“Tell me more about what Ms. Lettie shared with you.”
“Oh, right…well, she said Seraphina used to play for the other guests while she was here and…what else? Um, they would gather in all these chairs,” I say, pointing to the waiting seats. “And…um…she said Mr. Honeycutt would watch from the sidelines and marvel at her talent and her beauty and also…how much he loved her.”
Tally glances down at the keys again, and this time, instead of touching the keys, her fingertips hover just above them.
So I hover too.
T. S. Phoenix motions for Dad to start filming, and The Faz calls out, “Action!”
Tally breathes deep, in and then out, in and then out, before she says, “I feel a woman’s energy present.” She nods her head. “I feel the spirit trying desperately to make herself known by the notes she wants to play at this keyboard. Are you here with us, Seraphina? Are you with us now? We mean you no harm, dear. We are here to join you with your beloved husband, Ozgood, with whom you have shared love and a life on this plane of existence. Are you here with us, Seraphina?”
We wait.
“It is here where Ozgood Honeycutt awaits your music,” Tally says. “The heartbreak I feel is also his to share. His pain. His loss. He longs to be with his bride after so many years.”
That’s when T. S. Phoenix’s Geiger counter starts crackling and buzzing and popping like crazy.
“I’m getting something!” he exclaims.
And then one single solitary key plays on the piano.
I jump, but Tally puts a gentle hand on my arm.
“C sharp,” she announces with a smile.
Another key plays.
“E,” Tally says.
“Does your gut think she’s trying to play a song for us?” I whisper.
“No, my dear, I believe she is spelling out a word for us,” Tally says.
I suck air.
We wait.
The keys are silent.
“It was just two keys,” I say. “C-E isn’t a word.”
“Remember I told you it takes them a great deal of energy to make contact with the living?” T.S. says.
I nod. “Yes, I remember.”
“Maybe that’s all the energy she had today,” he says.
“It’s possible next time she’ll share more letters,” Tally says. “For now, we’ve made contact with one Mrs. Seraphina Honeycutt.”
“Cut!” The Faz calls.
“You know what this is like?” I tell them all. “It’s just like with Harry Houdini.”
Everyone stares at me again.
“You mean the magician?” Dad says.
“Actually…he was an illusionist,” I correct him. “He performed here in 1915.”
Dad turns to T. S. Phoenix and says, “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not according to Nyx Brown,” I say. “Houdini and his wife, Bess, had a password for after he died. She was supposed to go to psychics and spiritualists to try to make contact with him. Maybe Mrs. Honeycutt has a password too.”
“What wonderful research you’ve done,” Tally says.
“Yeah,” Dad agrees. “How did you learn all that?”
“From this Nyx kid,” I say.
Dad’s eyebrows go up. “A boy?” he asks.
I shrug.
“What is our agreement?”
I roll my eyes and mumble, “No boys until I’m thirty.”
T. S. Phoenix lets out a booming laugh.
“Maybe the Honeycutts do have a password,” Tally says. “I like the idea of that. I will have to do more reading about Harry Houdini and his wife, Bess. Good job, honey.”
“Oh, and his mom, too,” I say. “His mom died first and he tried to contact her through mediums and spiritualists but couldn’t find a genuine one. I don’t know his mom’s name, though. Nyx never told us.”
Tally nods her head.
“Well, I guess that’s a wrap for tonight,” Dad says.
“But it was a good night, right?” I ask him. “We’ve got a ghost playing piano on film, right? I mean, a piano-playing ghost? It doesn’t get any better than that.”
He cracks a weak grin. “It’s something,” he says. “But Netflix wants an image. They were very specific about that.”
“I’m afraid an actual image is pretty rare in this business,” T. S. Phoenix tells him. “Most ghost-hunting shows do more reenactments about what’s reported and never really catch a live image on film.”
Dad locks eyes with Big John.
“Yeah,” Dad says. “I’m getting that now. I guess that’s why they wanted this one to be different. I didn’t realize it would be that difficult. I guess I was pretty naïve…or excited…or, I don’t know…arrogant to think I could do something like this. I suppose I would have agreed to just about anything for a shot at my dreams coming true.”
“You’ll get it,” I assure him. “I know you will.”
He shakes his head and says, “It’s not your job to worry about me, Snooks.”
WHAT-IFS
Doesn’t he know you at all?
That’s when I realize we have an official woo-woo emergency on our hands. And when an official woo-woo emergency is declared, you need one thing and one thing only.
True blue.
* * *
“Mags.” I jump on top of her in her bed and give her a shake. “Wake up.”
The sun still isn’t up yet when I make it back up to room 332.
“I hate to state the obvious, but I am sleeping,” she says, turning over and pulling the covers over her head.
“I know, but I need to tell you something,” I say. “And it needs to be right now. It’s mad important and it involves our true-blue-friend pact.”
She pokes her head out from under the velvet, rubs her eyes with her knuckle and looks at the digital clock on the nightstand.
“I really don’t want to know anything about anything at four-thirty-eight in the morning,” she tells me. “Maybe I’ll change my mind around say…eight or eight-thirty?”
“My dad’s in trouble,” I tell her. “And it’s officially day five. We have to help him.”
She peeks an eye out from under the covers.
“We are helping,” she says. “We’re doing the research.”
“No, I mean we really have to help him,” I say. “Mags, if we don’t get a ghost on film, grumpy Mr. Drago is going to kick us out of our apartment.”
The one eye blinks at me until she emerges from the depths of the covers like a sea monster from a velvet lake, sitting straight up and squinting at me in the light.
“Wait…is this your what-ifs talking or is it really real?” she asks.
“All my worries are real,” I inform her.
“You mean like the time you thought the boogeyman lived in the hall closet?”
“I was six,” I remind her.
“What about the time you thought you got a brain-eating amoeba after swimming at the Carmine Street Pool because you thought you swam through a warm patch of pee? That was last year.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Sometimes I get it wrong, okay?”
“What about the time—”
“Listen,” I interrupt. “This is legit. I mean, legit legit. I overheard my dad and Big John and The Faz talking in the Music Room. The Netflix contract is dependent on us finding a ghost. And even though tonight Tally got Mrs. Honeycutt to play a sharp C on the piano…”
“What’s a sharp C?”
“It’s one of the keys,” I explain. “And I guess it’s a sharp one.”
“It played by itself?” Mags asks.
“Totally by itself,” I say. “Just like with the Ouija board that first time we did a séance in room 217.”
Mags says, “Who
a.”
“Anyway, there’s definitely someone here who has something very important to say, and we have to be the ones to lure it out. Because if my dad doesn’t get a ghost on film, we’re toast.”
“What about the phony baloney funny business?” Mags asks.
“We can keep investigating that, too,” I tell her. “But we need a ghost and we need one fast. This is a woo-woo emergency.”
“Doesn’t woo-woo theory say to never interfere with the signs? To just let things happen the way the universe wants to reveal them? Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”
“Right,” I say. “But there is a little-known exception to this rule.”
“And what’s that?”
“In the case of a destiny emergency,” I say. “And this is an emergency if I’ve ever seen one. We need a serious intervention. Something is obviously blocking Dad’s fortune cookie fate.”
Mags tilts her head. “Is that really a thing?”
“It is if I say it is,” I tell her, grabbing Crystal Mystic off the night table and giving it a good shake. “Is it time for a woo-woo intervention?” I ask it.
CRYSTAL MYSTIC
THE SPIRITS ARE AS SILENT AS THE GRAVE RIGHT NOW.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I slam it back down on the night table. “Get dressed,” I tell Mags. “Today we find ourselves a ghost.”
Mags pushes the covers off and heads toward the bathroom. “I guess your crystals are finally kicking in,” she calls over her shoulder.
But when I reach up to touch the leather satchel of my garden-variety bravery crystals, I realize I left them on the night table.
“For the gazillionth time, it was not Jell-O,” Mags tells me.
She’s a little crabby after I woke her up at four-thirty this morning, and her mouth is full of toothpaste so it sounds more like well-o than Jell-O, but I get the gist.
“You don’t know,” I tell her from the doorway.
She spits bubbles in the sink. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch Poltergeist,” she tells me. “I knew this would happen.”
WHAT-IFS
She called it.
“I don’t know why you let me watch it either,” I tell her. “I didn’t sleep a wink. Not. One. Wink. All because of you. Did you know there is a total of two hundred forty-two tiles on this ceiling? Do you want to know how I know that?”
She spits more bubbles and then rinses and I follow her out of the bathroom.
“I told you if I showed you the movie, you couldn’t blame me, didn’t I?” she says. “And the pink goo they were covered in when they returned from the in-between still isn’t Jell-O no matter how much you want it to be.”
I flop down on top of my unmade bed. “I thought about it all night and decided that was the only conclusion there is. And you want to know what Crystal Mystic said when I asked if I was right?”
“No,” she says, getting on her knees and digging through her suitcase for a clean sweatshirt.
CRYSTAL MYSTIC
YOU CAN THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS!
“Why would there be Jell-O randomly floating in the in-between? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Not dumber than talking flowers, but it’s up there.”
“So, you’re saying ghosts can’t have Jell-O?”
“I think it’s safe to say ghosts can’t have Jell-O,” she says. “Not to mention, what flavor of Jell-O is pink? There is no pink Jell-O.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Siri? What flavor of Jell-O is pink?”
Siri: Here’s what I found.
“See?” I hold up my phone. “Red.”
“Red’s not pink,” Mags says.
“Mixed with Cool Whip it is.”
“Okay, if you’re going to sit there and tell me that there’s both Jell-O and Cool Whip floating around the in-between, I can’t even talk to you.”
“If you’re so smart, then what is it?”
“Got to be ghost guts,” she says.
“No way,” I tell her.
“And why not?” she asks.
“Because ghosts don’t have guts,” I say. “Hello…they’re see-through? Everybody who’s anybody knows that one.”
“Still,” she says. “It’s more likely to be ghost guts than Jell-O. Ask your boyfriend, why don’t you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind her, dialing Nyx’s number.
“Not yet, but it’s on the horizon,” she sings.
“He’d never like me like me.”
“After he said that thing about the wolf mantra, your face went all goopy and I definitely think you had a moment.”
“Really? Because it felt momenty to me too,” I tell her. “Like Luna Shadow was giving me a sign.”
“Totally,” she agrees.
“But for the record, I did not goop.”
She snorts and mumbles, “You should have seen it from my angle.”
“Voice mail,” I tell her.
“Leave him a message.”
Nyx’s voice mail: Only three people have this number. If you’re not one of them, hang up now.
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say. “We can’t decide if the pink goo in Poltergeist is Jell-O or ghost guts. Call me back.”
“Maybe he’s already at Fun City,” Mags says, still digging. “I can’t find my sweatshirt…the rainbow one…have you seen it?”
I shrug. “Maybe Ruby Red hung it up in the wardrobe.”
She gets up from the floor and pulls the doors of the wardrobe open and then slams them shut again.
When she turns to face me, all the color in her face is gone and her eyes are as wide as water walking balls.
I shoot up from the bed and point a finger in her direction.
“It’s a pinky toe, isn’t it?” I demand. “There’s a pinky toe in there. I knew it! I knew it!”
“No,” she whispers, opening the double doors of the wardrobe wide enough for me to see inside.
A single dress hangs neatly on a hanger.
But not just any dress.
A fancy, elaborate, lacy dress from olden times.
And on the very top shelf above it, a flowery hat with a large brim.
I swallow hard. “Please tell me that’s your dress,” I whisper.
“Oh, sure,” she says. “First off, I haven’t worn a dress since I was four years old. And second, I wouldn’t wear something this ugly.”
“It’s not ugly,” I inform her. “It’s just old-fashioned.”
“Still,” she mumbles. “Would you walk down the halls of Immaculate Heart of Mary K–8 in that?”
“No comment,” I tell her.
“That’s all I’m saying.”
“I mean, you checked the wardrobe on that first night, right?” I ask, pulling out my phone and aiming my camera at it.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“It wasn’t there that night, right?” I ask.
“No way,” she says. “The closet was empty. That I know for sure.”
“Have you checked it since then?” I wonder.
“Nope,” she tells me. “You think I want my clothes in the same place a serial killer keeps the missing managers?”
“I knew I’d change your mind!” I exclaim, beaming at her.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles.
“So, that’s got to be Mrs. Honeycutt’s dress, right?” I say. “I mean, last night at the piano and now this?”
“Got to be,” Mags agrees. “Why are you taking so many pictures of it? It’s not like it’s an actual ghost.”
“But it belonged to one,” I say, aiming again.
“So this woman Mr. Plum saw, and then Chef Raphaël, is Mrs. Honeycutt trying to connect with her husband, right?” she asks.
“It has to be,” I say, changing to video mode.
“Wait…,” Mags says. “That means sh-she was in here.”
“Yeah.”
“In our room,” Mags says.
“Yeah,” I agree.
“That’s mad creepy.”
I nod in agreement and point to the night table. “We should ask Crystal Mystic if this dress belonged to Mrs. Honeycutt.”
“That thing doesn’t work,” Mags tells me.
“Does so,” I tell her.
Mags grabs Crystal Mystic and gives it a shake.
“Is this the dress of Seraphina Honeycutt?” she asks, and then waits for the voice from beyond the stars.
CRYSTAL MYSTIC
BOOST YOUR ENERGY AND ASK AGAIN LATER.
I shake my head. “Even Crystal Mystic knows your channels are blocked.”
“Try defective.”
I grab it from her and give it another shake. “Is this the dress of Mrs. Honeycutt?” I ask.
CRYSTAL MYSTIC
FORTUNE IS NOT SMILING ON THIS.
“Huh,” I say.
“Ha!” Mags says. “Maybe you’re the pea soup and not me.”
“Doubtful,” I tell her.
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve been practicing for longer. My mom’s been teaching me woo-woo since before I can even remember—”
But the words get stuck up in my throat.
That’s when Mags’s eyes lock on mine and she doesn’t say a word.
That’s because no words need to be said.
She just knows.
That’s true blue.
I swallow it all down and keep filming.
“Why don’t you check if there are any pockets on it.” I point to the dress.
“Um…not with a ten-foot pole, but thanks for asking,” Mags says. “Feel free to check them yourself if you’re so curious.”
“Me?”
“Be my guest,” she says with a wave of her hand.
“Fine,” I say. “I will. But I get Velma credit for this one too.”
Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter Page 14
