An Uninvited Ghost (2 page)

“Hello?”

Scott knew well enough not to answer; even if the old woman could hear him, it would spoil the gag. But he did want to simulate the sound of boots stomping on the floor and chains rattling, so he did as he’d rehearsed and slid two five-pound ankle weights across the floor, lifting them a little, dragging and then dropping them. For the chain sound, he found the bag of coins he’d been left and shook it rhythmically.

It had the desired effect: Scott heard the old woman’s footsteps, slow and labored, heading toward the door of the room in which he was waiting. There were no footsteps from whomever that other voice belonged to, so he assumed only she would enter the room. He readied his props and ran through the motions again in his head.

He was situated only a few feet from the window, so reaching the drapes when the library door opened was going to be easy. And sure enough, the door did open slowly, and the old woman’s voice, unusually robust and excited, called out.

“Is anyone there?” she asked again. “It’s so dark, I can’t see a thing.” She sounded about as threatening as a butterfly, but a job was a job.

Scott pulled on the drapes and moved them back and forth with his hand. The woman seemed less frightened than fascinated. She called out, “There’s someone there, isn’t there? Can you speak to me?”

Scott reached for the handle of the toy sword, which had been tied to his waist with a sash made out of an old scarf. It felt a little heavier than when he’d practiced before, and the handle was colder. It didn’t feel like plastic, but then the toys these days were so realistic, it could have been anything.

The old woman still didn’t scream. Maybe he didn’t seem fierce enough. So he stepped on the pad, which he knew was wired to a sound system concealed somewhere in the walls. A weird, echo-driven cry of utter despair filled the room.

But the old woman still seemed less frightened than concerned. “Oh, my,” she said. “Is something wrong? Where are you?”

This plan certainly wasn’t going to work; Scott wasn’t going to receive his compensation, and the whole thing had been for naught. But, he thought, there was no point in going this far without giving her the whole show.

He swung the sword over his head three times, marveling at how real it felt and sounded. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn there was a real metal blade on the thing.

“Now stop that,” the old woman scolded. “You could hurt someone.”

Time for the last move, and then Scott could leave. He pointed the tip of the sword, as best as he could tell, in the old woman’s direction.

“Me?” she asked. “What about me?”

Then all Scott had to do was pretend to threaten her with the sword. He’d aim for what should have been her throat, the plastic sword would make a
thud
when it struck, the old woman would be frightened—or not—and then he could leave. Might as well play it for what it was worth.

He put extra effort into the swing toward the old woman, knowing the rubberized plastic of the blade couldn’t hurt her no matter how hard he swung. And he let loose with a whoop and let the blade fly.

Then, the oddest thing.

The old woman stopped talking, and he heard a body—no doubt hers—hit the floor.

Scott didn’t stop to find out what had gone wrong. He headed straight through the outside wall and flew away as quickly as he could.

“Ghosts!” My daughter, Melissa, just turned ten, came running down the stairs from her bedroom. “There are ghosts in the house!” she screamed. She ran through the front room and into the kitchen, where she hit the back door and tore into the enormous backyard.

Behind her, objects—a wax apple, a real banana, an old hat, a lace handkerchief, and a picture frame (hey—that was
mine
!)—flew around in the space behind her, held up by unseen hands, manipulated in ways that betrayed intelligent thought (except that picture frame, which I wanted back) rather than some wind-based phenomenon.

Eerie laughter (admittedly attributable to hidden speakers and recordings Melissa and I had made one night) filled the front room of my guesthouse in the New Jersey Shore town of Harbor Haven. Guests, almost all of them senior citizens, stood and watched amazed as the objects flew in a perfect circle, then began to juggle, then flew all the way up the stairs and into Melissa’s bedroom, where the door slammed shut.

I checked my watch. Four o’clock already?

The guests stood transfixed, watching the spectacle. When it was over, they applauded mightily.

Perhaps I should explain.

After I divorced Melissa’s father, to whom we will refer as The Swine, I bought this huge Victorian in the town where I grew up. Upon moving in (and after a series of circumstances that left me with a concussion), I discovered two ghosts who were, as they put it, “trapped” in the house and on its grounds, since they had died here.

It’s a long story (told elsewhere), but two things happened when it was over:

These two events meshed nicely, since I needed Paul and Maxie’s cooperation to fulfill Rance’s requirements and to make my guesthouse work, and Paul needed me to participate in the odd detective case. Neither Paul nor Maxie is able to leave my property, so Paul requires eyes and ears out “in the world,” as he puts it, and that’s where I come in.

I don’t know how much persuasion it took on Paul’s part, but after a few days, Maxie agreed to the plan. Part of the agreement, however, was that we not let the guests know every time Paul and Maxie were around—Maxie was especially adamant about “not wanting strangers bothering me all the time”—so I would be discreet about communicating with them other than during “performances.”

I’d spent the ensuing five months placing ads (to fill the rooms Rance was not booking), making brochures and generally going through the guesthouse making sure everything was perfect.

 

 

And everything had seemed perfect the day the first guests arrived, three days ago. Melissa and I had stood outside the house on that lovely sunny morning, watching our first customers exit a navy blue minivan with the logo “Senior Plus Tours” on its side. Rance had indeed delivered on his promise: I had five available bedrooms, and there were six lovely seniors plus a tour guide who had all put down deposits and agreed to come spend varying amounts of time with me, my daughter, and two undead creatures who would haunt them vigorously a minimum of twice a day, as dictated by the terms of my contract.

Everybody has a dream vacation. Who am I to argue?

“These people know about Paul and Maxie, but what about someone who comes here and
doesn’t
know about the ghosts?” Melissa had asked as we waved at our new guests.

“We’ll make sure the Senior Plus tour guests know not to say anything, and we’ll be discreet with the others,” I answered.

“What’s discreet?” she asked.

“Sneaky,” I said.

Maxie had then appeared at my side out of the blue—she does that with some regularity, because she enjoys the startling effect it has—rolling her eyes and clucking her tongue at the sight of our visitors.

“You sure these old people can handle it?” she said. “I’m not interested in giving anybody a heart attack. Unless it’s intentional.” She was hovering a few feet above the ground, wearing a tight pair of jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the legend “Wouldn’t You Like to Know?” But who knew how long that ensemble would last? Maxie’s clothes tended to change—I couldn’t tell whether it was intentional or not—based on her mood.

Maxie, who was only twenty-eight when she died, had not taken the transition to her new state of being easily. In fact, while she often referred to herself and Paul as dead—something Paul never did—she seemed to think the whole thing would all blow over eventually. Her main purpose these days seemed to be giving me decorating tips, when all I wanted to do was keep the plumbing working and the heat on long enough to make my guests happy.

“They’ll be fine,” I told her, with absolutely no certainty whatsoever. “They came here because they
want
to see you, not in spite of it, like me. Now remember, you’re not to do anything . . .
obvious
, except at ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, every day.”

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Maxie said out of the corner of her mouth.

“I didn’t talk you into this. Paul did.”

“That’s who I was talking to.”

Sure enough, Paul had materialized at my daughter’s side just as a fiftysomething woman approached me and put out her hand. He was muscular and a bit wan (in the parts that weren’t transparent), and was already stroking his goatee. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Linda Jane Smith,” the woman said. “I’m the designated liaison between the tour guests and the site—that’s you. I’m also a registered nurse, in case there are any medical problems with our Senior Plus guests.”

I shook Linda Jane’s hand and introduced Melissa and myself. I didn’t feel it necessary to introduce Paul and Maxie. “Nice to meet you in person,” I said. “Now, I’ve assigned the rooms as you specified. But I hope you don’t mind—I had to double you up with Dolores Santiago.”

Linda Jane checked her list. “Yes, she signed on to the trip so late. But she’s making her own way here, apparently; she wasn’t on the van. Have you met her yet?”

“No. She e-mailed that she’ll be here in an hour or so. Do you mind sharing the room?”

She shook her head. “It’s fine.” She looked up at the house. “It’s a lovely place. And it’s so big.”

The house has seven bedrooms. Subtracting one each for Melissa and myself, that left five that I could rent out at a time. To keep the costs down for each guest, but to assure that I wouldn’t lose money on the deal, Senior Plus Tours had offered a lower rate for those willing to share a room, and most of the guests—including Linda Jane—had jumped on the deal. That left me with only one vacant room. I was glad we weren’t operating at full capacity for my first week, though on the other hand, more guests would have meant more money.

“You’re sure Mr. and Mrs. Jones have a double bed, and not two singles?” Linda Jane continued. “I don’t know what they’re planning, but Mr. Jones was absolutely adamant about it.”

I smiled my best proprietor smile. “They have the second bedroom on the second floor,” I said, nodding. “It has a queen-size bed. Now, let’s get inside, and . . .” The sooner I could get them inside, and away from the ghosts (mostly Maxie) until it was time for the afternoon “performance,” the better. Maxie was nervous with strangers around, and tended to compensate by being, let’s say,
unpredictable
.

“Actually,” Linda Jane answered, “I’ll just have the van driver carry all the luggage up to the appointed rooms, if that’s all right.”

Paul came over to me, taking care to walk around Linda Jane, which I thought was a gallant gesture on his part, since he could have walked through her. But he knew that made me a little queasy.

“We need to talk,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ve had an offer.”

An offer? What, he was going to leave for a better house to haunt? No, wait—Paul and Maxie were apparently incapable of traveling off the property. They didn’t know why; Paul said some other ghosts he’d had contact with could move about freely, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the process. He reminded me that, unlike in the movies, when he and Maxie had died almost a year and a half earlier they hadn’t been given an “instruction manual.” He was hoping that they would develop more skills as time passed. Maybe even eventually move on to another level of post-life existence.

So what could this offer be about?

Oh no.

It had to be the other half of the bargain we’d made—that if he and Maxie would “entertain” the guests at my house, I’d help Paul with the occasional investigation. But the timing couldn’t be worse for that; my first guests were literally just then walking up the path to the house.

“Okay?” Linda Jane repeated. “The driver can bring the luggage up?”

“Sure,” I said, moving toward the oncoming guests, who were arriving at what could charitably be called a leisurely pace. Paul moved with me as I advanced, giving me just enough time to say, “Not now. Please. No detecting now.”

“Detecting?” Melissa had heard me. “Are you going to be doing some detecting?” She seemed to think this would be a great idea.

I think I whipped my head toward her a little too quickly.
“No,”
I said. Melissa’s eyes registered a little surprise and a little concern that her mother had flipped out.

Paul had noted my demeanor as well, and nodded. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later.” And he vanished.

A lovely little woman wearing harlequin glasses and a blue suit and—I swear—a straw hat, reached out for my hand. “Hello,” I’d said, taking hers, “I’m Alison Kerby, your host.”

“Are there stairs everywhere in the house?” the woman demanded in a harsh tone. “And it’s
hostess
, by the way.”

“There are stairs—it was in the information you were given—but if you have difficulty, I’m sure we can accommodate . . .”