Rules for Ghosting (5 page)

Oliver dashed out of the room, clutching his stomach, and ran down the spiral staircase. From outside came the screech of brakes and the disgruntled huff of an engine shifting gears. The front door was down one more flight of steps at the far end of the long hallway. Below, Oliver could see his father lumbering wearily toward the door, with the air of a man who has
left a piping hot cheese sandwich to grow soggy on his plate. But immediately to Oliver's right was a set of glass doors that opened onto a tiny balcony, just big enough for a boy to stand and turn in a full circle. It seemed like the most useless excuse for a balcony, but at this moment it was perfect. Oliver twisted the old iron knob and pushed the doors open.

Outside, a gust of wind slapped him rudely in the face, reminding him that, despite the sneakily bright sunshine, it was still October. Oliver pulled up the collar of his sweater and stepped outside, leaning against the balcony railing to get a better view of the driveway.

The new vehicle was not, in fact, a car but a very small pickup truck, so violently red it seemed to have been dipped in ketchup. The back was filled with lumpy shapes covered by a matching red tarp and fastened with bungee cords. The truck stopped just below the front steps, the engine shut off, and the driver's door clipped smartly open. The man who stepped out was so tall and thin that when he unfolded himself next to his tiny pickup, he was like a lamppost standing next to a park bench. Oliver wondered how he had fit in there at all.

A lamppost, however, the visitor was not. He sprang into action without a pause, clearing the six steps in a giant bound and sinking his finger into the buzzer.

Dad opened the door a crack and peered out. “Yes?”

The tall man stuck a foot into the opening and jabbed it wide with his elbow. “Mr. Day? Yes, Mr. Day, I presume. Well, well. It's fine to meet you, just fine. Got a call a few minutes
ago—happened to be right in the area. Yes, right in the area, just driving around casual-like. I didn't mind dashing right over, you know, have a little look around and see how things are brewing.” He cleared his throat and beamed. “I'm a man of action, you see. Like to dive right into a project, I do. I'm Rank T. Wiley of Terminators, Inc. At your service.”

With a quick karate-chop movement, the man thrust out his bony hand. Dad hesitated for a second, then shook it. “Yes, I'm Arthur Day,” he said, opening the door the rest of the way. “Pleased to meet you. But … Terminators, Inc.? What did you come here hoping to
do
, exactly?”

“Ah! I'm delighted you should ask. Mr. Day—Arthur, may I call you Arthur? Yes? Good. Well, Arthur, if you'll look right this way …” Wiley's arm snaked out to wrap around Dad's shoulders.

Before Oliver knew what was happening, Rank T. Wiley had Dad down the stairs and they were strolling around the outside of the house, Wiley gesturing as he blabbed on about needed house repairs.

“… the gutters, you see? Years, clearly, since they've been seen to. Maybe longer! And the siding!” Wiley shook his head. “Of course the wiring will also need a complete overhaul. And have you thought of maintaining your heating system? Essential! Utterly essential! And that's the most paltry of beginnings. I'm fully accredited in each of these areas, as well as equipped to handle plumbing and all other in-house needs.”

Oliver groaned. Where was Mom when Dad needed her? At this rate, the weird new arrival would be moved in before the hour was up. Still, there was something fascinating about this Mr. Wiley. And getting renovations started on the house—maybe
their
new house someday, he wished, he
hoped
—so quickly was a great idea. Oliver might have lost the turret room, but as long as his family got to stay in the house in the long run, he would come out of this a winner.

“But … Terminators?” Dad said again from below, still sounding confused.

Wiley waved away the question. “A mere figure of speech, Arthur my man. A simple handle. Our company's humble statement of purpose, so to speak. A way of saying that with my arrival, all your problems will be gone … poof! Er, terminated. In the twinkling of an eye.” Wiley struck a dramatic pose, presumably so that Dad might witness the aforementioned twinkling eye.

A sudden look of relief broke over Dad's face. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I've just realized—you were sent by Mr. Rutabartle, weren't you? He did say he would be calling for support staff, didn't he? Am I remembering that right?”

Wiley's pause was so slight that Oliver figured he must have imagined it—it was there and gone, then the man was nodding his head vigorously. “That's it exactly—good man, Rutabartle. Terminators, Inc. First company to call in a crisis, that's the word on the street. Sent me right on over here, zip zip.”

“Ah, well, that explains it. I never imagined he would be so very quick and efficient. But people do surprise you! I suppose I'd better let you get started then, Mr. Wiley.” Immediate mystery solved, Dad was now casting longing looks back in the general direction of the lunch table.

Wiley, however, swiveled his head mournfully from side to side. “Such an extensive project, though.” He squinted at the midday sun. “Seems like no sooner would I get the tools unloaded than it'd be time to put them away …”

Dad cocked his head. “You want to come back tomorrow?”

“Quite a large place you have here. It seems to me, if a worker had a place to stay for the duration of the job, he might be able to squeeze a good deal of extra work in those morning-to-evening hours …”

Dad frowned.

“Big house like this, an extra body probably wouldn't even be noticed. Apart from the busy
tap-tap-tap
of the hammer, that is. The
swish
of progress. The
zoom
of updated innovations being introduced into a warm family abode.” There was a pause, then Wiley reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You're probably thinking safety concerns, am I right? Well, you can set your mind at ease with this packet. References! Notarized recommendations! Verification phone numbers! Everything you could possibly want for checking up on an unexpected in-home expert.” The man took a step back and folded his arms.

Oliver grinned and waited for his father's inevitable invitation. At their last house-sitting job, they'd had a family of Icelandic immigrants packed into the parlor for nearly three weeks while the parents got back on their feet. The youngest was a marble shark who'd cleaned out Oliver and Poppy's prize collection before they finally saw the family on their way. Mr. Wiley, though, would at least be a useful houseguest.

“Well, that sounds like a fine idea,” Dad said, leafing through the papers and growing more confident as he read on further. “Quite fine. It's settled then. There is quite a spacious guest bedroom on the far side of the ground floor, past the mudroom. There's even a private back-door entrance. If you'll move your things in there, you can stay for the duration of the job. Marsha won't mind, I'm sure. And now, Mr. Wiley, I must get back to my lunch while it remains passably edible. Shall we resume this conversation in a few hours?”

“Very certainly, Arthur,” Wiley beamed. “An absolute pleasure doing business with you.”

Dad was up the stairs almost before Wiley had finished his sentence, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

Oliver watched from his upper vantage point as, left alone outside, Wiley strode along the narrow path surrounding the mansion. The man's head twisted in all directions like a curious owl. What was he doing now? Oliver leaned out over the railing to get a better look. Wiley reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long skinny instrument—like a TV remote, but
three or four times as long. It was made of a metal so black that it seemed to suck in the light from anything near it. With a quick scurry, Wiley disappeared around the corner of the manor.

Oliver looked down at the shiny red pickup truck. A slick company logo was stuck onto the outside door panel. It showed a wavy, amorphous-looking blob behind prison bars, as if the logo were saying, “Hire me and all your blobs will go away!” Maybe the blob was supposed to stand for all the many problems Wiley's company would fix for his customers? Underneath the logo were the words “Terminators, Inc.” There was something odd about the placement of the words, but Oliver couldn't quite figure what.

“Oliver! Your lunch is oozing!”

Soggy cheddar-and-Nutella sandwiches were one of the few things that consistently gave Oliver nightmares, so he needed no further persuasion—especially now that all the action was over outside and the last of his chocolate battle digested.

Closing and locking the balcony door, Oliver headed downstairs, still thinking of the oddball visitor with the weird logo and that device he was so eager to start using. Oliver
had
to find out more about Rank T. Wiley's plans.

“There's something sneaky about that new fix-it man,” Dahlia observed, glancing back over her shoulder at the pickup truck as she ghosted through the side wall.

“He certainly talks a blue streak,” agreed Mrs. Tibbs. “But let us not be diverted. If we are going to begin the search for your Anchor, there are a few techniques you will need to master first.”

“Oh, yes!” Dahlia said. “I've been watching you very carefully, you know. I can already tell that I'm a terrible ghost. Just think—for years and years I've been dead, and now I find I've been going about it all wrong. What can I do, Mrs. Tibbs? Will you show me the real rules of ghosting?”

“Ah, my gifted gollywhopper!” She shook her head. “The Ghouncil has built a whole empire around their rules. Yes, there are certainly plenty of those to go around. Of course,” she said hastily, “that's not to say that they aren't important,
in their own way. And you will certainly learn them all in due time. However, I see no indication that you have been wasting your time here, nor going about things poorly. I dare say that you have built up a most satisfactory existence.”

The words kindled a warm glow in Dahlia's middle, but before she could reply, Mrs. Tibbs clapped her hands together. “Now, all code-correct Ghosting procedures will be taught to you when you complete your Crossover. What we must focus on at this precise moment is finding your Anchor. And to do that?” She jutted her right arm straight up into the air, finger out-thrust. “You must learn the Rules of Contact! Like most essential things in life, these are extraordinarily simple: To make Contact, you must only remember to Clear and Concentrate.”

Dahlia waited. When Mrs. Tibbs didn't say more, she said, “Wait—that's it? That's all I have to do? But what does that
mean
exactly?”

Mrs. Tibbs clucked. “All right, there is a
little
more to it than that. But it does become second nature after a while, I promise. Let me demonstrate.” They were in the living room now, which was mostly draped in sheet-covered furniture. Only one ornate burgundy couch had been uncovered, the white sheet wadded up and muddy-footprinted in a way that hinted that the uncoverers were quite likely small and up to no particular good.

Dahlia hovered above the couch, squirming. “I hate the whole
sinking in
part—I just hate it! That's why I never stay
long on the upper floors. It's so easy to lose track of myself and fall right through things.”

“But what about your tree carving?” asked Mrs. Tibbs. “You were able to make Contact there, weren't you?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” Dahlia hadn't thought of that. “I haven't been able to affect anything else, though. Living objects are mushy. I can't touch them or pick them up or sit on them or anything.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I've got absolutely no idea.
Should
I know?”

Mrs. Tibbs slid smoothly over until she was above the couch. Pulling herself into a sitting position as straight as a capital L, she lowered herself with dignity onto its cushioned surface. Dahlia's mouth dropped all the way open. “Gosh, that's something else! I can even see it squishing under you. Good work, Mrs. Tibbs!”

“Tut-tut, my dear. It's nothing at all! Now, how about you describe your carving process to me.”

Dahlia pondered. “I just—well, I sort of”—she grinned—“I sort of sharpen up my finger into a point. I don't know how it works, only that it does. I usually make a chart when the stars are sitting heavy on my heart. They fill me up and up until I just have to let them out. Then I go to my tree, lean in to the bark, and draw what I see.” She looked up. “Does that help at all?”

“It sounds to me like you have been practicing your Clear and Concentrate without realizing you were doing so. Now,
why don't you try to grab ahold of those same feelings and take a seat over here next to me.”

Dahlia did a little flip and hovered in the air next to Mrs. Tibbs. She tried to clear her mind, though she could feel it wobbling like a ghost flower in a breeze. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered herself toward the see-through surface of the unexpired couch.

And sank in to her waist.

“Ack!” she yelped. Her backside prickled like it was being stuffed with cotton.

Mrs. Tibbs smiled. “Never you mind, my graceful gadabout. Time and practice will get you there in the end. Keep your mind on the rules: Clear and Concentrate. First, Clear your mind: scrub it all the way out. Any heightened emotion will get in your way—above all you must be master of your internal senses.”

Dahlia focused on emptying her mind. Her excitement and her frustration pretty much canceled each other out, and she pushed them firmly aside. She could do this. She
would
do this. She focused until the couch sat right in the center of her mind, blocking out everything else.

“And now, Concentrate. Think carefully about what you're doing. See in your mind an image of yourself sitting on—
on
the sofa, resting your full self …”