A Gust of Ghosts (3 page)

“Not a problem,” said Mr. Malone. “We'll simply bushwhack our way through. All it takes is grit, a good sense of direction, and a sharp machete.” He dropped his backpack to the ground, rummaged through it for a moment, then pulled out a short metal sword. “Fortunately, I always carry a machete with me, ever since my near-death encounter with the Moth Man in 1975. Did I ever tell you—”

“Yes,” said Franny, who was staring at what looked like a wall of spiky branches. “You don't mean we're going to try to get through
those
bushes, do you?”

“The ones that are five feet tall?” asked Poppy.

“And covered with thorns?” asked Will.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Malone, looking from one appalled face to the next. “Paranormal investigations are not for the faint of heart! But I will be right behind you, cheering you on.”

He held out the machete. “So,” he said, “who wants to go first?”

D
espite Mr. Malone's cheering them on (which mainly consisted of shouting things like, “Keep going, keep going, no one ever died from a scratch!”), bushwhacking turned out to be just as hard as it sounded. By the time they pushed their way through to the small clearing where the Glowing Angel stood, Poppy had scratches on her arms, nettle stings on her legs, and a prickly feeling of certainty that she would wake up the next day with a case of poison ivy.

It would have been worth it if the famous Glowing Angel statue had been the slightest bit impressive. The angel itself was quite small—more of a cherub, really. It perched on top of a squat column that looked as if the sculptor had run out of stone before it reached its full height. It was almost hidden from visitors in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

And it was definitely
not
glowing.

Poppy crossed her arms and looked at it with a familiar feeling. Somehow, this unimposing little statue seemed to stand for every paranormal investigation her family had ever gone on. It always started with the hope of something thrilling—say, a magnificent marble angel, wings outspread, glowing in the night like moonlight on freshly fallen snow. And it always ended like this, with a small, fat angel sitting amid thorny bushes, looking completely ordinary.

Mr. Malone held up a magnetometer in front of the statue and tried to read the gauge in the gathering dusk.

“Look at these fluctuations, Lucille,” he said, his voice tense with excitement. “I don't think I've seen this much activity since we tested that witch's grave in Salem.”

“
Alleged
witch, dear,” said Mrs. Malone, peering at the dial. “Unjustly accused, poor thing; no wonder she couldn't settle down after she died.... Oh yes, those numbers look
very
encouraging!” She wrote them in a small notebook. “Did you take a temperature reading when we arrived? I think it's starting to feel cooler.”

Poppy brushed damp hair off her forehead and wondered if she should point out that the temperature
always
fell after sunset.

“You're right,” said Mr. Malone, squinting at a thermometer. “It looks as if the temperature has dropped—let's see—three degrees since we got here!”

Will took the thermometer from his father. “You're right. It's down to ninety-five,” he said. “Brr. Get out the sweaters.”

“That's not quite the deep, bone-chilling cold that indicates that a spirit is present,” admitted Mrs. Malone. “But still! The night is young!”

A mournful, eerie sound floated through the air.

“Shh.” Mr. Malone held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Malone whispered. “It sounded like a sad and lonely spirit, longing to find rest.”

“It sounded like an owl,” said Poppy flatly.

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Malone. “What are we more likely to find in a graveyard? Ghosts? Or owls?”

A dark form launched itself from the top of a nearby tree and flew silently above their heads, its wings outstretched against the darkening sky.

“Owls,” said Poppy, trying not to sound triumphant.

“Don't get too smug,” said Mr. Malone, pointing the thermometer at her. “Remember, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth—'”

“Than are dreamt of in my philosophy. I know, I know.” Poppy said. Her parents were fond of reciting this quote from Shakespeare's
Hamlet
, especially when she tried to offer a natural explanation for any strange occurrence. “But that was just an owl.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Malone. “Remember, some cultures believe that owls are guardians of the afterlife and that they help souls transition from this plane of existence to the next. I think that seeing that owl is a
very
good sign. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You're always feeling things in your bones,” muttered Franny as she made sure the lens cap was off the video camera. “Remember when your bones told you I'd make the cheerleading squad? Or that I would get an A on my history test? Or that Garrett McCoy would ask me to the homecoming dance? I think maybe we should stop listening to your bones.”

Mrs. Malone ignored this. “And you know that graveyards have always been lucky for us, Emerson,” she said, giving Mr. Malone a misty smile.

Mr. Malone stopped twiddling with the knobs on the camera tripod long enough to smile at her. “That's true. Remember the time we staked out that druid burial ground in Kansas?”

Her eyes got a dreamy, faraway look. “How could I forget? That was the night you proposed!”

Poppy knew what was coming next. Quickly, she said, “Um, I think we might need a couple more motion sensors at the base of the angel statue. Dad, can you tell me where you put the extras—”

But it was too late.

Mr. Malone bounded across two graves and vaulted over a headstone in order to plant a kiss on Mrs. Malone's nose. “That was an unforgettable night,” he said gallantly.

“Ick!” Franny covered her eyes in horror. “Stop it!”

“First you said yes,” Mr. Malone continued, “and then later that night we managed to record the ghostly chant of an ancient druid ritual.”

“I'm not listening to this,” Will called out, putting his fingers in his ears and then humming loudly for good measure.

“Why don't we play that tape tonight when we go home?” Mrs. Malone murmured, gazing into Mr. Malone's eyes. “It's been so long since we've listened to Our Song.”

Poppy winced. “Please,” she said. “Don't.”

When her parents were in this kind of mood, they did more than listen to the tape of the druids (whose tuneless chant made them sound vaguely depressed). They put stereo speakers in the windows, played the tape at full volume, and performed a dance on the front lawn (preferably under a full moon), which involved slowly circling each other and waving their arms mysteriously in the air.

“I'm not sure our new neighbors are ready for the druids,” Poppy added. “Or for the druid dance.”

“It will haunt their dreams,” said Will. “I still wake up screaming at least once a month.”

“Well, if you children don't want to hear more about our courtship, I suggest you start lending a hand,” Mrs. Malone said crisply. “Franny, get the extra batteries out of the camera case. You know how spirit activity causes them to run down.”

Mrs. Malone handed Poppy a voice-activated tape recorder. “I'm going to put you in charge of taking notes,” she said. “We'll need a record of everything that happens as evidence. If we see or hear anything unusual—a floating light, a sudden mist, an unusual noise—”

“I know, I know,” Poppy interrupted. “I say the date, the time, and what we saw or heard.”

“Is your watch accurate?” asked Mr. Malone.

“I synchronize it to Greenwich Mean Time every morning,” Poppy said, offended. “Of course it's accurate.”

“Good. Franny, come here and hold this camera while I tighten the tripod,” Mr. Malone said.

Sighing deeply, Franny stood up and slouched over to her father. “And to think I could be at home watching my favorite TV show,” she said bitterly. “Or any TV show, for that matter. Even the nightly news would be more interesting than this.”

Mr. Malone started to hand her the camera, then stopped, frowning. “Just look at yourself,” he said accusingly. “What have you done with your hair?”

For the first time since they had arrived at the cemetery, Franny smiled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “Well, first I used that new conditioner and then I used my curling iron to make loose ringlets—”

“Tie it back. Now.” Mr. Malone reached in his pocket. “Here's a rubber band.”

“But I spent an hour getting it to look perfect,” Franny protested.

“You know the rules,” Mr. Malone said impatiently. “If any skeptics see a photo of you looking like that, they'll claim that any anomalies we happen to film were just your hair flying around in front of the camera lens.”

“Fine.” Sulkily, she pulled her hair into a ponytail.

“Good. And wear this, just to be on the safe side.” He handed her a shapeless cotton hat.

She closed her eyes as if in pain, but put it on. “Of course, I'll have horrible hat hair tomorrow, but I suppose you don't care about that,” she said gloomily.

“You're right, I don't,” said Mr. Malone, turning back to the camera. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. “What is that obnoxious odor?” He sniffed again, then glared at her. “Are you wearing perfume?”

Franny crossed her arms and stared at him defiantly. “Yes! And it's not obnoxious! It's called Evening Dreams. I read about it in a magazine. It's the favorite perfume of all the movie stars in Hollywood—”

“I don't care if it's the favorite perfume of the maharajah himself!” Mr. Malone roared. “Get a bottle of water and a paper towel and scrub it off!”

Franny scowled. “If I can't
look
nice, I should at least be able to
smell
nice.”

“Now, dear, be reasonable,” said Mrs. Malone. “You know that ghosts often get our attention through our olfactory sense. Remember when we all smelled lilacs in the dining room at the old Oakwood mansion? Think how you would feel if we missed making contact with a ghost simply because you wanted to wear perfume!”

Poppy slumped down, her back to a particularly worn headstone, and closed her eyes. Yawning, she waited for the inevitable argument to come to its inevitable end.

Fifteen minutes later, Franny was sulkily double-checking the cameras, after having scrubbed off her perfume with a paper towel and a bottle of seltzer water.

“Will, why don't you put the EVP recorder on that nice flat tomb,” Mrs. Malone said. “We don't want to miss a chance to capture the sound of any disembodied voices that happen to show up.”

By the time the equipment was set up, night was officially falling. The Malones took their stations. They were scattered among the gravestones, close enough to see and talk to one another, but far enough apart so that they could each observe a different part of the cemetery.

“Now remember, ghosts respond to our vibrational frequency,” said Mrs. Malone. “I suggest that we all meditate for a few moments. That will open a portal so that the spirits can more easily contact us. Rolly, stop throwing pebbles at that marble plinth, dear. Come sit beside me.”

She closed her eyes and began making a low humming noise. For several moments, that was the only sound.

Then her eyes opened and she glared around at her family. “I cannot do this alone, you know,” she said severely. “I need everyone's help.”

“I hate meditating,” Franny said. “My mind always goes blank. I never have a single thought in my head.”

Will's and Poppy's eyes met.

Poppy gave him a warning look. He winked in response.

“Too easy,” he whispered.

“Just send out warm and loving feelings to the Universe,” said Mrs. Malone. “That's enough to make a ghost feel welcome.”

Sighing, Poppy closed her eyes and tried to summon up warm and loving feelings. It turned out to be quite difficult. She kept getting sidetracked by little annoyances, like a bead of sweat rolling down her face or the whine of a mosquito next to her ear.

She shifted to a more comfortable position and tried to concentrate. She had recently read a fascinating article about studies that had been done with Tibetan Buddhist monks who had spent decades learning the inner mysteries of meditation. Many were so skilled at focusing on their inner world that they could completely block out the discomforts of the outer world.

Just pay attention to the sounds around you, she told herself. Forget about the heat, the bugs, and that sharp pebble under your left leg....

She breathed slowly and listened.

She heard her parents humming nasally, like contented, out-of-tune bees.

She heard the squeak of a bat as it flew overhead.