Rules for Ghosting Page 2

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Tibbs. “Timing, yes, as to that—”

  “Don’t mind that broken window. Some vandals tried to get in this summer, as they will keep trying to do. This is a popular place for dares, what with all the rumors going around. Let’s see.” She counted on her fingers. “There’s supposed to be a curse going back a hundred years or more, though I’ve no idea why anyone would think that, and of course the place is thought to be haunted. Obviously, one of those stories is true and the other is total bunk.” She giggled and swished farther into the house. “I’m not especially good at haunting, as hard as I’ve tried, but I can usually whip up enough of a ghostwhirl to send any snoopy rascals packing.”

  “Dahlia, my dear—”

  “Mostly I stick to the lower floors. The upper ones are so easy to fall through … but I’m sure you know all about that. Those living objects, always turning to mush when you want to put your full weight on them!”

  Dahlia zipped through the dust-covered dining room, across another room that was piled high with sheet-draped furniture, then glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Tibbs as she neared her destination.

  “Now, child, I really think we need to …”

  Mrs. Tibbs’s words trailed off, and no wonder! They’d come to Dahlia’s favorite place in the whole house: her cozy add-on, nestled just off the sunroom and made of 100 percent expired goods. “What do you think?” she asked, puffing out her chest. “It’s my own little ghost cubby.”

  Mrs. Tibbs moved through the outer wall of the manor into the ghostly addition. “But how? Where did this come from?”

  It was a relief to slip out of the fuzzy-looking house and onto her ghost-solid floor. The room was a neat half circle, tacked on to the sunroom like an afterthought. A soft, worn armchair filled one end and the pale morning sun chased tiny polka-dot leaf shadows around a plush indigo floor throw. “I know it’s small, but it’s wonderful, isn’t it? Mrs. Silverton started building the room decades ago—got it mostly done, in fact, but it was horribly damaged in a freak storm and she had it torn down. It expired right in front of me, so I grabbed it and kept it for my own. A lot of work, that was, but so worth it! I patched it up, obviously, and added things over the years …” She trailed off at the expression on Mrs. Tibbs’s face; it looked like a giant question mark had gotten lodged in her throat. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  “Expired?” said Mrs. Tibbs faintly, shifting in place and tucking her carpetbag closer to her side.

  “Well, yes—you know, ghost stuff! That’s how I get all my treasures. When something goes in the bonfire, or it gets broken beyond repair, anything like that. If I’m right there when it expires, I can catch its ghost essence and keep it. Isn’t that what everyone does?”

  Mrs. Tibbs opened her mouth as though to answer, then shook her head. “This room is lovely, my dear, but the manor house is huge! It must have more than a dozen rooms. You could live in any one of them.”

  “I know. But it’s so hard, isn’t it?” She waved her hand toward the sunroom, with its fuzzy-outlined couches and half-erased-looking end tables. “I can’t relax in a room that’s see-through. I’m always falling through beds or slipping into chair seats by mistake. Sometimes I almost think I can make contact, but it never quite works.”

  Mrs. Tibbs raised an eyebrow.

  Dahlia flopped into the armchair. “I got this piece in the last burglary a couple of months ago. Some hoodlums got ahold of it and used it for target practice, I’m sorry to say.” She looked down, shame-faced. “I was on the other side of the property, ah, stargazing. By the time I caught on, they’d caused all sorts of trouble. This chair was so badly damaged that it expired with just a sneeze. But it’s perfect for sleeping in.”

  “Sleeping?” Mrs. Tibbs asked.

  These little clipped sentences were starting to make Dahlia nervous. As if to emphasize this, Mrs. Tibbs leaned over and put her hand on Dahlia’s arm. “Dahlia, dear, if you don’t mind my asking—you’ve been here for years now, right?”

  Dahlia nodded.

  “Well—what do you … do all day long?”

  Dahlia stared. “What do I do? Why, there’s so much! I spend a lot of time scouting for new objects, waiting for ones that are about to expire. I garden, when I can. I …” She blushed a little. “I like the stars and I spend a lot of time on that. Watching them and, er, taking notes. Sometimes I take naps during the day. Oh, I know I don’t have to sleep—it’s just the sunshine gets so warm and lulling through these windows. And I practice my haunting techniques. That’s quite a lot, don’t you think?” Yet her voice trailed off a little by the end. The more she recounted what she knew, the more she was starting to suspect that she might know very little after all. Maybe she should stop talking so much and focus on getting some answers.

  “Mrs. Tibbs,” she said, jumping up and grabbing the older ghost’s hands. “I’ve been so excited to have you here, listening, that I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise. Who are you, really? Why are you here? Does it have anything to do with me?”

  “My most gracious ghostling,” exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. “I thought you would never ask! Who am I? Why, I’m a Liberator, of course—and I’m here to Liberate you.”

  “Liberate me?” Dahlia swallowed a sudden stutter. “You mean—do you mean to help get me past the Boundary?”

  Mrs. Tibbs bobbed her head. “That and more! Oh, that and more.”

  This was even better than Dahlia had dared hope. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “So … you’ll—get me out of here? Truly? Can we sail away—right now?”

  “Ah, my dear.” Mrs. Tibbs lowered her eyes. “If you could leave, you’d have gone long ago, wouldn’t you? But you haven’t gone, and that’s why I’m here. I spoke before about Ernestine Silverton. Well, your mother crossed over to the Other Side nineteen days ago. And the very first thing she did after completing orientation was request a visitation with her daughter.”

  “Her daughter?”

  “Her daughter, Dahlia Silverton, who was supposed to have crossed over fifty-eight years previously.”

  Dahlia felt faint. “But—I didn’t cross over! I’m still here.”

  “Yes, quite. That would be the sweet smack of bureaucracy you’re hearing. One of the wonders of modern ghost life, but land’s sakes, the red tape it brings along with it.”

  “I don’t …”

  Mrs. Tibbs sighed. “You fell through the cracks, my dear. I’m sorry to say it but that’s a fact. Crossover normally happens automatically, but when something goes wrong, a Liberator is supposed to show up on the double. Within a Day of Death, that’s the official slogan. But … the truth is that sometimes the necessary forms get mislaid. Or lost altogether. Cases like this are sadly not at all uncommon.”

  “So this happens a lot then?” Dahlia wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse. “But how can you help me now? After all these years …”

  Mrs. Tibbs rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter. I am a Liberator, and it’s my job to help free ghosts who are stuck. That’s what I do! That is to say, you are my assignment. Why can’t you leave this property, you ask? It’s because you’re Anchored.”

  “Anchored?”

  “Yes—something from your past has hold of you and isn’t letting go. Most unfortunately therefore, we cannot just fly away right now. But soon enough—yes, soon enough we’ll have you busting out of here. I’m Mrs. Libby Tibbs, and I’m here to see you Liberated, right and proper. Now, where’s my Pin?”

  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?”

&n
bsp; 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.

  Chapter 4

  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 not
hing 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.”