Rules for Ghosting (2 page)

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.

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?”

“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?”