excuse me?”

  There it was again. That voice. It was so crystal clear that every sound Dahlia had heard before suddenly seemed dull and faint, like a TV show with the sound way down. And when she angled her body a little she could see it right away too, what she’d missed being so distracted with the sunflower. Unlike the smudgy-looking gate, the bushes, the trees, the house—all of which belonged to the living world—the new arrival looked vivid and bright and sharply outlined. And she had walked through the gate, of course.

  “You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” Dahlia cried. “And you really are talking to me?”

  “Why, yes indeed I am, dearie!” The woman paused. “Haven’t you ever met another ghost?”

  Dahlia shook her head. She’d occasionally seen other ghosts in the distance, had even called out to them a
few times. But she’d never actually gotten one’s attention. And now—what could she say? Another ghost! Really and truly, after all this time! Dahlia half wanted to burst out in a joyful little dance, but she decided against it.

  The woman’s face was a road map of fine lines, but her eyes were bright. With a twinkle and a nod, she linked an arm through Dahlia’s. “How do you do, my dear? My name is Tibbs—Mrs. Libby Tibbs, that is. But you may call me Mrs. Tibbs.”

  Dahlia grinned. After long years of one-way conversations, it was such a strange sensation to be spoken to that she almost couldn’t find the words to answer.

  “The name reminds me of my dear husband, you see. Ah, but that’s a story for another day! And you are Dahlia Silverton, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s me!” Once the words started coming, they erupted in one long rush. “Oh—I just—can’t believe you’re really a ghost! I’m so used to everything around me looking all faint and foggy all the time. But you … you look like my expired things. You’re real.”

  Mrs. Tibbs’s laugh clanged like a rusty cowbell. “That I am! Oh, that I am. Well now, how about you show me around? But gracious!” She dropped Dahlia’s arm and slapped her own forehead. “I do believe I left my bag out there somewhere. I set it down while trying to get your attention earlier.” Without pausing, she bobbed off toward the gate.

  “No, wait!” Dahlia yelled. But then—

  The woman stepped easily through the gate, just as she had earlier, and returned two seconds later hefting a red paisley carpetbag.

  Dahlia’s jaw dropped. “But you—but it—the Boundary …” Frowning, she scooted over. Maybe the new ghost’s arrival had dislodged it at last? Dahlia inched toward the gate, aware that Mrs. Tibbs was watching her curiously. She reached out her hand, pushed it toward the bars, and gave a sudden thrust.

  The Boundary was as solid as ever. Her hand crumpled on itself, and Dahlia felt her eyes swim with sudden tears. She brushed them away quickly and slid back toward Mrs. Tibbs. “Never mind,” she whispered.

  Not a ghost-proof Boundary after all. Just a Dahlia-proof one.

  She started heading back toward the manor house, but then she heard Mrs. Tibbs’s voice behind her: “It’s not you who’s the problem, dear.”

  Dahlia slowly turned. “What did you say?”

  “You can’t leave the property, I expect?”

  “I call it the Boundary,” Dahlia said. “It’s always been like this. I can move anywhere I want inside the house, all over the grounds—but never outside the gate. It’s … not me, you say? Truly?”

  “Certainly not, my dear.” Mrs. Tibbs sighed. “You’ve always been alone here, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve pretty much been the only ghost. A few crickets hung around with me for a few days, and once a newborn kitten stayed so long I thought we might be pals for good. But,” Dahlia said, studying the buckle on her shoes, trying not to think about the bubble of emptiness that had surrounded her for so long, “eventually it always ended up being just me. And my … mother, of course, when she was still here. But she went away about fifteen years ago.”

  “Ah, your mother. Ernestine Silverton?”

  “That’s right! But how did you …”

  Mrs. Tibbs tapped the side of her hat. “There’s a great deal more than you’d suspect lurking up here, my ghost-child. But all good things in their proper order. I can see there’s much you need to learn and,” she harrumphed, “quite providentially, I’ve been sent to kick off this whole grand adventure. What do you say we go somewhere more comfortable, get settled in a bit, and then I can start you right at the beginning?”

  Dahlia took a deep breath. Just having a visitor was a novelty in itself, not to mention having someone to talk to and hearing everything this newcomer had to say. With a growing smile, she spun back to face the house. “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got just the place. Comfortable, quiet, and perfectly ghostly. I have a feeling this is going to be quite the adventure!”

  Chapter 2

  Oliver Day got his first glimpse of their new house from a distance. They’d driven through two whole states trying to arrive before dark yesterday, but then they’d stopped for food a couple miles away in Longbrook and his parents got to talking with the locals, and that was the end of that. By the time they’d finished, it was ink-black outside, and everyone insisted that Silverton Manor must not be first approached in the dark of night—or at all, if possible, but that seemed unavoidable given the Day family’s new position.

  The villagers explained in low whispers that the manor house was cursed, and Mom and Dad dismissed that as utterly ridiculous. But the shudders and terrified looks were persuasive enough that they decided to stay overnight in the cobwebby Longbrook Inn. This morning they had enjoyed a greasy home-cooked breakfast, firmly taken their leave, and now here they were at last, winding up the forested road that led to the manor.

  Their new home! The thought gave Oliver a little thrill, curse or no curse, even though he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t their home—they were only house sitters, after all—and they would only be there for the next six months. Still, no matter how often they moved, Oliver couldn’t help secretly hoping each time that this new house would end up being the one. The one they stayed in and never had to leave.

  “There!” His ten-year-old sister Poppy was leaning so far out her window that both of the twins had to grab her belt loops to keep her from falling out. Still, she clearly had the best view, and Oliver put down his well-thumbed copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles to look where she was pointing. “Pull over, Daddy!” Poppy called.

  “Shouldn’t we keep driving? We’ll see it better if we actually, you know, get there first …,” Mom said doubtfully. But by now Dad had pulled up on the bank and Poppy had her door half-open. If there ever was a chance to be first, fastest, or best at anything, Poppy could always be counted on to take it.

  In a matter of seconds they had all piled out behind Poppy onto the dewy stretch of grass. The trees grew up densely around them, overhanging the road, which wound off into the distance like a timid earthworm. From there it swept up and away, ending in a gentle rump of a hill. And crowning the very top of that hill were the cranberry walls and shingled rooftops of Silverton Manor.

  “Wow!” breathed Joe, even though at age six he was probably too young to really get what was going on. In fact, Oliver wasn’t sure either Joe or Junie was fully awake. Oliver tended to think of the twins as a single two-headed, four-legged creature, since they were never apart from each other—and were usually up to some mischief. They even had a special Bag of Pranks they liked to lug around, though thankfully it was safely stowed in the trunk. Oliver called them JJ. Now he realized that JJ was actually facing the wrong direction, looking back down the road the way they’d come.

  Oliver turned, and frowned. “Dad—” he said, and the rest of the family moved to follow his gaze. There was a car approaching, a very shiny car that seemed to make its own light, curving around the bend toward them like another sun rising. For a second it looked like it would sail right on past, but at the very last moment the driver swerved off the road, pulled up behind their road-weary minivan, and slid out of the front seat, all in one smooth oily motion.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Day, I presume?” called the new arrival. He wore chunky mirrored sunglasses over a handlebar mustache, and his teeth were so white that Oliver had to squint a little.

  “Jock Rutabartle, Longbrook Town commissioner, at your service.”

  “Er,” said Mr. Day, clearing his throat. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you in person at last.”

  Rutabartle’s outstretched hand was like a motorized shaking machine, making its way around the circle from one person to the next, almost like it was independent from his body. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed off toward the manor. “There she is,” he said with a reverent sigh. “You’ll want to get a closer look at her, I’m sure. Heading that way now, I suppose? And beginning
to think about getting settled in, of course. A lovely family—most ordinary and pleasant-looking. Yes, isn’t that so! Well—perhaps we should be moving along?”

  Oliver had no idea what to make of this new guy, except that he was obviously a bit of a weirdo. But he appeared to be in charge, so …

  “Yes. I suppose we should,” Dad agreed.

  Rutabartle reached up and fiddled with the edge of his glasses, then tugged on his mustache. “I know you collected the keys and information packet already from the office, but I figured I would come in person and give you an extra-hearty welcome. Introduce you to the manor and all that.” With another clap of his hands, Rutabartle pivoted in place. He swung open his car door and was inside in a flash.

  With one hand on the ignition, he stretched an arm out of his open window. “Both in my capacity as your landlord, and as a personal friend of the late Mrs. Silverton, who passed away so tragically these few weeks ago”—he dabbed the corner of each eye behind his dark lenses—“it is my honor to help you settle into your new position, to introduce you to your new … home … and to share some information which will assist you in this transition. Some very significant information.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “Shall we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Rutabartle revved his engine, skidded onto the road, and was gone so fast that Oliver half-expected to see his mustache still quivering in the air behind him.

  As Mom and Dad moved toward the minivan, looking faintly puzzled, Oliver piled into the back after Poppy and JJ, and they set their course to the manor house. But somehow, the early morning sunshine didn’t seem nearly as cheerful as it had a few minutes ago. Oliver wondered if it was the fall breeze chilling the air, or if that was a cold shiver of premonition tiptoeing up and down his spine.

  Chapter 3

  The house has been empty for years, ever since Mrs. Silverton left for the nursing home,” Dahlia said, gesturing grandly as they melted through the heavy oak doorframe into the foyer. “Though there were some guys with clipboards swarming all over the place last week. And now you! It’s all rather thrilling. Something in the air, do you suppose?”