A Gust of Ghosts

by Suzanne Harper

  And with that, she was off, leaving Poppy alone and smiling at the row of rainbow-colored bottles.

  In the end, trapping the ghosts was almost ridiculously easy. Poppy borrowed five bottles from Mrs. Rivera’s porch, with a silent promise to replace them by morning. Then she hurried to the house, where Henry was again going to spend the evening. It took some maneuvering to get Will, Franny, and Henry alone, with no ghosts around, but she finally managed it. It took only ten minutes to make their plan. Then they just had to put it into motion.

  “I’ve been looking through some old cookbooks of Mom’s,” Poppy said as she sat at the kitchen table that evening, drinking a glass of milk. “Have you ever made a pecan nut roll with a cream cheese filling?”

  Bertha was beating eggs with a whisk. “I’ve done a walnut roll,” she said, “and a pistachio cream surprise. But I don’t think I’ve ever made a roll with pecans, have you, Agnes?”

  “Now that you mention it, no, I haven’t,” Agnes said. She was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping listlessly through the newspaper’s food section. “That sounds a sight more interesting than anything published in today’s food column.”

  “I’d like to take a look at that cookbook if you have it handy,” Bertha said.

  Poppy looked around the kitchen with a slight frown on her face, doing her best impression of someone who has mislaid an item and can’t imagine where it might be. “Hmm, let’s see, I had it just an hour ago,” she said. “Oh, I think I might have left it in the pantry!”

  Bertha put down her whisk. “Don’t move, Agnes,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

  “Oh, please, don’t bother,” Agnes said. “I don’t mind at all.”

  They pushed through the pantry door together.

  Poppy shut the door firmly, placed a spirit trap on the floor, and hurried away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she left the kitchen.

  “Those nut rolls did sound good. Just not good enough to make up for being haunted for the rest of our lives.”

  “Oh, Buddy,” Franny sang out sweetly. “Where are you?”

  “Right here on the porch,” Buddy answered, a little surprised. “Right where I always am.”

  “Of course.” Franny gave him a twinkling smile as she ran up the steps and settled on the swing next to him. “I’m glad you’re not playing one of your sad songs again. I just put on mascara, and I’d hate to have it run all over the place.”

  Buddy grinned and pushed against the wooden floor with his foot to make the swing sway gently back and forth. “You look pretty enough without using makeup, Miss Franny, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Well, I don’t mind you saying I’m pretty, of course,” Franny said, “but the rest of that sentence sounds exactly like what my mother always says.”

  “Uh-huh. Which is why you decided to try a little mascara tonight, huh?” Buddy teased her.

  “Maybe.” Franny tossed her head, but she was smiling. Then she stopped smiling and put on a serious expression. “But I didn’t come find you to talk about makeup, Buddy.”

  “I don’t imagine so,” he said solemnly. “Now, roping calves or building a hen house, that’s more my area—”

  “I came to bring you a message from Peggy Sue,” Franny said quickly. She recited these words woodenly, as if she had practiced them over and over for the last hour (which she had). Fortunately, Buddy was not an experienced theatergoer, so he didn’t notice her stilted delivery. She had his full attention as soon as she uttered the magic words “Peggy Sue.”

  “A message?” he asked, his eyes full of hope. “Well, spit it out! What did she say?”

  Franny sighed romantically, so caught up in the moment that, for a moment, she forgot that she was acting. “She wants to meet you in the garden shed. Come on, I’m going that way, too....”

  As soon as Buddy stepped inside, she closed the shed door and pulled a spirit trap from underneath a nearby bush.

  “I’m sorry, Buddy,” she whispered as she hurried away.

  It was even easier for Franny to trap Peggy Sue. All she had to do was say loudly, “I can’t wait to get in the bath. I just bought a new kind of bath oil at the drugstore—cucumber-melon with a hint of papaya,” as she walked toward the bathroom.

  When she got to the door, Peggy Sue manifested inside the bathroom. “Too late,” she said smugly, closing the door in Franny’s face. “And don’t bother coming back for at least an hour. Cucumber-melon sounds wonderful.”

  “Don’t forget the hint of papaya,” Franny murmured as she carefully placed the spirit trap in front of the bathroom door.

  Will just told Travis there was a cool new video game in his closet. As Will slammed the door shut and laid the trap, he started whistling, and he didn’t stop until he’d stretched on his bed, pulled the quilt up, and closed his eyes for a little nap.

  The person Poppy felt sorriest for was Rolly. When he was told that they needed to trap Bingo, too, his face had crumpled. It was so unlike Rolly to show any emotion, let alone sorrow, that Poppy had felt as if her own heart would break.

  Then, of course, he bit her.

  Still, she explained as she put a Band-Aid on her wrist, Bingo would not be happy among living people. He belonged, she said, with others like him. He belonged with other ghosts.

  Rolly, of course, had not accepted this logic. He had stormed around the house and made dark threats, until Poppy finally said, “You can visit him anytime you want. All you have to do is ask, and I’ll take you to the cemetery myself. I promise.”

  And Rolly, after a few well-aimed kicks, finally gave in.

  The ghost Poppy felt sorriest for was Chance. She had lured him to her father’s study with the promise of watching rare old movie clips online. He had been so excited and happy about this prospect that she had felt guilt sitting in her stomach like a lead weight.

  When she went back to pick up the trap—all the ghosts had been captured within the hour—she held it up to the light.

  She could see a very small Chance Carrington inside, like a mouse that’s been caught in one of those humane traps that doesn’t kill but lets the mouse live to be released into the wild.

  When she held up the bottle to her ear, she could hear him shouting uncomplimentary remarks, like “You villainous urchins! You mewling milk-livered miscreants! You cutthroat, clay-brained clot-heads!”

  It was all quite interesting, and Poppy tucked a few of the better insults away for possible use later on, when Will grabbed the last piece of buttered toast at breakfast or Rolly decided to see what would happen if he poured superglue in her favorite pair of shoes.

  Then she gently put the bottle into her bicycle basket with the others and pedaled off toward the cemetery with Will, Franny, Henry, and Rolly biking along behind her.

  The summer evenings were long and light, so dusk was just beginning to fall when they arrived at the graveyard.

  They stopped and sat on their bikes for a moment, looking around at the peaceful scene. Doves cooed in the trees, a lone mockingbird flew by singing another bird’s song, and a few butterflies still darted from flower to flower.

  The grass was neat, the bushes trimmed, the gravel paths raked and ready for visitors.

  Visitors, Poppy reminded herself, who would probably never come. This place was just too far off the beaten path, and probably most of the families of the people buried here had moved away a long time ago.

  But that wasn’t her fault, was it? She shook her head and got off her bike.

  “It’s too bad we have to mess it up again,” Henry said quietly. He was idly spinning his bike pedal with one foot, a serious look on his face.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Poppy said shortly. “Come on. We need to get this done so we can get home before dark.”

  Silently, they pulled broken tree branches across the tidy paths, dragged thorny vines in front of the cemetery gate, and hung snarled bits of string on random bushes. Finally, they put a spirit trap on ea
ch path.

  Then, at a signal from Poppy, they uncorked the bottles.

  There was a whoosh of freezing air, followed by the scent of bubble bath, flour, and cinnamon. For a moment, nothing happened—then five figures appeared, shimmering in the evening air.

  The ghosts stood still, their arms crossed, staring from Poppy and Will to Franny and Rolly and Henry with expressions of hurt and anger on their faces. Only Bingo seemed to understand. He looked at Rolly and Rolly looked back.

  “Bye, Bingo,” Rolly said with a wave. The little dog wagged his tail in response.

  “We’re sorry,” Poppy called out to the others. “Don’t you see? You couldn’t live with us forever. It just wouldn’t work. We’re alive and you—well, you’re not.”

  None of the ghosts said a word. Then slowly, one at a time, they turned and disappeared.

  Chapter TWENTY

  “All right, children, remember: don’t say anything unless you’re asked a question and then keep your answers brief and to the point,” Mrs. Malone said as they drove to the institute. She was wearing a jacket and skirt from a few years before; it had become a little too tight and Mrs. Malone kept tugging at the jacket hem with nervous fingers. “Don’t fidget or make faces. Don’t chew gum—in fact, if you have gum in your mouth, spit it out right now—and don’t giggle. Don’t look bored out of your minds or like you’re trying not to laugh or like you’re making up rude limericks in your head. Just try to keep your faces perfectly blank, my darlings, that’s much the safest option, I think—”

  “Mom!” Poppy said. “We know how to act.”

  “We’ve only been going to grant report presentations our whole lives, practically,” Franny added. “For heaven’s sake.”

  “Besides, we may surprise you,” said Will, a gleam in his eyes. “You never know, we might come up with something that surprises every—ow!”

  He glared at Poppy, rubbing his ankle.

  “No surprises,” Mr. Malone said as he swung into the institute parking lot and parked the car. “No talking, no burping, no smirking, no pulling of fire alarms”—this was directed at Rolly—“and absolutely no surprises.”

  They all piled out of the car and looked up at the institute, an imposing three-story granite building. Granite columns flanked an enormous bronze door with the words The Institute carved on it. The building was set on a small hill so that visitors were forced to look up at it from the parking lot. It all made Poppy feel very small indeed—which was, she realized, the whole point.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Malone gulped. “I do wish we had something more than that strange misty light to report. Just between us, I’m fairly sure it was nothing more than marsh gas.”

  “Courage, Lucille, courage,” said Mr. Malone, although he, too, looked a little pale. “We don’t know it was marsh gas, after all. It could just as easily have been a wraith who was hoping to feed on human hearts.”

  “And Rolly dear, please don’t talk to your invisible dog during the meeting,” said Mrs. Malone. “Other people may not … understand.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rolly muttered. He shot a black look in Poppy’s direction. “Bingo is gone.”

  “Oh, he is?” said Mr. Malone. “Well, that’s splendid—”

  Mrs. Malone elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Er, I mean, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quickly. “Although Bingo’s absence will make this interview a little less nerve-wracking, I must admit. Now.” He gave his family one last inspection. “Is everyone clear on how he or she needs to behave in the next half hour?”

  They all nodded.

  “Excellent!” said Mr. Malone. “Then onward—to victory!”

  And with that, the Malones swept through the bronze doors to meet the Nemesis and his great-aunt.

  “More tea? Cream? Sugar? Lemon? Biscuit?”

  From Mr. Farley’s description of his great-aunt, Poppy had imagined a fierce person with, perhaps, snapping black eyes, a face like a bulldog, and a gruff voice that would rap out questions like, “What do you have to show for yourself?” or “Why should I give you money to go ghost hunting when there are mini schnauzers who need a good home?” She had thought that Mrs. Farley would be loud and intimidating and even a bit mean.

  But instead, she was a birdlike woman with white fluffy hair and mild gray eyes. Her pink cheeks looked soft, her voice was low and soothing, and her smile, as she handed Poppy a cup of tea, was gentle.

  Poppy relaxed a bit, even daring to look into Mrs. Farley’s eyes as she took the cup from her.

  That was when she noticed that Mrs. Farley’s kind smile didn’t actually reach as far as her eyes, and that those eyes seemed to be noticing every detail about the Malones, from their shoelaces to their barrettes, even as she made polite chitchat and poured tea.

  Poppy shivered a bit. To reassure herself, she patted her backpack at her feet, which held the DVD of her ghost documentary.

  Everything will be fine, she told herself, but the butterflies in her stomach didn’t seem to believe her.

  She glanced around the room. It had high ceilings and tall windows. A thick blue rug was covered with gold stars, and gold-framed paintings hung on pale blue walls. Mr. Farley and his great-aunt were seated on spindly chairs in front of a marble fireplace, with the Malones perched on even spindlier chairs on either side of them.

  There was a small table for the tea service, but no place to set down the teacups or small plates of cookies, so the Malones had to balance these in their hands and on their knees as they talked. Once again, Poppy had the feeling that this was deliberate, to make them feel uncomfortable and ill at ease.

  Judging by Mrs. Malone’s breathless conversation, it was working.

  “And so we went in search of a vortex, which for all we know is there, although we haven’t found evidence of it yet,” she was saying, “but anyway, as we were out there looking around, we saw this mysterious glow in the distance and so we followed it, but it kept retreating, just as if it knew we were there and wanted to escape, or perhaps lead us into a bog where we would drown. That’s always a possibility, you know, when you encounter the uncanny—”

  Mrs. Farley put her cup into its saucer with a small clink. “It sounds,” she said, enunciating each word precisely, “like marsh gas.”

  Mrs. Malone’s mouth hung open for a moment. She recovered quickly, however, saying, “Yes, yes, we thought of that, and you might be right. But, you know, it might not be marsh gas. Surely it deserves investigation....”

  Her voice trailed off as Mrs. Farley slowly shook her head.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said with a faint smile that, Poppy could now see, was not kind at all. “Do you have anything else?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Malone exchanged anxious looks.

  “Well, er, there was an incident with vampires,” Mr. Malone began muttering.

  “Stop.” Mrs. Farley held up one slim white hand. She looked right at Mr. Malone, and her gray eyes were no longer mild. Now they were the gray of a battleship, one that had guns poking out along its rails. “My great-nephew told me about the alleged vampire episode. It doesn’t really come anywhere near the standards of a professional investigation, does it?”

  “Um, well, perhaps not,” said Mr. Malone in a low voice.

  A surge of fury swept through Poppy. It was so strong that she forgot about being intimidated by the granite columns and the bronze door and the lack of small tables to put a teacup on.

  She put her teacup on the floor, stood up, and said loudly, “I have something to show you, Mrs. Farley.”

  Mr. Malone caught Poppy’s eye, frowned, and shook his head. “Actually, I don’t think you do, Poppy,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” said Poppy calmly, pulling the DVD out of her backpack. “And it’s very important.”

  “I’m sure it is, Poppy, dear, but perhaps this isn’t quite the time to share it,” said Mrs. Malone, smiling nervously at Mrs. Farley.

  Poppy took a deep breath.
She could sense her parents’ tension, but she did her best to ignore it. Instead, she focused on Mrs. Farley’s gray eyes. They weren’t mild, as they had been in the beginning, but they were no longer battleship gray, either. They looked sharp and interested and the tiniest bit quizzical.

  “Well,” Mrs. Farley said. “Go on, then. Let’s see it.”

  Poppy’s hand shook a little as she inserted her disc into the DVD player that Mr. Farley had wheeled in from another room. As she pressed Play, she crossed her fingers for luck.

  Not that she believed in such superstitions, of course, but there was no reason to test that now....

  Poppy, Will, and Franny sat absolutely still during the ten minutes it took to show the film. Every once in a while, Poppy sneaked a peek at her parents, who were staring at the screen with their mouths hanging open.

  First there was Poppy’s voice-over, dryly giving the facts of the investigation: where the cemetery was located, what equipment was used, what readings were collected. Then, close-ups of the gravestones.

  Poppy heard Franny’s sharp intake of breath when Chance’s headstone was shown and saw Will tilt his head to one side when the glowing angel—or baby with wings, depending on how you looked at it—appeared on the screen.

  Then the ghosts themselves appeared, talking to the camera, completely at ease.

  “I made my first pound cake when I was twelve years old,” Bertha was saying.

  “I made mine when I was eleven,” Agnes added.

  “That depends on which birth date you use,” Bertha said tartly.

  “I think we’re getting off topic,” Agnes said. “What did you ask, Poppy dear? Oh, what kinds of things we did growing up …”

  And there was Buddy, swinging on the porch, singing (fortunately) one of his happier songs. Then Travis, demonstrating how to make a slingshot from a willow branch and then shooting a pebble into the air. (Poppy had edited out the crash as the pebble hit a neighbor’s front window. That incident, she felt, should remain a neighborhood mystery.)