A Gust of Ghosts

by Suzanne Harper

  “But we have to go back,” Poppy said.

  “We barely started our investigation,” Will added.

  Even Franny, somewhat unconvincingly, chimed in, saying, “I thought you wanted us to help.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Malone exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Well, of course we’re glad to see this unexpected change in attitude,” said Mr. Malone. “But, as fate would have it, your mother and I have made other plans today.”

  This met with a chorus of protest, which was only silenced by Mrs. Malone raising her hand.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible,” she said. “Henry’s aunt has invited us to dinner tonight.”

  “So?” Will said. “We can go to the cemetery and be back in time for dinner.”

  But Mrs. Malone shook her head firmly. “You three need to do some laundry so that you have halfway decent clothes to wear. And we really should take a dessert, which means your father will have to pick up something at the store. I certainly don’t have time to make anything, since it will take me at least an hour getting Rolly bathed and dressed—”

  “And I need to try enhancing the video on my computer so we can see the manifestation more clearly,” Mr. Malone said hastily, before any more chores were assigned to him. “We’ll simply have to go to the cemetery tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got to figure out a way to get to the cemetery on our own,” Poppy said as soon as she, Will, and Franny were alone together. “We’ll wait until Mom’s gone to the store and Dad’s got his headphones on. We can go to Shady Rest and be back before they know we’re gone.”

  Unfortunately, the only way Poppy could get privacy to discuss this matter was by volunteering that she, Will, and Franny would do some weeding, an activity that allowed them to talk freely without being overheard by their parents or Rolly.

  They quickly discovered, however, that the flowerbeds were choked with weeds. Poppy soon identified chickweed, bedstraw, and henbit (Will and Franny had not found this information as fascinating as she had), and doing manual labor in the hot sun had apparently revived bad memories for Will and Franny.

  “Look, Travis isn’t going anywhere, is he?” said Franny, who was kneeling by a flowerbed, a floppy straw hat on her head. “I mean, it’s cool that we got to meet a ghost and everything, but we could go swimming at Barton Springs today and go back to the cemetery tomorrow. Or even next week.”

  “Henry said the water at Barton Springs is always ice-cold,” Will said thoughtfully. “Even when the temperature is almost a hundred degrees.”

  Poppy had introduced Will and Franny to Henry after Mr. Farley’s visit the day before. They had spent an hour in Henry’s tree house and learned many interesting things. (For example: Henry’s parents traveled the world as part of their corporate jobs and were currently in Scotland en route to Istanbul; the mascot of the school that Poppy, Will, and Henry would attend in the fall was a Scottish terrier; the Maldonados down the street threw great block parties that often ended with someone throwing a watermelon off the roof of a house; Henry had learned archery at summer camp and could hit a bull’s-eye at thirty yards; the Hendersons’ dog was on the U.S. Postal Service Watch List for biting three different mail carriers; and, despite Henry’s fervent hopes, nothing exciting ever happened in their neighborhood.)

  One of the most interesting facts Henry had told them was that Barton Springs was one of the best places to swim in Austin. As they blinked sweat out of their eyes and squinted in the blazing sun, the idea of jumping into an icy cold pool began to sound much better than returning to a cemetery.

  Even if that cemetery did have a real live ghost.

  “Shh!” Poppy hissed as the screen door opened.

  Mrs. Malone poked her head out. “How’s everything going? Do you want some lemonade?”

  “No, thanks, we’re almost done,” Poppy called out, and was rewarded with black looks from Franny and Will.

  “Splendid! I’ll make BLTs for lunch,” said Mrs. Malone.

  “Franny”—Poppy sat back on her heels—“why don’t you want to go to the cemetery?”

  “Because it’s creepy!” said Franny. “Plus, we don’t know anything about this ghost or his friends. We don’t know what they want. We don’t know what they might do to us—”

  “Even as we speak,” Poppy said, “Mr. Farley could be giving our grant money to some woman who plays the harpsichord. The harpsichord! In the meantime, we have made contact with an actual ghost and have a chance to get evidence to prove it.” She turned to Will, who had stretched out on the grass. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” he said drowsily. “Whatever you say.”

  “Are you falling asleep?” Franny asked suspiciously.

  He yawned. “No, of course not.”

  “Wake up,” Franny said, kicking him. “Have you even been listening to all this?”

  Will sat up, blinking and looking grumpy. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I don’t understand why we’re even having this discussion,” Poppy said. “You guys met Travis, too! You met a ghost. It’s obvious that we need to continue the investigation, pursue every lead, and gather all the evidence we can.”

  Franny sighed. “You sound just like Dad. Once you get an idea in your head, you become obsessed.”

  Poppy scowled. “That’s not fair,” she said, yanking yet another weed out of the ground. “All great scientists have been single-minded in their pursuit of the truth.”

  “You’re probably right,” Will said. “But how are we going to get to the cemetery without Mom or Dad knowing?”

  “I’ve got that figured out,” said Poppy. “We’ll ride our bikes.”

  Franny stared at her. “Are you crazy? It’s miles away.”

  “It only seemed that way because Dad got lost when we drove out there,” said Poppy. “I found a map online. We could bike there in half an hour, and we wouldn’t even have to go on any busy streets.”

  “Is that thirty minutes riding like Will?” Franny asked suspiciously. “Or thirty minutes riding like someone who isn’t training for the Tour de France?”

  “Come on, Franny, it’ll be good exercise!” said Poppy, avoiding the question. “We’ll head out right after lunch and be back by supper. It’ll be fun!”

  Will grinned at her. “Now,” he said, “you sound like Mom.”

  As it turned out, they had not managed to bike to the cemetery that afternoon, after all. Stronger forces had interfered with Poppy’s plans.

  First, a flustered Mrs. Malone had drafted Will to give Rolly his bath, a project that involved two escape attempts, a flooded bathroom, and several hours. Then Franny had discovered that a brand-new red T-shirt had been washed with her favorite white shirt. She had retreated tearfully to the laundry room with a bottle of bleach. Finally, Mr. Malone had returned triumphantly from his shopping trip bearing thirty jars of dill pickles, a dozen fly swatters, and a five-gallon jug of olive oil (thanks to several persuasive sales flyers). He did not, however, bring back dessert, so Mrs. Malone had told Poppy to go back to the store with him to make sure that he bought a cake.

  “Just one cake,” she had added. “And absolutely nothing else. I don’t care how good the deal is. It will take us a year to eat all those pickles.”

  By the time the Malones walked across the lawn to the Riveras’, they were variously irritated, snappish, and annoyed. That all disappeared as soon as they joined Henry and his aunt, who had set up a long table under the trees in their backyard. A string of brightly colored paper lanterns glowed softly in the branches overhead, and the flames of a dozen candles dipped and swayed, casting a golden glow in the gathering dusk.

  And by the time Poppy had finished her second helping of chicken spaghetti, she had almost forgotten her worries about Mrs. Farley and the grant. She glanced around the table at her family and their new friends. Everyone was laughing and talking as if they had known each other forever.

  Suddenly, she felt a strange sensat
ion, as if she wasn’t seeing the present but the future. And in that future, they were all sitting around this same table with the lanterns and candles and fireflies lighting up the green darkness, but instead of a dinner to welcome them to the neighborhood, it was a farewell dinner to see them on their way....

  Don’t get used to this, she reminded herself. This time next month, we could be moving again.

  She felt her stomach sink at the thought, then forced herself to tune back in to the conversation around the table.

  “Yes, we’ve had our trouble with vampires now and again,” her father was saying airily. “Nothing I can’t handle, of course. Vampires aren’t as scary as all their hype would have you believe. Now, if you want to talk terrifying, you should try facing down a viper goddess some time. That makes vampires look like a walk in the park with a sweet little puppy.”

  Mrs. Rivera’s eyes brightened with delight. “How thrilling! Henry, I hope you’re listening to this. When will you ever have another chance to hear a world-famous paranormal investigator talk about his encounters with the Uncanny?”

  “The question really is, when will you ever get him to stop talking about it?” Franny whispered in Poppy’s ear. Poppy kicked her sister’s ankle to get her to be quiet, but she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning.

  Mrs. Rivera leaned forward, the soft glow of the candles lighting her face. “I grew up hearing stories about the viper goddess,” she confided. “When I was a child, I would often sneak out of the house and go down to the river, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I always went at midnight—”

  “Of course,” Mr. Malone said. “That magical moment when one day turns into another—that’s when the viper goddess can most easily be seen by mortal eyes.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Rivera went on wistfully. “Yet I was never lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her. To think that you actually encountered her face-to-face!”

  “Well …” Mr. Malone lowered his gaze modestly and smiled at his plate.

  Mrs. Malone gave him a frosty look. “Actually,” she said, “I was with Emerson when the encounter took place. We had camped in the jungle for two weeks—”

  “Yes, that must have been difficult,” Mrs. Rivera said dismissively. “All the snakes and bugs and such.”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Malone said, “I’ve been a field investigator for more than twenty years, so I’m quite used to snakes and bugs—”

  “But meeting the viper goddess!” Mrs. Rivera said breathlessly to Mr. Malone. “That must have been terrifying!”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Malone said, “I’ve had a great deal of experience facing down unearthly creatures—”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Mrs. Rivera. “So, Emerson … whatever did you do?”

  Mr. Malone looked gratified. “Well, as you know, the viper goddess can paralyze a human being with one flick of its tongue, so I knew I was in a tight spot. But I simply went into a Wushu fighting stance, fixed the viper goddess with a piercing gaze, and pointed my umbrella at her third eye.” He smiled smugly and took a sip of wine. “She fled immediately.”

  Mrs. Rivera gasped. “How brilliant! I never would have thought of that!”

  Will raised one eyebrow. “I had no idea the viper goddess was so afraid of umbrellas.”

  “It was not the umbrella that drove the creature away,” said Mr. Malone. “It was my air of command.” He turned toward Mrs. Rivera and said confidentially, “That’s the key, you see. When facing any supernatural being, you must act as if you have the upper hand at all times. If you hesitate even slightly, they will sense your fear and attack.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Fascinating. Simply fascinating.”

  Mrs. Malone cleared her throat in a very pointed way.

  “And Lucille, you must tell me more about your ghost hunting,” said Mrs. Rivera, courteously turning her attention to Mrs. Malone. “That sounds interesting, too.”

  Mrs. Malone nodded, somewhat mollified. “Yes, it’s fascinating, really—”

  “I must tell you, I have had some strange experiences myself,” Mrs. Rivera interrupted. “Some very strange experiences, indeed. You see, I am a Graveyard Friend.”

  Poppy caught Henry’s eye.

  He shook his head. “It’s not as interesting as you’d think,” he whispered.

  “That sounds intriguing,” said Mr. Malone, who had leaned forward in his chair. A second too late, he added, “Doesn’t it sound intriguing, Lucille?”

  “Oh yes, absolutely fascinating,” said Mrs. Malone dryly. “Do go on.”

  “The Graveyard Friends are volunteers who help keep local cemeteries tidy,” said Mrs. Rivera. “We trim grass, rake leaves, scrub tombstones, that sort of thing. It was in the first month after I became a friend that I discovered my gift.”

  “What kind of gift?” asked Franny, her eyes wide.

  Mrs. Rivera paused artfully, then said in an impressive voice, “Speaking to the dead.”

  Poppy could have sworn she heard her mother give a small snort, but Mr. Malone leaned forward even more.

  “Dad,” Poppy murmured. “Your tie.”

  “What?” Mr. Malone had, at his wife’s insistence, put on his favorite tie (blue silk covered with silver question marks), which he normally only wore to formal events, such as dinners at the American Society for Psychical Research. He glanced down and saw that he had leaned right over one of the votive candles. “Aaggh!”

  He sprang to his feet, the tie blazing merrily.

  Franny shrieked; Will and Henry jumped from their seats, knocking their chairs over; and Mrs. Malone flapped at the flames with her napkin, causing them to burn even more brightly.

  Rolly stood up on his chair, calmly picked up the pitcher on the table, and dashed water on the tie, drenching Mr. Malone in the process.

  “Aaggh!” yelled Mr. Malone.

  “Emerson, are you burned?” Mrs. Malone cried.

  “No … I’m fine....” he gasped, collapsing onto his chair. He pointed to the empty pitcher that Rolly was holding. “It was … ice water....”

  “Is the fire out?” Rolly asked, picking up a pitcher of iced tea with the capable air of someone who is prepared to douse his father with cold drinks all night.

  “Yes!” Mr. Malone shouted, leaning away from him.

  “Thank you, dear, that was very clearheaded of you,” said Mrs. Malone, quickly taking the pitcher from Rolly’s hands. “But I think the danger is past.”

  “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt,” said Mrs. Rivera to Mr. Malone.

  “Oh, that was a minor scrape compared to some of the near misses I’ve had in the field!” said Mr. Malone, dabbing his shirt with his napkin. “But you were telling us about your gift. Please, continue!”

  Mrs. Rivera smoothed down her dark hair and smiled. “Well, it all started with disembodied voices saying the oddest things. ‘You’re standing on my head’ or ‘Can you check to see if I left the oven on?’”

  “I do hope you saw a doctor,” Mrs. Malone said politely. “Aural hallucinations can be so troublesome.”

  “And then I met my spirit guide,” Mrs. Rivera went on. “A delightful man named Samuel Weston Langbourne. A former pharmacist and very spiritual man.”

  Poppy saw Henry close his eyes, as if in pain.

  “He informed me that I have an amazing ability to connect with the energy of the universe. Since then, I’ve had the most incredible experiences. I’ve had premonitions of future events that came true. Remember, Henry, when I predicted that your mother would cut herself with a knife and she did?”

  “She was chopping peppers for supper, talking on her cell phone, and trying to close the refrigerator door with her foot,” Henry pointed out. “As predictions go, it was pretty, well … predictable.”

  Mrs. Rivera ignored this. “Soon after that, I discovered my talent for psychometrics,” she went on. “I can hold an object and divine all kinds of information about its owner. Do you know Mrs. Nivens, the woman who lives on the corner in t
he house with purple shutters? I barely touched her watch and I saw instantly that she had once worked as a showgirl in Las Vegas! She was much younger, of course....”

  “She was trying to keep it a secret,” Henry whispered to Will. “She’s not talking to Aunt Mirabella anymore.”

  “And my spirit guide says this is just the beginning!” Mrs. Rivera finished, beaming. “Who knows what the future might hold?”

  “I would think you do,” said Mrs. Malone sweetly. “If your premonitions are as accurate as you say.”

  Mr. Malone cleared his throat loudly. “Well, this was a wonderful dinner, but I’m afraid we have to say good night,” he said in a hearty voice. “Look at Rolly! He’s about to fall asleep.”

  Rolly looked up from his piece of cake, which he was dismantling with the same careful intensity he would use if it were a bomb. “No, I’m not.”

  Mrs. Malone gave a tinkling laugh. “Isn’t that what all little boys say?” she said gaily to Mrs. Rivera, even as she was taking firm hold of Rolly’s arm. “Come along, dear.”

  “But I’m not sleepy,” Rolly said mutinously.

  “Come home now,” Mrs. Malone whispered in his ear, “and I promise—no bath tonight.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Or tomorrow,” he said.

  Mrs. Malone pressed her lips together, but she nodded. “Fine. Now let’s go home. Emerson?”

  There were a few more minutes of “Thank you” and “We must have you over soon” and “Please come again,” and then the Malones left, trailing across the lawn to their house.

  Poppy hung back a little. When Mrs. Rivera carried some dishes into the house, she seized her chance.

  “So, do you ever go with your aunt?” she asked Henry. “To help her clean up cemeteries, I mean.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding? She drags me along all the time.”

  “You know the cemetery my parents were talking about? Shady Rest?” Poppy said. “I was thinking maybe we should fix it up a little. It looked so … forlorn and lonely.”