Rules for Ghosting (23 page)

Dahlia turned away slightly and focused her Clearsight through the house. The boiler glowed a dull purple and she could see the tendrils of poisoned air snaking up through the vents, trickling into each room of the house … and pumping thick and heavy into the tightly sealed attic room, where Poppy, Joe, and Junie slept soundly. Too soundly. She could already see the dull-purple fumes scratching away at the edges of their auras. She had to get back there, fast.

And what about Mrs. Tibbs, still stuck in the Aspirator? Milton was going to “file a report,” and Dahlia had a good idea of how long something like
that
would take. Far, far too
long to be any good to anybody, most especially Mrs. Tibbs. Meanwhile, Wiley was loose in the house, and Dahlia would not be at all surprised if he found a way to get the canister back.

There was only one decision she could make.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't cross over.”

“This is unheard of!” the official thundered. “Your afterlife will be forever marred by this decision, girl. A Re-Crossing can take years of paperwork filing and legalities, with the outcome uncertain. Some No-Cross parties have been incarcerated and none—
not a single one
—has ever gone on to a productive or influential career. Would you really trade any possibility of future freedom for these … living folks?”

Dahlia looked at the glowering official, then at Laura's hopeful face. She opened her mouth.

And then a voice came plaintively through the portal. “Dahlia? My dear, is that you?” A face shimmered just on the other side of the door—a face as young and fresh as in Dahlia's years-ago memory.

“Mama,” she whispered, a lump rising in her throat.

“Now, now, Mrs. Silverton,” huffed Milton. “All in due time, this is not correct procedure!”

Dahlia felt her bones wilting like flower stems. Her mother wanted her—knew her—was calling her! And yet …

She looked back toward Silverton Manor, walls all aglow where they had once held nothing but forbidding gloom. She'd
wanted to leave, yes.
Needed
to, even. And now, more than ever, she had a reason to leave, somewhere to go. Someone to belong to again. But if leaving meant deserting those she had come to care about, failing them right when they needed her most—well, how could she live with herself after that?

“I'm sorry, Mr. Milton,” she said, slowly but firmly. “But I have to stay.” She turned and locked eyes with her mother. “There are people who need me here. I'll come just as soon as I can.” She waited a fraction of a second, until she saw her mother's tiny nod, and then she gave Laura's hand a squeeze and she was off.

Dahlia shot straight up to the attic, bursting through the wall and looking wildly around. Poppy was on the floor, half-on and half-off a narrow mat. The twins were sprawled on her bed, swathed in bedding. All three were sound asleep.

The window was tightly shut, and even in her ghost form Dahlia could feel the curls of carbon monoxide wrapping around her, reminding her in tiny chokes and gasps how her spirit had felt when she had died at their hands, so many years ago. She put a hand on either side of her head and willed herself to concentrate. She needed to get someone to help the kids. But first, she had to find a way to dilute the deadly gas.

Desperately, she jutted her hand into the Seesaw. But the old device stayed as dead and quiet as before. Blast that broken machine! If only she were able to interact with the living world. She remembered how Mrs. Tibbs had easily plucked those library books off the shelf, the way she'd turned the pages of
the family Bible. Dahlia hadn't been able to muster the same sort of success, but she had to try.

She rushed over to Poppy, grabbed the girl's shoulders … but her hands slid right through to the bed. She poked the twins, but only succeeded in riffling the cloth on their pajamas. Dahlia ground her teeth, focused all her energy, and yelled. Nothing—not a sound crossed over to the living world.

Gazing frantically around the room, she caught sight of the old, yellowed calendar.
The Star Lover's Guide to 1954. Her
calendar, so many years ago. Her eyes widened as she thought of her own makeshift calendars, her star charts, carved into the tree out on the property. She'd worked on those for hours, for days, carving her heart and soul into the bark of that tree. She
could
affect the living world. She just had to find the right medium.

Dahlia steadied herself, forced her mind to work logically through the options. Around her, the air itself glowed a virulent purple, wisps pushing at the window as though looking for a way out.

The window? Maybe.

Dahlia shot toward the glass, bringing herself up short in front of it. She could make herself kneel lightly on the wooden chest; it was a start. Raising her fist, she punched the glass as hard as she could. Her fist passed straight through. Over and over she hit at the glass—tried to purge her mind of emotion, tried to figure, tried to
connect
. Nothing worked.

She looked down. The telescope sat on the floor next to
the chest, and her mind pulsed with what it had meant to her, both in her former life and as her Anchor.

And then she thought: Why not that?

Maybe she couldn't break through objects, but she could grasp them. She could touch them. Maybe that would be enough.

Moving very slowly, Dahlia opened her fingers and closed them around the end of the telescope. One inch at a time—making sure she had a solid hold, emptying her mind of everything but the stars, the sky, the need to accomplish this one simple task—she strained and lifted.

It worked! She was carrying the telescope.

She pulled it back from the window. She closed her eyes, then opened them, focusing her willpower even more sharply. She drew back, then thrust with all her might. The telescope shot forward—and crashed through the window, toppling out and down to the garden below.

Oliver caught his breath as, at the word
GHOST
, the entire hall seemed to freeze. Then a ripple went through the crowd, followed by a nervous tittering. Someone started clapping, and pretty soon the whole room was roaring enthusiastically.

“Simply fabulous!”

“What a fine spooky touch—delicious irony!”

“Without a doubt the best party of the year.”

Oliver slumped in place. Nothing was going right. What more could he do? The partygoers had returned to their sipping and munching and, worse, Oliver could see Mom stuck behind two very large guests but glaring in his direction. She had obviously seen through his Dad disguise and was on her way over to nab him.

A hand grasped his arm, and Oliver jumped. “Good call, young man,” Wiley said confidentially. “An audacious move, to be sure, but desperate times and all that. You caught me
just in time and I want you to know that I'm
on the case
. That nasty vermin will not escape my ghosterminator's reach—I am Rank T. Wiley, and the
T
stands for
Tenacious
!”

Wiley was off like a shot, and Oliver wished he could fall through the floor and disappear. Now Wiley was going to pull out his machines and start hunting Dahlia. Could things possibly get any worse?

“Ladies and gentlemen! That moment you have been waiting for so patiently has finally arrived. It is time to auction off Silverton Manor!”

Apparently it could.

Amid the deafening applause, Oliver could hear his mother's voice getting nearer. He scanned the room for Wiley, but the ghosterminator had disappeared. He would have to hunt him down pretty soon, but there was one thing he needed to do first. Ducking under an arm, Oliver dove through the crowd. He scooted all the way to the back of the room, where he parked himself in front of a window. The pane was steamy from heat bubbling up out of a vent that sat just below it. Oliver pulled his father's hat lower over his eyes, satisfied to see Mom heading in the opposite direction. He just had to stay hidden for a few minutes longer.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a scrap of paper. He looked at the number written there. No way would it ever be enough. But it was the only thing left to do. Oliver settled back and waited for Rutabartle to finish his introductory speech. The man described the house from top to bottom,
listed all its virtues, and with every glowing word Oliver felt himself sink a little lower.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen—give me your best offers,” Rutabartle bellowed, pounding the folding table with a real wooden gavel, which made the scrawny metal legs skitter across the floor.

Oliver cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound extra gruff and low, and as much like his dad as possible. With all the noise and the bustle, surely this would work. Anyway, he had his father's hat on. “Three hundred and ninety-four dollars!” he yelled across the room. He didn't mention the twenty-one cents, because that would sound ridiculous.

It was kind of ridiculous already, he was well aware.

There was a stunned silence. The hall had been noisy enough that most people weren't sure where the opening bid had come from but, pulling his hat down farther in front of his face, Oliver waved his hand at Rutabartle, who looked confused but nodded his head in reluctant acceptance.

“An opening bid from Mr. Arthur Day. A very
modest
bid, but”—he waved his hand grandly—“I have said there is no floor, and you see that I am a man of my word!” He laughed comfortably, then narrowed his eyes. “Now, who else is going to offer for this jewel of an estate?”

“Ten thousand dollars!” came a piercing cry from across the room.

“Mrs. Elvira Lawson, now we are starting to bid in earnest,” purred Rutabartle. “Ten thousand dollars it is, and who
will make it twenty? Mr. Stein? Certainly. Now I'm looking at thirty thousand—a nice healthy jump, yes?”

Oliver's heart sank. He thought about the money his dad hoped to make on his new Jolly Marzipan show. Would it be enough? Could Oliver maybe raise his bid using money they didn't have yet but would soon? Mom and Dad would just deny the bid, of course, so it wouldn't be much use.

Then a light
ping
caught his ear. He turned in time to see a rosemary-parmesan cracker drop to the floor. Oliver picked it up with a frown. Another cracker hit him in the forehead. He turned quickly and saw, right in the corner next to him, a handful of olives rise from a small bowl and begin juggling in the empty air, shimmying toward the window.

Oliver grinned. Dahlia, of course! As the olives reached the pane, he held out his hand and they fell to his palm in a neat row. He popped them into his mouth. Then he looked at the window and his eyes widened. Letters were forming on the steamy pane. Turning quickly to block the view from any passersby, Oliver watched a message appear: “Danger—kids—hurry!”

“Upstairs?” he whispered urgently. “They're in danger right now?” He wanted to dash right off, but he could see more words forming below the others. “Carbon monoxide caused my death. Still leaking. GO!”

Oliver went. He paused only one moment at the back door, looking back over to the hall and Rutabartle poised high on his
vantage point, yelling, “One hundred and fifteen thousand—and who will raise me to one thirty?”

With a silent good-bye to his dreams, Oliver dashed through the door toward the back stairs and raced up them two at a time. He tore down the hall and up the next flight of stairs, his heart pounding. Suddenly his need to live in Silverton Manor seemed so small. How had that become the most important thing in his life? How could anything be more important than his brother and sisters? JJ with their ridiculous pranks that kept life from ever getting boring. And Poppy—who had somehow, over the last two weeks, turned into the coolest sister ever. Had he ever bothered to tell her that?

Clearing the last steps, Oliver slammed the attic door open. The noise was loud and explosive, but none of the kids moved. The room was just as he'd left it—except for shards of glass strewn across the floor by the window, which had a jagged hole in it. Carbon monoxide, Dahlia had written. Well, wasn't that impossible to see or smell? And why weren't Poppy and JJ moving? Someone—Dahlia, apparently—had punched through the glass, and they hadn't even woken up.

Oliver dropped to his knees next to Poppy, who was the closest to the door, and began to shake her. “Wake up!” he yelled. “Poppy, wake up!”

Poppy was groggy but sat up slowly. Her eyes were unfocused. “Wha …?” she mumbled. “What's … going on?”

Oliver yanked her by the arm and Poppy squeaked. “Wake up!” he yelled. “Poppy, wake up!”

He half-pulled, half-dragged her to the landing. “What's going on? My head feels like a marshmallow.” Her voice was muddled and thick.

Oliver looked at her, stick-skinny and shivering on the floor. “You're gonna be okay now,” he said. “And actually, I think you're better than okay.” He punched her lightly in the arm. “Really. Now I've got to run back and get the twins, all right? They're still in danger.”

He left her scrambling to her feet and dashed back into the room.

He shook Junie first, but she just lolled in his arms. He looked up with horror at the air vent, directly above the bed. Her small body was already taken over by the poison. No! He grabbed her under one arm and tried to get Joe with the other, but Junie slipped out of his hands. He couldn't hold them both at once. But he couldn't leave either of them here for another moment.

All at once, he saw the bed next to him dip slightly, as though somebody invisible was sitting on it. Joe rose a little in the air—cradled in invisible arms. Oliver felt relief swell inside him. Dahlia was there. “We have to get them downstairs,” he said. “They're unconscious or something—they were right underneath the vent where the carbon monoxide was coming out. It can't be too late! We need an ambulance. We have to get them to Mom and Dad.”