by J. A. White
Benji hopped down from the file cabinet. “Hold on,” he said. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Elijah invented a machine that can make all the ghosts go away?”
Mr. Derleth nodded. “Want to see it?” he asked with a smile.
6
The Dehaunter
Dr. Roqueni led them to an oil painting of a crowded park. The men wore suits and hats, and the women carried parasols to shield themselves from the summer sun. Children played on the edge of a lake.
“One of Elijah’s more playful secrets,” Dr. Roqueni said. “In order to open the door, you need to find the ghost hidden in the park.”
“Fun!” Cordelia said, studying the painting. At first she checked the figures for obvious signs, such as transparency or a missing shadow. When that didn’t lead anywhere, she searched for other details. One man had dirt beneath his fingernails. A girl was having trouble opening her parasol. A dog barked at a frightened child.
“It’s the woman in the white dress,” Cordelia said. “By the tree.”
Dr. Roqueni looked surprised by how quickly Cordelia had figured out the answer. “How did you know?” the principal asked.
“Everyone else is doing something. Either talking or playing or looking at the pretty view. But the woman is just watching them. That’s all she can do. She wants to be part of the fun, too. But she can’t because she’s dead.” Cordelia stepped closer and saw the desperate longing in the woman’s eyes, confirming her theory. “It looks like a happy painting, but it’s actually sad.”
“I agree,” Dr. Roqueni said.
Remembering the hibiscuses that opened the trapdoor to Elijah’s office, Cordelia pressed on the ghost in the painting and felt a hidden button move. The entire painting clicked open like a door. Behind it, a ladder descended into a dark chute. Dr. Roqueni led the way, and the rest of them followed. By the time Cordelia’s feet finally touched the floor, she suspected they were lower than the basement. The air was cold and musty.
Cordelia examined this new room.
Unlike the rest of Shadow School, which was decorated in the ornate fashion of a classic Victorian home, the space here was spartan and bare. Dirt floors. Brick walls. A workbench with lots of drawers.
And a house in the center of the room.
It was much larger than the models in the attic but just as precisely detailed, a hodgepodge of styles that had been patched together into something strange and wonderful. Cordelia peeked through one of the windows and saw that unlike its smaller cousins, the inside of this house was not furnished at all. Instead, copper wire ran along the walls and ceilings of its twisting corridors, like the inner workings of a complex machine.
“I’d be lying if I claimed to understand exactly how this thing works,” Mr. Derleth said. “But here’s what I’ve managed to piece together from Elijah’s journals. Raw spectral energy is gathered from all the ghosts in the school and sent down here through those copper wires coming from the ceiling. That energy passes through the house and—through the power of archimancy—transforms into something Elijah called activation mist.” Mr. Derleth pointed to two sets of pipes—one purple, one green—that protruded from the roof of the house and branched off into dozens of holes in the ceiling. “These pipes take the mist up to the mirrors on the fourth floor, which then allow the spirits safe passage out of Shadow School. He called it a dehaunter.”
“Sick,” Benji said.
“What exactly does ‘safe passage’ mean?” Cordelia asked. “Do the mirrors turn into Brights?”
“That was Elijah’s goal,” Dr. Roqueni said. “But he worried that this was a feat even archimancy couldn’t accomplish. He thought the ghosts might have to settle for passage beyond the walls of the school, where they could find someplace better to haunt—perhaps the place they were meant to haunt, before Shadow School stole them away.” Her brows furrowed. “Near the end, Elijah stopped writing in his journals, so I can’t tell you what his final decision was.”
“As long as the ghosts are gone, who cares?” Benji asked, looking around the room. “How do we turn this thing on?”
“Settle down, Mr. Núñez. It isn’t that easy. Check the back of the house.”
Holding herself for warmth, Cordelia circled the dehaunter and immediately saw the problem. The house wasn’t finished. At least two rooms in the top floor were missing, along with part of the roof.
“Elijah died before he could complete it,” Dr. Roqueni said.
“I guess this isn’t one of those close-enough kind of deals?” Benji asked as Agnes wandered over to the workbench.
“You know how it is with archimancy,” Dr. Roqueni said. “Everything has to be perfect, or it won’t work at all. And unfortunately, we don’t know what those last few rooms should look like. Elijah was rushing at the end. I presume he knew his days were numbered, so he was working without a blueprint.”
“He left notes, though,” Agnes said, flipping through a pile of yellowed sheets. Cordelia peeked over her shoulder and saw a riot of diagrams and equations that made her head spin. “Formulas. Equations. Maybe we could use these.”
“Unfortunately, Dr. Roqueni and I can’t make heads or tails of them,” Mr. Derleth said. “The math is just beyond us.”
“It’s not too bad,” Agnes said, totally absorbed in what she was reading. “Mostly trig and linear algebra. And what I think might be geometric topology. I watched a few college lectures on YouTube, but a lot of it went over my head. I’d have to really sit down and study it . . . his equations are beautiful!”
Cordelia saw Mr. Derleth give Dr. Roqueni a smile. “Told you she could do it,” he said.
“We’ll see,” said Dr. Roqueni.
“See what?” Agnes asked.
“If you’re capable of finishing the plans for the dehaunter,” said Dr. Roqueni.
Agnes looked at her as if she had gone completely insane. “I can’t do that!” Agnes exclaimed, tugging at her braid. “That’s a big deal! That’s . . . you need an engineer or a mathematician or an architect.”
“What we need is a genius,” Mr. Derleth said. “And we have one. Right here.”
“I’m not a genius,” Agnes said. “I just understand things that nobody else does.”
“That’s literally what a genius is,” Cordelia whispered.
“But what if I mess up?” Agnes asked.
“Then you mess up,” Benji said. “No big deal. Just think of it like a test.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Roqueni. “That’s perfect. A test.”
Agnes looked down at the pages in her hands. “I like tests,” she muttered. “Tests are fun. . . .” She smiled stiffly. “I guess I could give it a try.”
Benji whooped with joy and ran around the room high-fiving everyone. Cordelia played along, but she wasn’t sure how she felt. If they dehaunted the school, they could save a lot of ghosts. That was a good thing. But it also meant her days of helping the ghosts would be over, and the thought saddened her. Who would she be without them?
It was four thirty by the time they got back to the office. Cordelia tried to talk Agnes and Benji into staying for just a little while longer, but they were tired and their parents were already on their way, so they headed outside. Cordelia knew she should probably join them. After all, her father was picking her up at five o’clock, and she had promised him she would be more punctual this year. But the desire to free the ghosts had been burning within her all day long, and Cordelia knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night unless she doused its flame.
Just one, she thought, stocking up on Brightkeys. Then straight home.
She ran to a vacated art classroom where she had noticed a woman wearing a black wet suit and carrying a surfboard. The surfer had no interest in sunglasses or a towel, but a pair of earplugs finally did the trick. As the woman’s spirit rose into her Bright, unleashing the sounds of seagulls and crashing waves, Cordelia felt a satisfying warmth fill her body. It was like returning home after being away for far t
oo long.
This is what I was meant to do. This is who I am.
One ghost wasn’t enough, however; there were so many others who needed her help! She ran down halls, up staircases, into classrooms, filling Brights with new residents. Time passed in a euphoric blur. When she finally remembered to check her phone, Cordelia was surprised to find several texts from her father, who was waiting outside and beginning to get worried.
Almost an hour had passed. It had felt like minutes.
Just one more, Cordelia thought, remembering the old gardener who hadn’t wanted the trowel she offered him. He’s probably been waiting for me to return all summer long with the right Brightkey. It would be cruel to make him wait a single minute longer!
After shooting her dad a quick text (Art club meeting running late. Five minutes! Sorry!), Cordelia ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. She reached a narrow hallway carpeted in red and gold. The walls were lined with oval-framed portraits of bearded men and high-collared ladies. The only sign that Cordelia was standing in a school and not a private home was an abandoned lunch bag.
The teachers’ room was opposite an eighth-grade classroom that belonged to either Mrs. Link or Mrs. LaValle—Cordelia always got them confused. She opened the door and flicked on the light.
The gardener was standing on the large table in the center of the room.
His back was turned toward Cordelia, but there was no mistaking his large-brimmed sun hat and dirty gloves. Beneath his feet sat a nearly empty platter of baked goods. Cordelia imagined the teachers eating their cookies and scones, unaware of the ghost standing mere inches away from them. The thought wasn’t as funny as it should have been.
“Good afternoon,” Cordelia said. “Remember me? I didn’t have what you needed last time, so I thought I’d try something new.”
The gardener didn’t turn around. Cordelia considered circling the table so she could meet the man’s eyes, then decided against it. Ghosts were a finicky lot, and if the old man didn’t want to look in her direction, it was best not to push it.
Cordelia slid her bookbag off her shoulders and placed it on the table as gently as possible. The silence was fragile.
“I’ve been thinking about why some Brightkeys work while others don’t,” Cordelia said. “And I think it’s a question of need. See, a Bright is like heaven, only it isn’t all angels and clouds, because that’s not for everyone. A Bright takes you to whatever you loved most in life. The thing we do that never gets old! Skiing. The beach. Even jogging, for a lot of crazy people.” Cordelia withdrew a small white packet from the side pocket of her bag. “I guess you liked to garden, huh? My nainai does too. Vegetables mostly. A trowel sure would be useful, but you don’t exactly need it. Seeds, on the other hand? There’s no way to garden without them.”
Cordelia emptied the packet of tomato seeds onto the table. They barely made a sound, but the old man spun around as though a dozen cannons had fired. He gazed down at her with a snarl, and Cordelia stumbled backward, heart pounding. This clearly wasn’t the nice sort of gardener who left baskets of fresh vegetables on his neighbor’s stoop. This was the kind who sprinkled poison pellets for any rabbits or deer unlucky enough to trespass in his domain.
With a quick movement, he plucked a seed between two fingers.
A black triangle opened above the ghost, spreading rays of sunlight across the room. The smell of fresh mulch overpowered the odors of burnt popcorn and microwaved lunches.
The man began to rise.
Instead of welcoming his Bright, however, the gardener rebelled against it, tilting his body downward until he was rising feetfirst in the air, his hands desperately reaching out for some kind of purchase. It was as though the triangle was pulling him toward a black hole, not a warm spring afternoon. Finally, just as the gardener’s feet had crossed the threshold between this world and the next, the ghost remembered the seed in his hand and tossed it away like a live grenade.
The triangle closed, and the ghost fell to the table.
He crouched down and slapped the rest of the seeds off the table. They hit Cordelia in the chest and pattered to the ground. The ghost reared back, readying himself to leap across the room and punish the girl who had tried to save him.
Cordelia didn’t stop running until she reached her father’s car.
7
The Missing Ghost
Cordelia met her friends by the lockers the next morning and ushered them through the slow- moving river of students. The school was still stretching its arms after a long night’s slumber. Bleary-eyed teachers scrambled to put the finishing touches on lessons while fortifying themselves with coffee. Even the ghosts looked tired.
The children scaled the stairs two at a time and entered the teachers’ room.
Ms. Straub, the health teacher, was staring out the window with a pensive expression. Someone had left an order form for Girl Scout Cookies on the big table.
The gardener was nowhere to be found.
“He was right here!” Cordelia exclaimed, checking beneath the table. “I don’t understand!”
Ms. Straub turned her head and took in the three intruders. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.
“Sorry!” Benji exclaimed, dragging Cordelia out of the room. “She thought she left her water bottle here.”
They headed toward the east stairwell, squeezing their way through the eighth graders who packed the narrow hallway. Cordelia was already one of the smallest kids in the seventh grade, but she felt like a toddler among the older kids.
“There was a ghost there yesterday,” she said. “I’m not making it up.”
“You don’t need to convince us,” Agnes said, slipping her spectercles into their case. “We’re all believers here.”
“I’ll check the second floor,” Benji said. “Ghost zones stretch in all directions. Maybe your gardener slipped through the floor of the teachers’ room for a change of scenery.”
“It’s worth a look,” Cordelia allowed, though she doubted they’d find anything useful. Even though ghosts had the ability to pass through walls and floors, they tended to avoid doing so unless they had a good reason.
“What did you do with those seeds you gave him?” Agnes asked.
“Left them on the floor,” Cordelia said. “Why?”
“This is just a theory,” Agnes said, yanking her rolling backpack over a buckle in the carpet, “but what if he changed his mind and picked up the seeds after you left? He might have entered his Bright then. That would explain why he isn’t here anymore.”
“No way,” Cordelia said. “This guy really didn’t want to go into his Bright. He wouldn’t have changed his mind.”
“Well, he’s not going to have a choice next time,” Benji said. “When Agnes gets that dehaunter running, he’ll be kicked out whether he likes it or not.”
“If Agnes gets the dehaunter running,” Agnes said. “Which isn’t a sure thing. There are still a lot of problems I need to solve.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Benji said with a wave of his hand.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Agnes muttered. “You don’t have to teach yourself fractal geometry.”
Cordelia stopped them in the middle of the hallway. She was getting annoyed that her friends seemed to care more about dehaunting the school than what happened with the gardener.
“Do you understand how weird this is?” she asked. “I gave a ghost the key to his own personal paradise, and he was like, ‘Nah. I’m just gonna spend eternity in this dark and dreary school instead.’ That is not normal.”
“Except he didn’t stay here,” Agnes whispered as students passed them on either side. “He’s gone. I think he went to his Bright. That’s the most logical explanation.”
“I told you, there’s no way that—”
“Why are you stressing about this, Cord?” Benji asked. “We should be focused on dehaunting the entire school, not a single ghost. We do that, and all our problems are solved. We’l
l never have to think about ghosts again. Isn’t that what we all want?”
Agnes gave a hesitant nod. “I’ll miss studying them,” she said. “But it’ll be nice to know they’re all safe and sound.”
Cordelia said nothing at all.
Most teachers quit working at Shadow School within a year or two. The ones who stuck around liked working in a creepy old Victorian mansion, which usually meant they were pretty strange.
Cordelia’s new teachers were no exception.
Mr. Hearn, who taught social studies, was obsessed with natural disasters and left a new “fun fact” on the board every day (“The Shaanxi earthquake of 1556 killed over 800,000 people!” “Texas has more tornadoes per year than any other state!”). Ms. Gilman, their language arts teacher, kept a row of Venus flytraps on her desk and fed them the “flagrant misspellings” and “unnecessary adverbs” that she clipped from student essays.
From the moment she entered his classroom, Cor-delia could tell that her art teacher, Mr. Keene, would be just as strange as the others.
He was sitting cross-legged on top of his desk, wearing a papier-mâché mask with two horns and large, bulbous eyes. Cordelia would have thought he was a ghost had the students in front of her not jumped in surprise. Clearly they could see him as well as she could.
“Good morning, Mr. Keene,” Francesca said, barely looking up from the book she was reading as she passed. She had been in the Art Club the previous year so she already knew him. “Cool mask.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Keene. “I made it this summer. Good book?”
“They’re all good,” she replied with a smile.
After claiming a paint-stained table with Benji and Agnes, Cordelia took a look around the classroom. Dozens of masks—the work, she suspected, of Mr. Keene’s former students—hung from the walls: a horse with tufts of painted cotton for fur; a pig whose ear had fallen off, exposing a triangle of yellowed newspaper; a green monster with toothpick teeth; a baby with tiny Slinkys for eyes; and perhaps strangest of all, a simple white mask with question marks written all over it.