Wiley, meanwhile, seemed to be in a fine mood. “Now now, my little ghosties,” he purred. Dahlia startled, scooting back along the wall alongside Mrs. Tibbs.
“Ahem,” said the Liberator, her wrinkled cheeks quivering slightly. “Our new fix-it man is more sly even than we’d suspected. In fact, I would be mighty surprised if he is a fix-it man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see all that equipment?”
Dahlia did see, but it didn’t mean anything to her in particular. There weren’t any traditional-looking tools—just an assortment of devices and machines with huge speakers and something that looked like a poorly assembled vacuum cleaner. Dahlia squinted at a black box that seemed to pulse in the waning afternoon light. “What is that thing?” she whispered.
“Come to me, you fine wee beasties,” purred Wiley, and zipped out the door again, slamming it hard behind him.
“That box,” Dahlia said, drifting closer.
In a flash Mrs. Tibbs was at her side, catching Dahlia’s hand in both of hers. “Don’t touch that,” she breathed. “Don’t even go near it.”
“But there’s something so wrong … Oh, I know what it is—I can’t see through it! I know it’s a living object. I saw that Wiley guy bring it in. But it’s not see-through like everything else. In fact, I can’t see through it at all.”
“That box is lined with a substance called ironite.”
“Ironite? What’s that?”
Mrs. Tibbs’s face darkened. “No one knows for sure where ironite comes from or how it is formed. But the important thing is this: ghosts cannot pass through it.”
Dahlia’s eyes widened. “Not at all?” Some things felt better to pass through than others, some things could even hurt to go through, but she’d never found anything that she couldn’t cross at all. “Wait … but who would want something like ironite, something ghosts can’t pass through—and what would they want it for?”
Then she froze as something caught her eye. On the side of the box was a logo, nearly identical to the one she’d seen on Wiley’s pickup truck, but different in one important way. Underneath the wispy white shape, which sat inside the circle with the prison-bar lines down the front, the company name didn’t say Terminators, Inc.
It said Ghosterminators, Inc.
Chapter 8
Oliver came downstairs to greet the moving truck when it arrived promptly at eight o’clock the next morning. Junie and Joe had been watching for it since sunup, from the vantage point of their new Headquarters of Mischief on the tiny second-floor balcony that Oliver had discovered the day before. They had stowed their Bag of Pranks out there, and that left them just enough room to squeeze in after it. Apparently the view provided lots of inspiration for tricks to play on the wider world.
“Moving truck! The truck is here!” JJ chorused now, bopping mildly in place since there wasn’t enough room for their full jumping routine. Then they jostled each other back through the door into the house, where Oliver could hear them thundering down the hallway in the direction of their incoming belongings.
By the time the dust settled in the circular driveway and the truck’s engine had turned off, all six Days were perched on the front steps. The movers, who introduced themselves as Beano and Bob, began to carry boxes inside under Mom’s direction, while Dad dug through the back of the truck to find his puppet show crates. He was still stressed about not having brought along his puppets in the minivan, although it would have taken two minivans just to fit the stage, much less all the props and main characters. You don’t become an Internet sensation by sticking to the same scenery every time, Dad always liked to say. But then, he still wore the same lucky hat he’d put on the day he started his business, and he said he was wearing that until success wrested it off his head.
Oliver snagged his three boxes from the truck, piled them into a tipsy tower, and set off up the stairs. After fully exploring the house—there were eight bedrooms to choose from, after all—Oliver had finally decided on a tiny room all the way at the top of the house. It was just big enough for his bed and dresser, with a narrow sliver of floor besides, but Oliver liked the idea of being so far away from everything and everyone else in the house. This would really, truly be his own private domain. He named it the Matchbox.
The wide, spacious house seemed to shrink to a very small point up there in the attic. Even with the wide-open storage area, the bedroom seemed small for what was left, and he wondered if there might be more junk space closed off somewhere inside the walls. When it came to mysteries and unusual happenings, Oliver figured the more the better. Come to think of it, maybe that was another reason he liked this room.
Unpacking and settling into the Matchbox took less than half an hour. A few of his book boxes were still down in the truck, but Mom had discovered a real library on the second floor and had decreed that all the family’s books should go straight there. Which was actually a good thing, since a bookshelf would not have fit in Oliver’s new room.
Now finished with setup, Oliver pondered his next move. If he went back downstairs, Mom would put him to work. He decided to go talk to Poppy. He set off down the attic steps and across the winding route to the turret room.
“Poppy!” he whispered, knocking on her door. Living in a turret had its advantages—there wasn’t much chance of anyone wandering by and overhearing them. But Oliver still didn’t want to risk being conscripted into Mom’s forced labor, so he kept his voice down. After a minute or two he heard Poppy clomping down her circular staircase to the landing, and the door opened. She peered out, looked up and down the hallway, then nodded him in.
“Come for more chocolate?” she said, plopping down on her canopied bed and folding her hands in her lap.
Oliver’s mouth dropped open. Since he’d been in here yesterday, the room had been completely transformed. He knew that not all girls were girly. Junie, for example, was twice the tomboy Joe was. But Poppy had a deeply felt passion that every surface deserved its own ruffle. Preferably pink and, when possible, combined with flowers and/or lace. She’d been this way ever since Oliver could remember, so he wasn’t too surprised at the fate of her room. But this time, she’d come up with a ton of brand-new stuff and had gone all out. Long tentacles of lace oozed from the ceiling, every wall dripped with gauzy fabric, and intricate flowery doilies covered the floor from wall to wall.
Oliver would have been impressed with her speed and thoroughness if he hadn’t felt so nauseated by the result. All in all, the room’s new look completely succeeded in killing any of his lingering desire for the turret room.
“You wanted to see me?” Poppy said imperiously from her poufy throne-like bed.
Oliver shook the ruffles out of his head and looked around for a clear space of floor. Not finding one, he lowered himself very slowly in place in front of a bright-pink space heater. Pulling his knees to his chest, Oliver got right to the point. “It’s about this house,” he said. “I want to keep it.”
“Wait, really?” said Poppy, sitting up. “You’ve been looking for the Dream House forever. Now this is it?”
Oliver gave a determined nod. “It’s the one, all right. Don’t you feel it too? Something like, I don’t know, destiny maybe? Like it’s meant to be?”
Poppy shrugged. “I feel that way about every house. I’m so sick of having to set up my room all over again every few months.”
“That’s a start, I guess. But come on, this house is obviously the one. Look at this room you scored! Are you with me on this?”
“Hmm, yeah,” Poppy mused. “This place’ll do. But look at all I had to put up around here to get the creepy vibe out of the air!” She shivered. “There’s something a little weird in this place, if you ask me.”
“Hey,” said Oliver, standing up. “Don’t bad-talk this room. You sure fought hard enough to get it!”
“I love this room,” Poppy said quickly. “It’s not that. More like the house itself. Like there’s something else goin
g on with it, something a little spooky.”
“Now you’re talking like one of those old Longbrook guys,” Oliver said, grinning. “But anyway, spooky is cool, right? So we’re agreed. We’ll figure out a way to stay at Silverton Manor.”
Poppy just shrugged, and that was good enough for Oliver. He could work with that.
“I don’t think it’s going to be easy,” he said. “That Rutabartle guy said they’re putting the house up for sale in the spring. Why can’t Mom and Dad just buy it, skip over the auction altogether?”
Poppy snorted. “Good luck with that. Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to buy a duck pond. Or a duck to live in it. So what’s your big plan for staying?”
“I haven’t exactly figured that out yet,” Oliver confessed. “Let’s both do some exploring, gather up ideas, and we can talk about it more later.”
Poppy perked up. “We could go explore together!”
“No!” Oliver said quickly. “I think this kind of sneaking, er, works better alone.”
“That’s not fair!” said Poppy. “You never let me do stuff with you.”
“You’re noisy,” he said.
“And you’re mean.” Poppy flopped back on her bed, scowling.
Oliver felt bad about shutting down Poppy’s plans, but he definitely didn’t want his little sister tagging around with him all day. Some things were just too awful to bear.
“We’ll figure out more plans later, okay?” he said, pausing at the door.
The plush Princess pillow hitting the wall beside him was Poppy’s only answer.
Feeling vaguely guilty, but no less determined, Oliver tromped back down the turret steps, looking both ways down the hall first to make sure Mom wasn’t around. He hadn’t seen Wiley for a while, and wondered what project the fix-it guy was tackling first. Oliver thought he’d said something about the plumbing, and he had seemed very busy lugging around some impressive-looking machinery.
As if on cue, there was a low rumble from somewhere in the upper house. It didn’t sound like plumbing, though. It almost sounded like … a moan? For a second Oliver thought about the stories they had heard about the house in Longbrook. Then he laughed at the way he was obviously letting Poppy’s superstitious worries get to him. Ridiculous! And that was when he heard Mom’s voice, trumpeting loud and clear—and right around the corner.
“Why yes, Beano, that is original wood. Antique, of course. Yes. One of our last house-sitting jobs—simply a delightful woman. She was scaling back and couldn’t keep it all. We got it for a song, I tell you! No, right there. Wait! Yes, just like that. A little more to the right maybe? I’ve got such a decorating job ahead of me, you have no idea! I’m going with all new drapes, minimal paint because it is so messy, but a few classy stretches of wallpaper, because of course—”
Mom was in a mood, there was no doubt about it. Anything not nailed down would be sucked into her vortex of usefulness. Oliver looked around wildly. He had to stay out of sight. Right in front of him was an alcove—a shallow nook in the wall, big enough for an ornate mirror and a fancy end table which had already been topped with a vase full of fresh flowers.
Aha! Mom had already been here. Which meant this nook would be off her radar. She was right at the corner now, maybe two seconds away.
He dropped to the floor and slid under the table, just as Mom swept into view, with two movers behind her lugging their ancient, fiercely ugly grandfather clock. Mom insisted the clock was worth untold riches, but Oliver’s toes curled every time he heard its chime. If Mom hadn’t been so deep in conversation she would have spotted him for sure, but as it was he pulled his foot out of her way just in time, and only Beano the mover tilted his head and winked as if to say, “Dude, I totally wish could hide under there for a while myself.”
And they were gone. Mission accomplished! Freedom secured.
Then Oliver noticed something strange. Right under the rim of the table, at about his eye level, was a tiny blinking red light. The light came from a thumb-sized device. He unclipped it and turned it over in his hand. It looked like a tiny webcam … it even had a little lens—and it was turned on. Broadcasting? But why, where, and to whom?
There were only two possibilities: either the camera was already in the house when they moved in, or somebody just put it here. But if it had been in an empty house for years and years, would it still be active like this, with the light on?
Oliver had to talk to someone, and fast. Dad knew all about webcams and online stuff. He would know what to do.
Jumping out from under the table, the device clutched firmly in his hand, Oliver scurried down the hallway, his mind racing. This wouldn’t give Mom and Dad second thoughts about staying in the house, would it? They’d already been paid half their fee for moving in, and they’d get the rest at the end of the six months. Oliver knew that Dad had invested in new microfiber puppet bodies for the circus troupe that would be joining The Jolly Marzipans in the upcoming Super Online Launch event. No way Dad would want to give that money back, even if he could. But on the other hand, Mom was very big on Safety First. And if someone was spying on them … that was just beyond creepy.
Nearing the end of the hallway, Oliver was just turning to go downstairs when he heard a scuffling sound. Something tugged hard on the back of his shirt, and he was yanked through an open door that promptly slammed shut behind him.
Somewhere down the long hallway Oliver could hear Mom screech, “What did I say about slamming doors?” But Oliver had no reply to that question. All he could do was gape into the face of Rank Wiley, arms folded and eyes blazing, looking like someone who absolutely should not be crossed. Ever.
Chapter 9
“Ghosterminators?” Dahlia was laughing so hard at the weird-looking logo that her fingers and toes were going all wispy. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
But Mrs. Tibbs pursed her lips. “Not so very silly,” she said. “I’ve dealt with this type of agency before. Rank Wiley could mean all sorts of trouble for us.”
“Trouble?” said Dahlia. “He’s a skinny windbag.”
“That may be,” said Mrs. Tibbs, “but he has some nefarious plan in mind, if I’m not mistaken. Why else would he change the logo on his truck, removing the word ghost? And all that blather about being a fix-it man? I don’t believe a word of it.” She shook her head. “No, he is up to something, and I’m quite afraid that it has something to do with us. I would feel much better if I knew exactly what this Rank Wiley has in mind.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find out!” Dahlia tried to remember how to work her new Clearsight skill. It was much harder to do from inside the house—being at a distance gave one an advantage, she supposed—and the effort of focusing on seeing through stuff made her lose hold of her Contact skills.
But as she sank slowly into the floorboards, Dahlia managed to punch her sight out ahead of her—through the guest bathroom, the mudroom, the living room with its sheet-covered furniture. Her gaze was like a lighthouse beam sweeping right through the house. She was momentarily distracted when passing through the kitchen, to see a delicious-looking expired sandwich floating away above Poppy’s head—maybe they could zip through the kitchen on their way? She would love to connect with a few bites of expired salami on rye!
But then Mrs. Day glanced around the room. “Where is Oliver? It’s not like him to be late for lunch.”
Dahlia snapped back on course. She had to find that stinky ghosterminator.
She zeroed in on Wiley a few seconds later—and Oliver right along with him. “Come on,” she said to Mrs. Tibbs, who sat regarding her with prideful satisfaction. “They’re in the boiler room. I’m not sure what’s going on, but something’s not right in there.”
When the two ghosts slipped through the boiler room wall, the first thing they saw was Oliver sitting in a dejected heap on the floor. His head was in his hands. Wiley paced back and forth, waving a hideous pair of goggles that looked like something you’d wea
r to get your eyesight tested, and apparently coming to the end of a long speech.
“So now I think you can get my drift, comprehend my mission, understand my undertaking, hmmm?” Wiley concluded, waving his arms in a final flourish and stopping just short of taking a bow.
Oliver frowned. “Let me see if I’m getting this right: You believe ghosts are real. You think there are ghosts in this house. You put up cameras to spy on the ghosts—not on us, you say—but you’re lying to my parents about being here to fix up the house. You’re not even a handyman. And you don’t want me to tell them any of that. Did I leave anything out?”
Wiley bristled. “Lying? Why, nothing could be further from the truth! I am as handy as any man to wear a tool belt, and as for fixing? Pah! I’m Rank T. Wiley, and the T stands for Troubleshooting. I simply chose to specialize, if you will, repairing areas of the atmosphere which are infested with ghostly vermin, purging the specters and restoring the natural balance of the environment.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I know those cameras might seem upsetting, but when seen from a scientific standpoint, the logic is clear. Six of them only, exclusively placed in public, yet out-of-the-way places: attic, cellar, alcoves, and so on. Prime lurking spots for spectral activity. No breach of privacy, no wool being pulled over eyes, nothing like that whatsoever! Just clean, honest-to-goodness ghosterminating.” Wiley paused, seeming almost too impressed with himself to go on.
“So why keep what you’re doing a secret, if it’s all so aboveboard?” Oliver asked.
“That is an excellent question, and the fact is this: I—that is to say, science, humanity, and the world—simply cannot afford to have these plans thwarted. What I am doing here is too important to risk being turned away. And I think you will agree with me that your town official wants everything around here to be perfectly normal.” Wiley turned suddenly and narrowed his eyes. “This is the closest I’ve come to my goal of capturing a bonafide specter, and nothing is getting in my way.”
Rules for Ghosting Page 5
