Rules for Ghosting (13 page)

It wasn't long, though, before searching the attic began to get just as wearying as going through the rest of the house. Dahlia noticed the boxes were topped with neat white labels, which should have made things easier to search, but actually just showed them more quickly how useless all this junk
was:
WEDDING GARMENTS. DECORATIONS. FINE GLASSWARE
. Nothing looked even remotely mysterious nor historical. Two of the boxes were marked
PAPERS, ASSORTED
. But this potentially hot lead chilled right out when the box ended up being full of childish artwork, receipts, and school report cards from a century ago. Fascinating for a local historian, no doubt, but quite useless for their search.

“And we still don't even know what we're looking for!” Dahlia said with a groan, dropping onto, then immediately tumbling through the dusty floor, using all her focus to try not to slip in further than her waist. “No wonder we haven't been able to find it.”

Mrs. Tibbs finished her box and picked through every pocket of the hung-up clothes, turning up an array of coins, three wrapped gum sticks, and an old thimble. “Nothing worthwhile here,” she said with a grunt.

Next she turned to the large square package she had leaned against earlier, unwrapping it to show a carefully preserved oil painting of a small girl wearing a pink frilly dress. Dahlia had passed her hand through the wrapping, to no particular sparkles. But now her eyes widened as Mrs. Tibbs held it up. “The missing spot in the portrait gallery!” she said. And then her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Mrs. Tibbs—do you think … could that be …
me
?”

“I should say so.” Mrs. Tibbs ran a ghostly finger lovingly over the rounded cheeks, the apple-green eyes, the reddish-gold curls. “What are you doing up here, dearie?” she crooned.

Dahlia's eyes filled with tears. “I don't understand,” she whispered. “We've searched the whole house and I feel more in the dark than ever.” Her ghostly glow faded with the emotion of the moment. “What if there
aren't
any clues in the house? What if I never find my Anchor?”

Mrs. Tibbs shook her head as she lashed the bundle back together. “Keep heart, my gorgeous glowworm. Clues are pesky like that. Nine times out of ten they turn up when you are least expecting them.”

And that was when Dahlia fell into the floor a little too far, and something zapped her backside like she'd sat on ten thousand volts of ghostly electricity. Dahlia let out a bloodcurdling shriek as the whole world around her went black.

Oliver was awakened by something like a yell—a quick, high sound that cut off almost the second he opened his eyes and sat bolt upright in bed. Poppy! But where? He reached for the lamp on his nightstand, then scowled when he remembered that the Matchbox didn't yet have a lamp. Or a nightstand.

He stood up and felt his way through the pitch black to the door, whispering, “Poppy?” He stepped toward the light switch, which was, inexplicably, in the hall outside the room. As he did, something caught his eye: a red winking light, two or three steps into the unfinished portion of the attic. Another one of Wiley's cameras? He thought he'd found all of them, but that ghosterminator seemed to be growing more shady every day. Oliver's eyes were adjusting to the dimness; through the skylight on the roof he could see the round, fat moon.

A scuffling noise caught his ear, coming from further in the attic. And … there it was again. A girl's voice.

But it wasn't Poppy.

Keeping to the darker shadows at the edges of the walls, Oliver crept closer. And there, illuminated in the stark light of the moon, he saw a girl about his own age. She was wearing an old-fashioned, weirdly frilly dress and had long corkscrew curls that waved around her face as she gestured wildly. She was talking to … nobody?

“—something down there, I tell you! I blacked out for a second after it zapped me. I went right inside it. What is—” She paused, and tilted her head like she was listening. “Well, I'm sure I don't know!” She thrust her hand down toward the floorboards. Her hand cracked hard against the floor and she shrieked again. “It's not going through! Oh, Mrs. Tibbs, what is going on?”

There were a few more seconds of silence, while the girl alternately shook and nodded her head. Then she said, “Just your hand—right through there. Oh!” There was a sudden
zap
and, to Oliver's shock, a bony old woman dropped out of the air and thudded to the ground at the girl's feet. A hat fell off the woman's head, and a head of silver hair glinted in the moonlight.

Oliver swallowed hard.
What
was going on?

Suddenly he remembered the winking light that had led him out here. Oh, no! Wiley's camera. Oliver had no idea who
these people were or what they were doing in his attic, but he knew he didn't want Wiley spying on them. Darting across the floor, Oliver swiped the camera, yanking the plug out of the wall and shoving it in his pocket.

“What was that sound?” asked the girl. Oliver ducked behind a pile of boxes, anxious to stay out of sight until he could figure out what was going on.

“My Clearsight isn't working,” the old woman said grimly. “I've no idea what that machine is, but it certainly isn't the type of clue we were looking for.”

“I think …,” said the girl, and her voice wobbled. “I think it's made us not be ghosts anymore. Oh, Mrs. Tibbs, do you think we might be living again?”

Oliver couldn't tell from her voice whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. But … had she said
ghosts
? Oh! The girl—the ghost he had seen in the room with Wiley—could they really be one and the same? Suddenly, Oliver was very glad he had disconnected the camera.

So wait … now he actually, truly believed that ghosts were
real
?

Oliver thought he needed to sit down for a minute and take all of this in.

“Living again!” The old lady harrumphed. Mrs. Tibbs, the girl had called her. “I should think not. I believe we are dealing with an old-fashioned Manifestation machine. I've heard tell of these: they have the ability to render a spirit briefly corporeal.
For a time the spirit can be seen, and heard, and felt by the living—but at the price of their own ghostliness, as it were.”

“So that's why I can't put my hand through the floor anymore.” The girl suddenly jumped up and down in place, and the floorboards squeaked under her. “Oh, this is too good! You can't believe how long it's been since I could properly jiggle a board. Imagine trying to haunt this place with my lack of ghost skills! All I've had to work with were dust and wind, and making
whooshing
sounds through keyholes.” She rolled her eyes. “Amateur hour. Though I guess it worked okay for the most part.” And she shook her fist comically, as though at imaginary vandals.

Oliver smiled in spite of himself. These were the ghosts Wiley was so upset about? They seemed so … normal. Not to mention visible. He still didn't have a clue what was going on, but he was awfully glad he hadn't slept through the excitement.

“Hush now, my giggling gargoyle. We mustn't draw attention to ourselves—especially not now.”

“I think this is right about the time we'd like some attention. What's that boy's name? —He seemed nice enough. His room is right through there—we could go have a nice chat with him. Maybe he could help us look for clues.” They were talking about
him
, clearly! Oliver frowned. This was probably the right time for him to come out and say or do something. But
what
?

Mrs. Tibbs reached over and grabbed the girl's arms. “Now, Dahlia. I must remind you that when it comes to their codes and bylaws, the Ghouncil is extremely particular. And one of their principal laws and regulations is this: absolutely no Dialoguing with the living. None whatsoever. We spoke about Manifesting, which is also highly forbidden, and the two often go together. But Dialoguing is the worst and most highly punishable offense of all! —Well, second only to Liberating Without a License. In any case,
you must not make Contact
!”

“Well, I think that's silly.”

“Silly is as silly does.” The woman picked up her hat and jammed it back on her head. “All I can tell you is that you don't want to tangle with the Ghouncil. You have not had cause to experience their wrath, and—well, let's just make sure and keep it that way, all right?”

“Oh, Mrs. Tibbs—look at my hand!”

Oliver noticed it too. Whatever had happened to make the girl—Dahlia—visible was wearing off: her left arm had almost completely disappeared. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, Oliver stood up and stepped slowly from his hiding place. “Wait!” he whispered urgently. “I didn't understand everything you just said, but I'm not going to hurt you. I'm Oliver, and …”

He stopped, because his speech was not having the right effect. Dahlia was swiveling her head wildly between him and Mrs. Tibbs, like she was trying to figure out what to do. The older ghost, on the other hand, lifted her chin and folded her
arms. She spoke to the air above Oliver's head. “I realize that I am able to be seen at this present time, which is a most unfortunate happenstance. However, it is plain that I am not speaking with any living person, as I do not have authority to do so, and in no way would I ever go beyond the Ghouncil's demands.”

“Mrs. Tibbs!” Dahlia wailed. She was now just a floating torso.

“Please, let me help,” Oliver said, turning to face her since the older ghost was obviously a lost cause. “You mentioned clues—let me help! What can I do for you? There's something under the floorboards that made you visible, right? Want me to pull it out for you?”

Oliver scanned the floor, trying to figure out what had made this weird thing happen, but he couldn't find anything. And when he looked up, Dahlia was completely gone. All he saw was old Mrs. Tibbs's disapproving glare. “Now you look here,” she huffed. “That is to say, if I were a young boy right now, I would leave this room immediately and go back to bed. Oh, good gracious! Look at my feet! This is a most distressing sensation …”

As Oliver watched, the woman and her hat slowly dissolved into thin air. It was like watching special effects on TV, except every minute of this was real. Oliver was beside himself. The second the last jaunty blue flower vanished from sight he dropped to the floor and started pawing at the boards.
What
had made the ghosts visible? Where could he find it?

But before he'd had a chance to do more than sketch a few lines in the dust at the point where the ghosts had been standing, he heard a sound that made his heart screech to a stop: the plod of feet coming up the attic. And not just any feet. Not the tippy-tap of Poppy stalking him; not the thud-thud of Dad going for a midnight snack; not the scurry-patter of Mom working off her insomnia with some late-night cleaning.

No. Only one person in this house had that distinctive, predatory
clomp
, and he was getting closer.

Rank Wiley was on his way.

Oliver leaped up and scooted away from where he'd been standing. How much had Wiley seen through that camera before Oliver had turned it off? How much did he know? “Shoo!” he whispered behind him, having no idea where the ghosts were but knowing they did
not
want to mess with Wiley on the warpath. “This guy is dangerous—he's trying to capture you. You have to leave now!”

The last words were hardly out of his mouth before Wiley's head appeared at the top of the stairs, looking crafty and ferretlike, his Spectrometer held out in front of him and the Aspirator strapped to his back.

“You!” he growled, narrowing his eyes at Oliver. “I might have suspected you were wrapped up in this.”

“I live here,” said Oliver icily. “And you're standing in front of my bedroom door.”

Wiley sniffed. “And I suppose you haven't seen my spectral
camera anywhere? It just vanished into thin air after registering some oddly paranormal phenomena?”

Oliver was glad for the dark attic, as he knew he probably looked completely guilty. But Wiley had already pushed past him. The readout on his Spectrometer hummed and crackled.

“Wait a minute,” Oliver said. “About this ghost thing—can we talk about it? I'm not sure you really understand what—”

Wiley shook him off. “Aha!” he crowed. “I believe we've hit the jackpot!”

Before Oliver could grasp what was going on, Wiley reached a hand up to his shoulder strap and switched the Aspirator on. He yanked the nozzle forward. It was just like the sunroom, but this time, Oliver knew it would be so much worse. From the noises the Spectrometer was making, and the manic red buzz of the pilot light, he could tell the ghosts hadn't left yet. What were they waiting for? Were they still disoriented from switching back to their see-through bodies?

He threw himself at Wiley, knocking the man to the ground with a thud. Another, louder rumble echoed farther back in the attic, but Oliver hardly noticed. A jet of phoam spewed out of the Aspirator; Oliver had knocked Wiley off balance and the horrible stuff shot back toward the door. But in another second Wiley was back on his feet, shoving Oliver out of the way.

“More than twenty years I've been waiting for this moment,” Wiley panted.

He lifted the nozzle, aimed, and sprayed.

It all happened so quickly. Dahlia was still trying to get herself back into ghosting mode, still getting used to the fact that she had talked to a boy—a living, breathing
boy
! A boy named Oliver!—as well as trying to grasp Mrs. Tibbs's warnings about Dialoguing. What kind of creeps were these Ghouncil folks, anyway? She'd like to give them and their demented rulebook a piece of her mind! Then suddenly that ghosterminator was back and brandishing his ghastly machinery and shooting out a jet of that awful specter-goo and Oliver was trying to stop him but the man was up again and too fast and then—