“The dining hall chairs,” he says.
I stretch my neck then too and see all the chairs tucked neatly in for the night, each one beneath its properly numbered table.
“They’re still there,” I tell him.
“They were stacked wonky-like all the way up to the ceiling,” he says. “Completely defying gravity.”
Mags gasps. “Completely defying gravity?” she says with wide eyes as she grabs my hand and holds it tight. Then she whispers to me, “That’s exactly how it happened in the movie.”
“Poltergeist?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Whoa,” I say.
She nods. “This is getting real.”
Ms. Lettie gives a chuckle and says, “Oh, that Mr. Honeycutt. He sure likes to cause mischief.”
Mr. Amblebee nods in agreement.
“Well, they’re all on the floor now,” Dad tells Mr. Plum. “Come on back inside.”
“No,” Mr. Plum says, shaking his head again. “No, I’m not going back in there.”
“Mr. Plum,” T. S. Phoenix says, turning on the black machine with lighted dots in his hand, which he told me earlier is called a Geiger counter and measures ionizing radiation in the air. “What brought you down to the lobby in your underwear to begin with?”
“I don’t remember everything except that there was a cold breeze inside my room and the window wasn’t open. And then someone…someone was calling my name,” Mr. Plum says, taking five backward red steps. “Calling me all the way down to the dining hall.”
“Mr. Honeycutt knew your name?” Mags breathes.
“N-no,” Mr. Plum stammers. “It…it w-was a woman. I—I saw her.”
“What did she look like?” Dad asks him.
“I—I don’t remember,” Mr. Plum says.
“Come back in and we’ll take some readings and check it out,” T. S. Phoenix is saying.
“No, no, no,” Mr. Plum tells him. “I can’t do that.”
“Mr. Plum,” Tally says. “You can’t just stand out here all night in your underwear.”
At that exact moment, a rusted Toyota Camry with an Uber sticker in the window pulls to a stop right in front of the walkway.
“You’re right about that,” Mr. Plum says, opening the back door and sliding in.
“What about the hotel? Your clothes?” Ms. Lettie calls.
“Ah…dude?” the Uber driver asks. “Do you know you’re missing your pants?”
“Just go,” Mr. Plum informs him.
The driver hesitates and then says, “The thing is…I feel much more comfortable with passengers who have their pants on—”
“I said go!” Mr. Plum shouts.
The guy shifts it into drive. Mr. Plum slams the door and we all stand there watching the rusted Camry with a missing front hubcap lurch forward and fly down East Wonderview.
* * *
Once we get back to room 332, me and Mags are wide awake, holding hands underneath the covers of my bed.
Every single solitary light is on.
No negotiation needed.
Mags even pulled the chair out from under the desk and wedged it under the doorknob.
“Do ghosts come through the door?” I ask her. “I thought you said they come through the fuzz.”
“You’re right,” she says, grabbing the TV remote from the night table between our beds, unwedging the chair from under the knob and throwing the remote into the hall before relocking everything and scrambling back for the bed.
“I’m starting to have second thoughts about agreeing to come out here,” she tells me now, hunkered once again under the covers. “Infinite dibs is totally not worth this.”
“Well, I’m glad you are here,” I tell her. “I need my true blue.”
“I know, but I said I’d come because I didn’t really think the place was haunted,” she goes on. “And now I’m totally freaked out.”
“Tell me what happens at the eleven-minute, fifty-second mark in The Shining,” I tell her.
“Never,” Mags says. “And you can’t make me.”
“You want to know what?” I ask her.
“What?”
“I think there is something phony baloney going on here,” I tell her.
“What does that mean?”
“I was thinking about it…not everyone was in the lobby after Mr. Plum screamed bloody murder,” I say.
“Mmmm, no, I think everyone was there,” she says, starting to count on her fingers. “Mr. Lozano, Ms. Lettie, T. S. Phoenix, Tally, your dad, The Faz, Big John, Ubbe Amblebee, Madame Drusilla—Mr. Plum, of course. Polka-dot boxers and matching socks? Ew.”
“Totally ew,” I agree.
“Chef Raphaël was there…I’ve never seen a guy without a single hair on his head.”
“What about the math teacher, Mr. Lund? He’s pretty bald.”
“Yeah, but he’s still got that powdered-doughnut look around the back with a bite missing in the front. Chef Raphaël is bowling-ball bald.”
“You know who wasn’t there?” I say. “Jack the busboy.”
“Yeah, but I found out he lives in town with his mom.”
“So, that’s everyone, then,” I say.
“I think so.”
“Wait, what about…Ruby Red,” I whisper. “Where was she?”
“Riiiight.” Mags leans her head on her elbow. “Where was she?”
“That’s the question,” I say. “Not to mention, she just vanished from the dining hall during the ghostly meet-and-greet.”
“Really?”
I nod.
“Well, maybe she doesn’t live in the employee quarters and she went home early,” Mags says. “That could be why she wasn’t in the lobby just now.”
“I’m pretty sure Jack the busboy is the only one who doesn’t live on-site.”
“Mmm,” Mags says.
“So, why do you think she didn’t show up when everyone else did?” I ask. “It’s weird, right? Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“Maybe she didn’t hear it because she was sleeping.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But he screamed pretty loud and everyone else seemed to hear it. Why not her? Could she really sleep through something like that?”
“Some people can,” Mags says. “When we flew to Cleveland for my grandma’s funeral last year, my dad wore earplugs on the plane while he was sleeping and he didn’t hear a thing.”
“I guess,” I agree. “Did you notice that the employee dorms are directly across the courtyard from our window?”
“Who cares?”
“If there is something phony baloney going on in this hotel and a current employee is at the heart of it,” I say, “we’ll all care.”
Mags snorts. “Don’t you mean if there’s a serial killer living across the courtyard?”
“Where do you think serial killers live?” I demand. “On Mars? No, they live here. Among us. Maybe even…there.” I point toward the window.
“That’s Dateline talking.”
“Heed my warning, Mags Bogdonavich,” I tell her. “There is some funny business going on in this hotel as sure as I’m standing here, and I’m going to be the one to find out what it is.”
“Uh-huh, and just how are you going to do that when you are afraid of the closet?”
“I’m not afraid of the closet,” I tell her. “Just the missing body parts that might be hidden inside.”
“Uh-huh,” she says again.
WHAT-IFS
Are we sure she checked every drawer?
“Come on.” I push the bedspread off me, feeling the bravery crystals kicking in again.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“To do some investigating,” I tell her, heading toward the window.
She
scrambles in behind me and we peek outside between the crack in the heavy velvet curtains. The back courtyard below is completely dark except for one lone tall streetlamp with a dim umbrella of light shining down on the cobblestone patio. Across the paved courtyard are the employee quarters.
They’re three stories tall and lined with four sets of windows on each floor. Every window is dark.
Except one.
Ruby Red’s.
We watch through half-open curtains as she takes off her black raincoat. Her wet hair is plastered to her head. She’s no longer wearing her housekeeper uniform.
“Look!” I point. “I told you, didn’t I?”
I grab my ghost log and make a note.
“What is she doing?” Mags squints.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But why would she be out at two-thirty in the morning? Two-thirty-three, to be exact.”
“In the pouring rain,” Mags adds.
“Well, she must have heard Mr. Plum if she was awake.”
“Then why didn’t she come to the lobby with everyone else?” Mags wonders.
“Exactly.”
“Maybe she was out on a date or something,” she suggests.
“She’s way too old to date,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure old people date,” Mags tells me.
“Mmmm…yeah, that doesn’t sound right.”
“Last year rumor had it that Ms. Morgan, the art teacher, was dating Principal Tannenbaum,” she says.
“Yeah, I know, but I chose to suppress it,” I say. “Ms. Morgan could do better. Plus…ew.”
“Well, duh, but I’m just saying, it happens,” Mags tells me. “Look at your mom and the creeper she’s living with in Florida.”
“That’s not dating.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“A nightmare.”
“Wait.” She points. “What’s she doing? Is that a suitcase? Maybe she’s quitting too. Maybe she freaked out at the lights in the dining hall and just bolted. And now she’s packing to leave because she’s too scared to stay, just like Mr. Plum and all the others. Except, you know…dressed.”
We watch as Ruby Red shoves the suitcase with a brown leather handle under her bed before she moves to the window, looks outside left and right and then pulls the curtains closed, leaving only a crack of light showing between.
At precisely 2:38 a.m., her light goes off.
“She doesn’t look scared to me,” I say. “It looks like she’s going to sleep.”
We crawl back into my bed and lie under the velvet bedspread staring at each other.
“So, what do you think now?” I ask Mags.
“Phony baloney funny business supreme,” she agrees. “But she couldn’t possibly have done what Mr. Plum said he saw.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I definitely think there is something paranormal happening here too. I mean, how else could the dining hall chairs be completely defying gravity and then just not be?”
“Yeah,” she agrees.
“What do you think it is?”
“You mean other than the obvious paranormal reason we came up here?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “We need to investigate what’s going on.”
“Agreed,” she says. “But what if the funny business cancels out the haunted part?”
“But it’s my job to do the research,” I tell her.
“The thing is…if we prove this place is not haunted at all, your dad may lose his Netflix contract altogether.”
WHAT-IFS
No barbecue = no Mom.
“And what if he never forgives you for that one?” Mags goes on.
“Right,” I agree.
But my what-ifs take it one step further.
WHAT-IFS
What if he leaves you too?
Once you see polka-dot boxers paired with matching socks on some old guy, you can’t unsee it.
Add Mr. Plum’s ghost sighting on the very first night to the mix?
Me and Mags already need a major mental health day.
And it’s only day two.
And lucky for us, Dad agrees. Probably more so because he wants us out of their way while they’re busy setting up all T. S. Phoenix’s scientific ghost equipment and Dad’s film stuff for tonight’s first big investigation.
T. S. Phoenix wanted to do their first official investigation in room 217.
The room.
T. S. Phoenix thinks it’s probably highly active, which basically means it’s a hot spot for ghosts. He thinks so especially after hearing Ms. Lettie’s story about Mr. Honeycutt. Because room 217 is the room they stayed in on their honeymoon. But after Mr. Plum’s sighting, the team thought it best to try to catch on film the ghostly woman who summoned him to the lobby.
Over breakfast we give Dad, Big John and The Faz a whole briefing all about the phony baloney funny business we spotted going on across the courtyard. Dad says we do good work and to keep him updated on any new findings.
After breakfast, me and Mags decide our mental health day is best served at a place called Fun City. She found it on her Yelp app.
FUN CITY CLAIM: A FAMILY TRADITION SINCE 1969.
Its whoopee quality announces itself in its name.
Fun.
I don’t even need to ask Crystal Mystic to confirm it because everyone who’s anyone knows any place with something called giant water walking balls and a rainbow slide and bumper boats is kid approved.
A perfect spot to spend a mental health day. Though Mags is more in it for the boys. Fine by me.
She had me at bumper boats.
While Mags is applying the contraband blush she’s not supposed to have that she bought at JFK airport, my cell phone buzzes.
A text from Mom with a picture attached.
My heartbeat races.
It’s been thirteen whole days since I’ve heard anything from her.
Thirteen.
Mags has been gone for a day and a half and her mom has texted her three times and called twice just to see how she is. She even asks Mags what she’s eating and if she’s taking her daily vitamin and going to the bathroom okay.
I open the text and see a too-tan Mom next to the ocean in a far-too-small bikini.
Having a great time at the beach.
Seven words in thirteen days.
And not one of them is about me.
Not my food intake or my vitamin regimen or even my daily trips to the bathroom.
Having. A. Great. Time. At. The. Beach.
I read the words over and over again while Mags puts on illegal blusher. Read them again. And then again. I squint at the picture of Mom posing on a brightly colored beach towel on the white sand.
Enlarge.
Reduce.
Enlarge.
Reduce.
If moms were like amusement park rides, Mags’s mom would be like this slow-moving Ferris wheel mom. A predictable, steady ride that’s always going in the same direction and you never once go upside down or feel out of control or like you’re going to fall out at any minute. You always know where you are and where you’re going. My mom is more like a corkscrew roller coaster. It can be a blast to go the speed of sound and be upside down and jerked in all directions…sometimes. But other times it just makes you want to throw up your churro.
I show the picture of too-tan Mom in her too-small bikini to Mags.
“Having a great time at the beach,” I recite.
“I’m sorry, but the purpose of a bathing suit is to cover things?” Mags informs me, squeezing her eyes closed and pushing the phone away. “I mean, ew.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
One thing I know is that a Ferris wheel mom never wears thong bottoms.
Mags’s mom wears board
shorts and a tankini even on the hottest days when she takes us to the Carmine Street Pool. If my mom took us to the pool in this eye patch, I’d die a hundred deaths of embarrassment and then throw up my churro.
“Will you delete that thing already? It’s just plain disturbing. And can I just tell you that you should warn a person before showing them something like that. It’s like a scarred-for-life kind of thing.”
“It’s my too-much-skin mom, not yours,” I tell her. “I’m the victim here.”
“Still.” Mags takes another look and then wrinkles her nose up at me. “TMI supreme.”
My thumb hovers over the Delete button, but I decide to save it instead.
And on our walk to Fun City, while Mags is going on about Jack the busboy, who was shirtless yet again while he pulled weeds in the garden out in front of the hotel, I can’t help but wonder why Mom’s text didn’t say Wish you were here or even Miss you.
I mean, is it too much to ask for a gif hug even?
How hard is it to send a smiling dog?
A bursting heart.
Something.
WHAT-IFS
Are you looking for an answer
that doesn’t end in five suitcases?
* * *
At Fun City, Mags calls dibs no less than three million times before lunch alone.
Dibs at the miniature golf.
Dibs at the go-carts.
Dibs at the bungee trampoline.
She even calls dibs at the giant water walking balls, which turn out to be a real metaphor for life. You get inside these clear plastic bubbles and you push and bounce and bumble, butting heads with all the other bubbles while trying to stay upright and afloat on the dirty pond of life.
I fall on my face seven times.
Mags doesn’t fall once.
Typical.
“Dibs on him, too.” She points to the kid behind the snack bar counter while we wait in line for corn dog baskets.
I roll my eyes. “What will Jack the busboy say when he finds out you’re cheating on him?” I ask her.
“Yeah, well…we’re not exactly exclusive,” she says.
Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter Page 6