The Second-Best Haunted Hotel on Mercer Street

by Cory Putman Oakes

  It had taken Evie significantly less time to decide that spending one more second in the Hauntery was thoroughly intolerable.

  Smiles. Giggles. Short pieces of adorable ad-lib.

  The snippets of Evie’s job description chased her down Mercer Street. Every step she took away from the Hauntery was probably getting her into even worse trouble, but Evie didn’t care. She might care later, but right now all that mattered was putting as much distance between herself and the ridiculous faux-Victorian knockoff as possible.

  Maybe being fired by the Hauntery wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. True, her parents would be angry, to say nothing of Louise. But she doubted Mr. Fox was right that they would never find work anywhere else. That couldn’t be true, could it? And if they couldn’t find work, how could they inspire enough fear to stay on this corporeal plane?

  So what? Evie thought savagely. What’s the point of avoiding Fading when nobody really sees me anyway?

  She walked for a long time. She thought about how much she hated Mr. Fox. About how much she hated Louise. About how much she wished the dry leaves on the sidewalk would crunch under her feet. She walked until she eventually looked up and saw that she was standing in front of a large sign that said MERCER STREET PUBLIC LIBRARY.

  Back when Evie was alive, libraries had been her refuge. Her safe place. She had been to even more libraries since her death. Every town the Hauntery Corporation had sent her to had a library—at least a small one. And Evie always found it.

  But this time, it kind of felt like the library had found her.

  Inside was the low hum of voices trying to be quiet, the comfortingly familiar smell of old books, and the glare of overheard fluorescent lights. Evie immediately felt calmer, more herself, more alive than she had since . . . well, since she’d been alive. Everyone here was focused on their own business, and nobody paid Evie any mind. Which suited her fine.

  She wandered until she found the travel section and lingered there. Maybe instead of Fading, she could travel. Preferably without Louise and her parents. Being on her own would be tricky, but she could manage. Once she learned how to move objects, anyway. Until then, traveling alone would be difficult.

  If Louise was right, it would be years before that happened.

  Disillusioned with the travel section, she wandered farther until she found herself in the children’s section. She felt even more at home there, which was strange, when she really thought about it. Evie had been twelve when she died. But she’d been twelve for five whole years now, so shouldn’t she feel older?

  Evie never did. No matter how many years she spent as a ghost, she still felt and looked twelve.

  The children’s section was louder and rowdier than other areas of the library, and the shelves were messier. Evie looked around until she spotted a Living girl about her age, sitting in a high-backed armchair, legs folded beneath her, nose buried in a book.

  But not just any book.

  It was a Deena Morales Mystery novel.

  Evie’s breath caught in her throat. She walked very close to the girl with the book and looked at the cover. Mystery #11, The Secret of the Ruby Dagger.

  Eleven? There had been only six Deena Morales Mysteries when she had died—had five new ones really come out since then? She’d stopped checking up on the series a few years ago. It was just too depressing to know that there were new Deena Morales books out there that she couldn’t scoop up and read.

  When Evie wandered away from the girl and over toward the correct shelf—G for the first letter of the author’s name, Garcia—she saw that there were actually thirteen books now. Seven new novels had come out in the time she’d been a ghost!

  The idea that her favorite teen detective had had seven adventures that Evie knew nothing about was almost physically painful. She felt a sudden intense longing to sit and read every single new book straight through without stopping. She could do it, too. One of the perks of being a ghost and needing no food or rest was that it greatly increased one’s ability to binge read.

  The problem, of course, was that there was no way she could even take the books off the shelf, let alone hold them while she read them.

  Unless . . .

  Evie crept back toward the girl, coming up behind her this time. A heightened ability to sneak was another upside of being a ghost. She was able to get right up behind the girl’s elbow. When she peeked her head around the arm of the chair, she had a perfect view of Mystery #11.

  The girl was starting chapter two.

  Perfect. She hadn’t missed much.

  Evie passed the next hour happily ensconced in the world of Deena Morales. The Living girl read at about the same pace as Evie, which was convenient. She moved only twice, once to scratch her nose (almost losing her place) and another time to unfold and then refold her legs. That time she switched the book from her right hand to her left, but Evie simply moved so that she was looking over the left armrest instead and kept on reading.

  It was bliss. Actual heaven on earth.

  Until she heard a gruff voice behind her.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Deep in the book, where Deena was on the cusp of discovering the whereabouts of the missing ruby dagger, Evie was so startled that she stood up too fast. She tripped over her own feet and fell directly into the bookshelf behind her. Instinctively, she braced herself for a painful impact. But she didn’t hit the bookshelf—she fell right through it, which caused the girl in the chair, the man who had startled her, and all of the children in the area to gasp.

  “You’re a ghost!” the man exclaimed. He was holding a squirming toddler and frowning down at Evie like she’d stolen something.

  “Well, yeah . . .” Evie admitted, picking herself up.

  “This is the children’s section,” the man informed her, shifting the toddler to his other side, farther away from Evie. “You don’t belong here.”

  “I’m twelve,” Evie pointed out.

  “You’re a ghost,” the man repeated. “How dare you lurk around and scare innocent children!”

  “She wasn’t bothering me,” the girl from the chair said pointedly. “She has every right to—”

  “I was talking about my daughter,” the man corrected her. “Not you.”

  Evie frowned. The toddler was squirming even harder in the man’s arms and was starting to squawk like an angry bird. But it seemed to Evie that she was more annoyed about being held than frightened.

  “If you ask me, public libraries shouldn’t employ ghosts. They shouldn’t even let them in the building!” The man sneered. “But in any event, they should keep them out of the children’s section!”

  “I was reading.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Ghosts don’t read.”

  “Of course we do!”

  “Rubbish. You should be ashamed of yourself! Get out of here!”

  “I told you, I was just—”

  “Get out of here! Before I file a complaint with the police!”

  Evie wasn’t sure exactly what the police would (or could) do to her in this situation, but she didn’t want to find out. She ran flat out, away from the kids’ section, through the reference books, around the new releases, and out the door. She could feel tears on her cheeks. Ghost tears, of course. But they felt real enough to her.

  She stopped when she got to the bottom of the library steps. She was back on the leaf-covered sidewalk, where the leaves refused to crunch under her feet.

  I belong nowhere, she thought miserably. Not in a Hauntery. Not in a library.

  I belong nowhere. And there is nowhere else I can go.

  There was a sound behind Evie, and she turned, ready to run again.

  It was the girl from the chair. She had the book they had been reading clutched tightly to her chest.

  “I’m sorry about that guy,” the girl said. “Some people are just idiots.”

  Evie felt herself relax a little bit. “Thanks for standing up for me.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t mention it. Do you work here at the library?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Evie lied. It seemed easier than explaining that she’d run here because she was in trouble at her real job. A lot of older buildings hired ghosts just to hang out and help create a haunted atmosphere—it was a very popular starter career for ghosts who couldn’t manipulate objects yet. Evie’s attention drifted to the copy of Mystery #11 in the girl’s arms.

  The girl noticed her staring. “You like Deena Morales?”

  “Yeah,” Evie acknowledged. “My favorite is Mystery #4, The Sign of the Witch.”

  “Mine too!” The girl visibly perked up. “But for me, it’s tied with Mystery #2, The Clue in the Old Inn. The one with the dinner party scene at the end—”

  “The one with the poisoned wine goblet!” Evie interjected. “And the Medium!”

  “Best ending ever!” the girl enthused.

  “Totally,” Evie agreed, then pointed to Mystery #11. “I haven’t read the end of that one yet.”

  The girl held the book out toward Evie. “I’ve read this one before. I already checked it out, but you can take it if you want. As long as you return it on time. It’s due two Tuesdays from now.”

  Evie licked her lips, walked up a couple of steps, and reached for the book. For a moment, she thought she felt her fingertips brush its crinkly plastic library binding. But when she squeezed her hand shut to grip the book, her fingers went right through it.

  Evie dropped her hand and took a step backward. “I can’t hold it by myself yet,” she explained to the girl. “I’m a new ghost.”

  “Oh,” the girl said, biting her lip and pulling the book back to her chest. “Maybe—”

  There was a buzzing sound from the girl’s pocket. She pulled out a cell phone and sighed at whatever she saw on the screen. “I should get home. I’ve been gone for way too long.”

  The girl walked past Evie, but then she turned and paused. “Maybe I could come back sometime, and we’ll finish the book together. If you want?”

  Evie was stunned. “Really?” she asked. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Thursday? Four o’clock? Will you be working then?”

  “I think so . . .” Evie hedged as she mentally reviewed her Hauntery schedule to make sure she’d be able to slip away again. “Yes, I can—I mean, yes, I’ll be here on Thursday.”

  “I’ll meet you at our chair.” The girl smiled and turned to go.

  “I’m Evie, by the way!” Evie called after her.

  “I’m Willow!” the girl called over her shoulder. “See you Thursday!”

  CHAPTER 7

  WILLOW

  For the next few days, Willow and the rest of the Ivan staff were so busy preparing for the Freeling family reunion that she hardly had time to think.

  But when she did think, she thought about the girl from the library.

  Willow didn’t know exactly why she’d agreed to meet her again, except that it’d felt nice to be out of the hotel. And nice to talk to someone her own age. She hadn’t done that since the last time she’d gone to school. That had been months ago. But talking to that girl—to Evie—it had felt like the old days. She could almost pretend that she’d stopped by the library after piano practice and that her mother was back at the Ivan, alive and waiting for her to come home.

  But Willow didn’t have much time to dwell on her new library friend. Not once the Freelings arrived.

  It started out well. The family arrived on time, and check-in went smoothly. After a week of strict vocal rest and much fussing-over by Alford, Leo greeted the Freelings with a Phantasm cry that Willow was certain people must have been able to hear down the street at the Hauntery. After that, and after the smaller Freelings had been thoroughly delighted by Cuddles, the family was treated to a sumptuous dinner prepared by Chef Antonia. They all trotted off to bed, stuffed and excited for a week of ghostly family bonding.

  But then came the next morning.

  The adult Freelings were enjoying a morning horseback ride with Molly (who had found her head behind a milk crate in the attic), and the children were drinking hot chocolate in the lounge. With all the guests occupied, Willow hoped to use the time to change all the bed linens and tidy the rooms—but when she arrived at the linen closet, she found it empty.

  “Didn’t the linen service come this morning?” Willow asked Pierce. “Dad promised me he’d wake up to sign for it! I would have done it myself, but I was hiding the clues for the haunted treasure hunt—”

  “He didn’t get up in time,” Pierce informed her, covering the phone with his hand. “But it wouldn’t have mattered. I have the linen service on the line, and they say they won’t make any more deliveries until we’ve paid our outstanding balance.”

  “Our balance?” Willow asked.

  “They say we haven’t paid our bill in months.”

  Willow shook her head. “That’s a mistake. Give me the phone, I’ll talk to—”

  A shriek from the kitchen made Willow jump. With an apologetic look at Pierce, she ran toward the sound.

  “Francesca, what have you done?” Chef Antonia and her niece Francesca, the Ivan’s sous chef, were glaring at each other over a steaming pot of pasta. A six-person film crew from Channel 13, the Mercer public access channel, stood awkwardly by as the star of one of their most popular shows, Italian Classics with Chef Antonia, violently stabbed a fork into the pot.

  “I made it all exactly like you told me—” Francesca insisted.

  Antonia speared a single penne noodle, dripping with red sauce, and popped it into her mouth.

  “—except I subbed lentil pasta for the regular penne.”

  Antonia spat the noodle into the sink. “Lentil?” she sputtered.

  “Cut!” shouted the director, a weary-looking woman with a very tight bun. “Chef, we really need a finished shot of the pasta. Maybe you could try another bite and just pretend to like it?”

  “Pretend?” Shaking with rage, Chef Antonia glared anew at Francesca. “This sauce recipe was handed down to me by your great-aunt Ginevra! She would roll over in her grave if she knew that her precious sauce was being poured over these . . . these . . .”

  “Lentil noodles,” Francesca supplied, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t even really taste them, Aunt Antonia!”

  Being ghosts, Francesca and Antonia didn’t actually need to eat in order to sustain themselves. But, like all ghosts who had developed the ability to manipulate objects, they could technically ingest food when they wanted to. Most ghosts did this only on special occasions, as eating also required digesting and using the bathroom (which was a big hassle when you didn’t do it regularly). Ghosts who worked in the food industry tended to eat more often, but they were usually pretty picky about what they put into their bodies.

  Antonia grasped the pot by both handles. “I don’t need to stick my head in a garbage can to know it stinks!”

  “Aunt Antonia—no!” Francesca dove for the pot, but she was too late to stop her aunt from chucking the entire contents into the sink.

  Antonia set the empty pot back on the counter with a loud clang, which made Willow jump. “Out!” she whispered ominously to the film crew.

  “But Chef, we don’t have a finished show!” protested the director.

  “We’ll air a rerun this week.”

  “A rerun?” The director looked pale at the thought. “We can’t just—”

  “Out!” Chef Antonia thundered with such force that Willow wondered for a moment if she’d missed her calling as a Phantasm.

  “Um, Chef—” Willow tried, sidestepping the film crew as they hurried to leave.

  Antonia held up a hand. “We’re all right in here, Willow. Lunch will be out momentarily.”

  Francesca shook her head and pointed to the mound of pasta in the sink. “That was lunch. I tried to tell you.”

  “I would never serve that filth in my dining room!” Antonia declared. “Lentil pasta? Who’s ever heard of lentil pasta?”


  “Nutritionists, that’s who!” Francesca fired back. “Lentil noodles are full of protein! And flavor! Not like those tasteless regular noodles, full of empty carbs and—”

  “Wait, that was lunch?” Willow gulped. The Freelings would be expecting a meal after they finished their ride with Molly. She looked frantically around the kitchen. “There must be something else we can serve, isn’t there?”

  But Francesca and Antonia didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Are you a nutritionist? Or are you a chef?” Antonia demanded.

  “I’m both!” Francesca reminded her. “And you get emails all the time from viewers asking for healthy alternatives to your recipes. I love Great-Aunt Ginevra’s sauce too, but what’s the harm in pairing it with some new ingredients? Or using some new techniques—”

  “She’d be furious, that’s what’s wrong!” Antonia threw a dishrag. “You have no respect for tradition!”

  “And you’re afraid to try anything new!”

  “Maybe we could just do a salad?” Willow asked, dodging the bickering chefs and heading toward the fridge.

  “Afraid?” Antonia looked affronted. “Do you think being ‘afraid’ is what earned this restaurant its Michelin star?”

  Willow opened the fridge. Instead of a blast of cold air, she was immediately hit with the smell of rotting food.

  “Do you think I became the first non-corporeal host in the history of public access television because I was afraid?”

  Francesca rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “A recipe doesn’t have to come from a dead relative in order to be good! That’s all I’m saying!”

  Willow cleared her throat. “Guys! What happened to all the food?”

  Antonia and Francesca both looked at Willow as though they’d forgotten she was there.

  “The fridge shorted out yesterday,” Francesca answered. “Everything’s spoiled.”

  Willow leaned her head against the (disturbingly warm) refrigerator door. “I’ll call an electrician.”