Off The Handbook: Act One

[strangeandunusual]

Off The Handbook: Act One
Disclaimer: "Beetlejuice" and all characters are the property of Geffen Media, save for Skip and Ted, who are my own creations. I am not making any profit off this work. It's just a labor of love. Comments are screened for feedback.

Flame had just begun to tint the leaves of the ancient maple hanging over the bicycle rack, and the sky above Miss Shannon’s School for Girls was a pure, perfect blue. As the bell rang, the front doors exploded in a flood of black blazers, mismatched plaid skirts, and white stockings. One girl tripped on the last step, dropping a substantial armload of books, her glasses skittering onto the sidewalk.

“My library books!” she squealed. “Oh, no!” Scrambling to her feet, she pushed her ginger hair back behind her ears and reached out for the nearest book, beginning to pick up the pile.

“Are you okay, Prudence?” A tall brunette who had yet to grow into the legs puberty had granted her knelt down and picked up the forsaken pair of glasses. “I think you better hold on to these before someone steps on ‘em.”

“Thanks, Bertha.” She sighed, fitting the wide, round frames back on. “I’m still getting used to them. I think they made me miss a step.”

“Glasses are supposed to help you see better, four-eyes,” a high musical voice crooned. Behind them, a pretty blonde with a bow in her perfect hair buffed her fingernails on the lapel of her tailored blazer, flanked by three equally primped and pampered girls. “With all the reading you do, I thought you’d know that! Silly me.”

“Go away, Claire.” Bertha frowned.

“Oh, brace-face. Why? I can’t miss my favorite extra-curricular activity … community service. In fact, I think I’ll help Prudence here pick up her books. Come on, girls.” Claire scooped up the fallen textbooks and library loans, handing one to each of her entourage. “Let’s see what we’ve got here. An Oral History of Winter River? Yuck. Legislature of the Eighteenth Century. Bogus!”

“These aren’t much better,” one of the other girls, a blonde in braids scoffed. “It’s all old, dusty history and snooze-fest law books.”

“They’re for my report,” Prudence pleaded, as Bertha helped her to her feet. “Please, Claire. They belong -”

“In the garbage? Oh, I couldn’t agree more!” Claire’s sunny smile flashed along with the sun off the lid of the trash can at the foot of the steps, as she lifted it and dumped the library books in. “Come on, girls. Mumsy said she’d pay for us all to get our nails done!”

As the clique laughed their way down the sidewalk, another girl came out of the school and picked her way down the steps, a pair of books held tight against her chest. She reached the bike rack just as Prudence stood on her toes and leaned forward over the open garbage can.

“Um. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she said, “but my books…!”

“Claire Brewster threw them in the garbage,” Bertha offered, reaching in and extricating the Oral History of Winter River. “I think they’ll be okay, Prue. It’s mostly paper in here.”

“One of the girls did that?” The newcomer scowled. “And you let her?”

“I was on the ground. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

"That’s harsh. Here, let me help you. You’re … Prue? I think we have math together. I’m Lydia.”

“Oh, right, the new girl.” Bertha smiled, as Prudence abandoned her garbage crawl. “I’m Bertha, and this is Prudence. Aren’t you from New York City?”

“I was, yeah.” She shrugged. “Here.” Without preamble, she took hold of the garbage can and tipped it onto the sidewalk.

“What?” Prudence jumped back as though the garbage could scald her. “What are you doing, Lydia?”

“It’s easier to get your books out this way,” she said, her voice flat as she knelt down on the sidewalk and pulled them out. “Then you just put it back.” She did so, dusting her hands off on her dark blue skirt. “Why do you let that girl push you around?”

“It’s what she does,” Bertha sighed. “Claire Brewster’s the richest girl in town, and everyone knows it, so they kiss up to her. A lot. Even the teachers do it.”

“My mother works for her family.” Prudence wiped her books off carefully on the grass before beginning to stack them. “She says the Brewsters always get what they want, so I should just … go along with it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lydia snorted. “I’ve been noticing that everyone’s really cliquey, here, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty quiet. But you’re good.” Prudence gave her a small smile. “I can’t believe someone actually scored better than me on that English test yesterday. How did you do on math?”

Lydia smiled. “I got an A. I studied really hard, though.”

“I have the worst time with math,” Bertha lamented. “Do you have a tutor?”

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure I have the best tutor ever.”

“Do you think they could teach me?”

Lydia looked over their shoulders at the town, past the graveyard. “I … actually, I don’t know.”

“Could you ask for me? My dad says I need to at least get a C on this report card or I’m grounded… and that means I can’t spend Wednesday afternoons at the animal shelter.” Bertha kicked at a loose corner of the sidewalk.

“I’ll ask him,” Lydia said, “but I can’t really promise anything.”

“Great! … Come on, Prudence, we should get going. Your Mom’s gonna wonder what’s taking us so long.”

“I’ll just tell her it was Hurricane Brewster,” Prudence said glumly. “Thanks for your help, Lydia. It was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Bertha grinned, flashing her braces - and the prominent front teeth that made them necessary. “You should sit with us tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure.” She smiled, moving to unlock her bike. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

◧◧◧

As the front door closed behind her, Lydia was assailed by the thick smell of sawdust in the air and coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. “You know, living people still have to breathe this stuff,” she quipped.

“Oh, hey, Lydia.” Adam Maitland looked up from the sawhorses set up in the middle of the foyer, a hole-riddled sheet spread beneath them to catch the shavings. “Sorry - I was hoping I’d be done sawing off the shelves before you got home, but I forgot the saw was in the garage, and I had to wait for your Dad to come down for his afternoon cup of tea, so …”

“It’s okay.” She smiled. “Where’s Barbara?”

“Up in the attic, looking for something, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “How was school?”

“It was school. We got assigned a paper for history, but I don’t know what I want to write about yet. I gotta think about it.” She set her bag down on the window seat behind the stairs, and nudged off her shoes before curling up on the cushions to watch him work. “What are you making shelves for? Did Delia tear some down on you?”

The scorn her stepmother’s name carried was hard to miss, and Adam chuckled. “No, no. These are new shelves. But it’s a surprise, for your Dad.”

“I’m really glad that at least he’s getting along with you.” She sighed. “I won’t tell him you’re working on anything. Let me know if you need me to pick anything up on my way home from school.”

Adam flashed her a smile, then turned toward the toolbox in the corner and gave a tip of his chin. A sheet of sandpaper floated up from the box and began to grind against the end of the plank on the sawhorses. “Don’t tell Barbara I’m cheating,” he winked. “I always hated this part.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. … And speaking of secrets …”

“Mmhm?” He took off his glasses, polishing them on the tail of his plaid shirt.

“I know the Handbook says you aren’t supposed to let people outside of the house know you exist … but …”

The smile vanished from Adam’s eyes, and he slid his glasses back on to properly look at her over them. “Lydia…?”

“One of my classmates needs a math tutor.”

“Lydia.”

“And she wanted to know if you’d help her. I didn’t tell her you were a ghost or anything. You could just be … I don’t know, my Uncle Adam and Aunt Barbara. You practically are, anyway, aren’t you?”

Adam sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Before he could reply, a blur of floral print and dark curls came rushing down the stairs.

“Ugh! That woman is going to be the death of me,” Barbara groaned, tossing a bolt of black cloth down on the bench beside Lydia. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Word choices, honey,” Adam said, as the sandpaper fluttered to the floor.

“If you can cheat at home improvement, I can butcher the English language,” she said smartly, in the instant before he kissed her on the cheek. “Gah! And don’t think you can charm your way out of that, either, Adam. You promised. Minimal E.T. on the renovations! This is supposed to be genuine work, real work. I’m not going to make the sewing machine run itself, am I?”

“Only because that relic is already possessed,” Adam snorted.

Lydia laughed. “What did Delia do now?”

“She’s still trying to talk me out of … the project for your father,” she replied. “She says that she only agreed to us re-doing the foyer under protest, and that we shouldn’t be allowed to modify the rest of the house at all. I told her that if she wants to keep the upper floors the way that horrible snake oil salesman made them, that’s fine, but we’d agreed to share the house.”

“I’m just glad Otho didn’t come back around.” Adam rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my time here listening to him drone on about how right he was about everything.”

“I don’t know.” Lydia glanced out the window at the avant-garde porch Otho had designed and installed on the outside of the house. “He sort of … kept her weird delusions of grandeur contained, you know? Now that he’s gone, we’re all going to have to listen to it. It’s been two weeks, and she’s already getting worse.”

Barbara’s eyes widened. “She gets worse?”

“Delia didn’t have Otho when she and my father got together. Believe me. She gets worse.”

"Well, we’re doing this for Charles.” Adam looked at them over his glasses. “If Delia has a problem with it, she can take it … up … with … yeah, that wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell, would it.”

"Not really.” Lydia shook her head. “But you know what would be really great of you?”

“No, Lydia,” Adam groaned.

“No what?” Barbara put a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “What were you going to ask us?”

“She wants us to help tutor a couple of new friends.” Adam arched an eyebrow at her. “I have a feeling we’re toeing the line pretty heavy just giving Charles that workbook.”

“Juno was pretty upset about it. I’m sorry, Lydia, but we can’t. We can write up some of the things we helped you with, and you can share them with your friends … but meeting them is out of the question. No one outside this house can know we exist.”

Lydia sighed, looking out the window at the winding dirt road that led down into Winter River. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing. Who’s Juno?”

“Our caseworker,” Barbara said, perching next to her. “She’s like … a guidance counselor for ghosts.”

“And about as useful as our guidance counselor was, right, honey?” Adam said, as he stooped down to pick up the sandpaper and resumed his work by hand.

“Pfft! No kidding. Anyway, Lydia, how much do you remember of the handbook?”

“Not a ton.” Lydia glanced over to where the Handbook for the Recently Deceased sat on the coffee table between the Maitlands’ armchairs. “I mostly remember the parts about haunting and seances and stuff. A lot of it was like a really bad textbook. Why, is she mad at you for letting us stay here?”

“I don’t know about mad,” Adam said, “but she really wanted us to get rid of you when we got your photographs and the Handbook back. She said we should, and I quote: ‘never trust the living’.”

“Sounds like a real people person.”

“Don’t worry about us, Lydia.” Barbara put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into half a hug. “We’ll be absolutely fine. We got her what she wanted, and your parents are happy, so … things should be okay, just as long as we’re careful.”

◧◧◧

A loud snort broke the calm of the waiting room.

“Boy, this sucker’s really up there.” Betelgeuse leaned over the arm of the ratty armchair he’d claimed, toward an exterminator with ashen skin and riddled with bite marks. “Mind if I borrow this?” Without waiting for an answer, he snatched the pen that the other ghost had been using to fill out a crossword, and stuck the tip as far up his shrunken nose as he could. A moment’s digging produced something dark and rubbery, which he flicked in the general direction of a witch doctor on the other side of the room. “Ah, that’s better,” he squeaked, wiping the tip of the pen off on his grimy red velour tuxedo pants. “Thanks, buddy. There ya go. … Sixty-nine down, huh? Man, I know what I’d fill that box in with, if you get my drift. Right, compadre?”

“Number four,” the receptionist called out, and Betelgeuse leapt to his feet.

“Whoa! Hey! Numero quattro, that’s me!”

The witch doctor growled, gripping the arms of his chair, and made to stand in protest. The long ticker-tape Betelgeuse had foisted upon him still lay draped across his bony knees.

“No, no,” the exterminator cried. “Just let him go!”

“Yes, please!” A magician’s assistant groaned, giving him her best stage-worthy pout from the loveseat that both her halves occupied. The other souls in the waiting room added their voices to the mob, as Betelgeuse got to his feet, shot his cuffs, and and moved through the door.

“How’s it goin’?” He waved to a skeletal secretary as she hunted and pecked her way through a form. “Love the cobwebs. How’s that all-calcium diet workin’ out for ya?”

Above, steel beams and cables cris-crossed the room. A circus performer with a crooked neck and a shattered face walked the cable directly overhead. “Betelgeuse,” he shouted down. “Mr. Denton’s office is the sixth door on the right.”

“’Bout damn time.” He slid and strode his way through the steno pool until it narrowed into the long, twisted hallway which housed the Neitherworld Department of Spectral Services. An elderly ghost in coveralls pushed a broom across the checkered floor, and Betelgeuse pointed at him with a click of his tongue and a crooked grin. “Hey, Simmy Boy! Thought you woulda retired to Club Dead by now, ha!”

He scoffed. “You think I can retire on what the DSS pays me? You’ve still got it, ‘Geuse. That’s the funniest damned thing I heard all day.”

“Yeah, well… I do what I can.”

“Funniest thing I seen today is that head’ve yours. Who’d you piss off now?”

Betelgeuse sighed, the heave of his shoulders nearly drowning his shrunken head. “Some witch doctors just can’t take a joke.” He wiggled his fingers. “Can you do a guy a solid reversal?”

Simmy scowled. “I got demoted, if you didn’t notice, wiseass. I can’t be fixing any E.T. anymore.”

“You and I both know that just ‘cuz the Little Brown Crookbook says it, don’t mean it’s so. And besides, the Skipster’d never let me hear the end of it.” Betelgeuse threw an arm around his shoulders. “C’monnnn. Fer old times’ sake.”

The barest hint of a smile lurked in the deep shadows of Simmy’s face, and he made a fist, sticking his thumb into his mouth. As he uncurled his fingers, Betelgeuse’s head ballooned back to its normal size. “How’s that?”

Betelgeuse flicked out the lapels of his tuxedo, and it re-tailored itself into a less formal, black-and-white striped suit. He dug into the inside pocket of the blazer and pulled out a compact mirror, surveying his reflection through a layer of grime. “Perfecto.”

“Funny, I thought it was a little bigger.”

He grinned. “Wrong head, Chuckles. See ya ‘round.”

The sixth door on the right lay a few feet ahead: dark, polished wood with a sign which read: All Sales Are Final - Absolutely NO Refunds! Betelgeuse shrugged and pushed it open. Skip Denton’s office was the Oxford Home Dictionary definition of ‘hip’ - if that dictionary had been printed in 1957. Cedarwood panels abutted an olive green accent wall, and plastic bucket chairs the color of bile stood in front of a ridiculously wide desk with a gold clock, matching pen set, and a Rolodex stuffed to the gills. A pin-up calendar on the wall showcased Miss September perched coquettishly on a ‘57 Chevy. Betelgeuse made a low growl of approval before addressing the ghoul behind the desk, who had his nose down in a pile of paperwork.

“Hey, you think Miss September’s kickin’ around here, yet?”

Skip Denton looked up and let out a crow that peeled a strip of paint off the accent wall. “Ho-leee shit! When did you get back? I thought you got your sorry ass cursed by that asshole exorcist!”

“Yeah, go figure. I found a loophole.” He flicked the back of one bucket chair, transforming it into a comfortable recliner.

“Leave it ta you,” Skip laughed, showing off a row of teeth as white, prominent, and perfect as a ventriloquist’s dummy. They stood out in stark contrast to his purple skin and yellow eyes - all of which clashed with a pumpkin-colored polyester suit and brown silk shirt. “What was it?”

“Trade secret, Skippo.”

Skip raised a hand and gave a flick of his wrist, levitating Betelgeuse out of his chair and turning him to reveal a prominent stain across his shoulders, sulphur yellow. “Or … you tried to bust back in here and wound up in Saturn. I know limbo marks when I see ‘em.”

He closed his eyes and saw the sandworm’s maws once more, up close and personal. “Somethin’ like that, yeah,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “But seriously. I came here to talk business.”

“Business?” The strip of peeling paint on the wall grew longer as Skip cackled, depositing him back in his chair. “That’s rich. You been exiled in the between for HOW long now? Twenty years? The hell would you even pay me with?”

“Eh, fft.” Betelgeuse rolled his eyes. “We ain’t talkin’ about trade, here. What I got is a matter of regulation. Couple clients of mine welched on a deal, and I think some, uh, restitution is in order. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“The nerve’a some people,” Skip groused. “What were they gonna give ya?”

“What else? They were gonna get me out.”

Skip’s eyes widened. “Get outta town. You found somebody who’d actually go through with it?”

“Let’s just say she didn’t read the fine print.” Betelgeuse smirked.

The smile that slid across Skip’s face was as greasy as his curls. “I sold more Studebakers that way. See, this is why you and me work well together.”

“Not just cuz you ended up with my old job, huh?” Betelgeuse waggled his eyebrows, grinning. “But c’mon. Work with me, here. I gotta get these bumpkins back. I just need the carte blanche.”

Skip hauled open a desk drawer and rifled through the hanging folders. “The best thing I’ve got’s a complaint form, but you gotta have an I.D. with the Deader Business Bureau… and you’re a freelancer.”

Betelgeuse stared out at him from beneath lowered eyebrows. “So just fake a number or steal someone else’s. Big whoop.”

“And get my sorry ass fired? I don’t think so. Not all of us can pull off something like the Chicago Fire, y’know.”

“So just give me the form!” He blustered, popping up from the chair. “I’ll pin it on some other crappy little Neitherworld business -” He pulled a card at random from Skip’s rolodex. “- then I’ll slap Juno’s DSS I.D. number on it and no one needs to know it was me.” Tucking the card away in his breast pocket, he held out his hand. “So? Gimme.”

“You are some kinda slick,” Skip marveled, passing him a blank complaint form. “Here ya go: one TB88, to be filed in triplicate.”

“You say that like I didn’t suffer through this gig.” Betelgeuse took up the gold pen and began to fill out the form.

“Hey, the goldenrod ones don’t go to the second floor anymore. Processing got absorbed by that crazy bitch in quality assurance.”

He nodded, scribbling away. “Got it.” With a flourish, he forged a signature and replaced the pen.

“Thanks, Skip. Once I file this, those Maitlands aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em.”

◧◧◧

“Ow, something hit me,” Adam sighed. “Why can’t ghosts see in the dark?”

“Shh,” Barbara hissed. “You don’t want her to hear us, do you?”

“Sorry,” he whispered, as a creak sounded somewhere above.

“Here she comes!” The glee in Barbara’s voice was plain, even in a whisper, and she gripped Adam’s arm tight.

“Careful, Dad.” Lydia’s warning drifted down into the cellar. “There’s supposed to be a light switch somewhere, down at the bottom.”

“It’s a wonder Mr. Maitland didn’t break his neck coming down here all the time.” Charles Deetz chuckled.
“You come down here a lot?”

“I help Adam get stuff out of his workshop, but that’s on the other side of the basement. You can only get to it from the garage.”

“Ahaaa, that’s because they poured a central load-bearing wall into the concrete,” Charles said, pride swelling in his voice as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Now, that’s classic New England architecture at its best! Your stepmother can mess with the rest of it all she wants, but she can’t do a damn thing to structural integrity.”

Lydia laughed. “Thank goodness.”

“I’ve been thinking of one other renovation, though, pumpkin.”

Her disdain cut the musty air as she groped for the light switch. “I don’t think Adam and Barbara would like that very much,” she said, turning on the light.

The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered to life, and Lydia scowled, rounding on her father. “What did you do?” She cried. “What are all these stainless steel counter tops?”

Charles held up his hands. The sparse light accented the deep circles under his eyes, and Lydia’s glowering softened at the desperation in his voice. “Now - just have another look, sweetheart.” He took her gently by the shoulders and turned her around. “Have … a good look.”

A sheet-rock wall had been erected, separating a small section of the basement from the rest. The counter tops Lydia had bemoaned stretched along the closest wall, and across the back wall. To her left, she saw what she’d been expecting: one of Adam’s work benches, the wood darkened and weathered by time and tools. A set of shelves, freshly cut and sanded, sat up above the bench. Between the back wall cabinets and the work bench, a door frame set into the wall had a curtain rod hanging above it, but no door. Lydia shook free of her father’s hands and stepped up toward the counters at the side wall, then gasped as she realized they were set with two deep, wide sinks.

“No way.”

“You like it?” Adam stepped through the dark doorway, beaming.

“I love it!” She squealed, clasping her hands over her heart, eyes wide.

Barbara moved up behind Adam with a soft smile. “It was your father’s idea. Adam and I just helped with the designs.”

Lydia looked over at Charles, who gave her a lopsided, sad smile. In an instant, she saw his jealousy, and realized just how much more time she’d been spending with her ghostly friends. In a bound, she crossed the darkroom and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his cardigan. He smelled like cotton, chamomile, and a splash too much aftershave. “Thank you, Dad. It’s wonderful. I can’t wait to start using it… once I get the proper tools.”

He hugged her back, brief and tight, then moved toward the steel counter at the back and opened up the doors underneath. Inside stood two sturdy boxes emblazoned with logos she’d been circling in catalogs for years. “You mean these?”

“I … that’s the enlarger that acts as its own base and comes with two of its own lenses!” Her voice soared out of its usual monotone into a high, excited buzz. “And this is an advanced kit, with extra negative carriers and two different tray sizes … oh my God, Dad, this has everything!”

Charles rocked back on his heels and smiled. “So, I take it I did good, pumpkin?”

“You’re the best. Mm, I wish I had some good pictures on my camera right now, so I could develop something!”

Adam and Barbara exchanged glances. “Do you still have the negatives of us in the attic window?”

A mischievous smile spread into Lydia’s eyes. “I thought you had to get rid of those.”

“The photos, yeah, but Juno didn’t say anything about negatives.” Adam winked. “You could develop them again, just as a test, then destroy them.”

“I might!” Lydia grinned. “Let me run upstairs and get my camera! I’ll be right back.”

As she barreled up the stairs, Charles chuckled. “You know, Adam … I really have to thank you for all you’re doing for my little girl. … Well. I guess fourteen isn’t exactly little anymore, is it? Geez. … Anyway. I wanted to give her a proper darkroom ever since her mother left me, but I just didn’t have the skill you do.”

“There’s still a lot to be done, Charles.” Adam shrugged. “You could help me with what’s left. I’d be happy to show you.”

“You know, that book you gave me was right. This whole common ground thing is really pretty invigorating.” Charles puffed out his chest and breathed in deep, then coughed. “… Gypsum dust.”

As they conversed, Barbara reached up onto the shelves to pull down a fresh packet of photo paper for Lydia. Something loose fluttered down to the ground, and she bent to pick it up. Squinting in the dim light, she struggled to read it, then drew in a slow breath.

“Adam,” she said softly.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute? In the other room?” She flashed Charles a brilliant, apologetic smile that she’d perfected through years of bean suppers and grange meetings. “Wife talk.”

“Ooh.” Charles’ eyes widened and his mouth folded shut in a tight line. “Yep. Sure. Ah… gotcha. I’ll just, um. You know…” He pointed to the stairs, then headed up toward the kitchen.

“What in the world?” Adam frowned. “Lydia’s father and I are finally getting along, and you pull me away? What’s going on?”

“Look,” she said, thrusting the paper toward him.

Adam leaned in, adjusted his glasses, and read aloud. “Spectral brothers and sisters, there is there is nothing selfish about protecting your haunting ground. The progressives are making great effort to bring shame to the tradition of the hunt. There is nothing wrong with ... ghost pride." He shuddered, swallowing heavily before continuing. "Unite for community and Neitherworld justice. For the security of our everlasting souls. Never let the living cast you out. Never compromise with the living. Never trust the living. .... The Invisible Order of the Immortal Brotherhood of Flatliners." A heavy silence fell in the basement as the Maitlands’ eyes met. “Barbara, I don’t like it when ghosts leave us mail.”

“Me, either. We should get rid of it before Lydia gets back.” She nodded toward the dustbin in the corner.

“This is like… well. I think I know what kind of ghosts really do wear sheets, now, let’s just leave it at that.” Adam crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash, then pointed toward the stairs. “Let’s go get those curtains you made and hang them, so she doesn’t get any light leaking in from the kitchen.”

“Okay.” Barbara heaved a quick sigh, pulling herself back together, then kissed him on the cheek. “Race you!”

As Adam raced up the stairs after his wife, the flyer in the basket unfolded like a flower, then curled itself into a ball, tighter and tighter until it disappeared, completely.

◧◧◧

The smell of chemicals followed Lydia up from the basement like a cloud of twisted perfume. She stopped at the kitchen sink to wash her hands, and was drying them when Delia came barging through the back door, a paper bag stuffed near to bursting in her arms. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, but her bangs had been perfectly waxed in jagged lightning bolts across her forehead. Coiled copper springs like tiny, rejected Slinky toys hung from her ears and dangled almost to the shoulders of her oversized electric green blouse.

“Out of my way, Lydia.” Her tone was bright, but razors hid between the sunbeams as she pushed past to the black granite island at the back of the kitchen. “I have a lot of prep work to do before tomorrow night, and - ugh! What is that smell?”

“Developer.”

“What are you developing down there, the next Chernobyl? Ugh. I hope you’re going to take a shower before dinner. Smelling that at the table would make me lose my appetite. You’re not allowed to use that darkroom tomorrow, either: I won’t have my guests walking out because it smells like a funeral home in here.”

“Formaldehyde smells totally different.” Lydia sighed. “But it isn’t like you care. Is this for Art in America again?”

“No, Bernard and Grace have a gallery opening in Manhattan.” Delia’s voice was full of ice chips as she took purple cabbage, red peppers, carrots, and deep green lettuce from the bag, slamming each down on the counter. “Thanks to your little friends, I’ll be amazed if they’ll even cross the state line for me, even after my sculptures ended up in his ridiculous magazine. Thankfully, Beryl got me in touch with another agent, and I’m courting him and some of his little coterie tomorrow night. We’re meeting in the dining room. Tell that Yankee Magazine cover model that she and Mr. Fix-It need to stay up in the attic, tomorrow, or I’m calling a real exorcist.”

Lydia’s jaw dropped and her upper lip rippled with disgust. “What is the matter with you? They’ve been nothing but polite. They’re helping me with my classes, and even Dad isn’t scared of them anymore. And you’re treating them even worse than you did before!”

“I am still the lady of the house.” Delia lowered her voice, her eyes wide and frigid as she raised her perfectly-sculpted eyebrows. “It’s my name and your father’s on the deed, and if your father is determined to stay here, I am determined to make it livable. So just go on to wherever they’re hiding out, and tell them attic or exorcism. Hm?”

“Pretty sure they wouldn’t be caught dead around any friends of yours, anyway,” Lydia mumbled, heading for the back stairs.

“And I need you here tomorrow right after school to help me get everything ready.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, keeping her back to Delia. “I can’t, I have a study date with two of my classmates. We’ve got to come up with ideas for a fundraiser for a new auditorium. The team that designs the best fundraiser gets to help organize it, and wins a gift certificate to the bookstore in Stafford Springs.”

“All I’m hearing are excuses, Lydia. Besides, you can’t ride a bike out to Stafford Springs.”

“Bertha’s mother said she’d drive us there if we win. And the idea is part of our grade for Economics. Do you really want Dad finding out I lost points in Economics?” She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Delia squeeze her eyes shut. Lydia kept her smile to herself, but counted backwards from three silently. As soon as she reached zero, Delia slammed a hand flat against the cutting board.

“Fine. Go to your little study group. But first -”

“I’m on my way up to the attic, anyway.”

“Good!” Delia forced a smile into her voice. As Lydia made her way up the stairs to the attic, she could her her stepmother taking out her frustration on the vegetables.

Barbara opened the door with a surprised smile. “Hey, sweetheart.” She stepped out of the way to let Lydia in. “I thought you’d be developing your heart out down in the basement.”

“I need to take new pictures. The ones of you in the window are developing, though. I have to let them sit, but I tried something on my new enlarger that might come out really cool. If I timed it right.”

“I’m sure you did,” Adam said, bent over his model, tweezers in hand. “Have a seat, stay a while. You can help me switch out the trees for autumn.”

“Not everyone finds that as thrilling as you do, honey.” Barbara winked at Lydia. “I could finish showing you how to make your own patterns, though, now that the sewing machine’s behaving itself. Then you can make your own skirts.”

“They still have to be plaid,” she sighed, flopping down into one of the sheet-draped armchairs that littered the attic. “Ugh.”

“Hey!” Adam gave her a look over the tops of his glasses. “I happen to be proud that I’m stuck in this beautiful plaid flannel for the rest of eternity.”

Lydia let out an amused snort. “Yeah, because plaid’s sexy, right, Barbara?”

She squeaked. “Lydia!”

“Wow, so ghosts can blush.” Lydia grinned. “Come on, I’m just messing with you. Like I’d actually want to know if you guys still have sex. That’s almost worse than hearing Dad and Delia.”

“… I’ve got a problem imagining anything worse than that,” Adam grimaced, lowering a red maple carefully into place next to the church. “Can we change the subject, please?”

Lydia twisted the edge of her sleeve. “You might not want me to.” She paused, watching as Barbara took a wicker sewing basket out from beneath an end table next to the couch. “Delia’s having some sort of home art showing tomorrow night, and she pretty much just told me that if you guys don’t stay up here she’ll have you exorcised.”

“What?” Adam’s tweezers hit the table with a tiny clatter, upending a telephone pole. He straightened, reached up, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’ve got half a mind to go down there right now and give her a piece of my mind!”

“So a quarter of your mind.” Lydia mulled it over. “She’ll need more than that to even think like a normal human being.”

“If she wants us to stay in the attic tomorrow night, Adam, we’ll stay. I think it’s safe to say we’ve learned not to underestimate Delia.” Barbara reached out and touched Lydia’s arm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not going anywhere.”

Adam chuckled, righting the tiny telephone pole. “Right. Not for at least another hundred and twenty-four and a half years. Give or take.”

◧◧◧

Rain pelted the glass of the French doors in Lydia’s bedroom, providing a counterpoint to the Cure record droning quietly from the corner. She pulled the pillows from her desk chair and her bed, arranging them in a pile on the floor, then rearranging them. With a sigh, she slumped down on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

“This is hopeless,” she mumbled. “I’m about to have the worst study group in the history of Connecticut. Which is probably saying a lot.” Falling backwards onto the mattress, she stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how her classmates in New York had captured that perfect, magical vibe that led to brilliant ideas. Most of them had mothers who’d been the sort to bake cookies or brownies and offer cocoa and lemonade: wholesome all-American perfect families down to the bone. Lydia wasn’t big on lemonade and smiles, but cocoa and cookies sounded like a real selling point in the face of Delia’s gallery showing that night. Shoving herself up off the bed, she tiptoed down the hall and past her parents’ bedroom. Her father’s study was empty, and she paused for a moment of respectful pity: he’d likely been shanghaied into helping Delia set up in her absence.

“Sorry, Dad,” she whispered to the empty room, then picked her way down the back stairs into the kitchen. She could hear the endless shifting and shuffling drifting in from the living room, along with her father’s hesitant mumbling beneath Delia’s shrill orders.

“I dunno, honey, I thought it looked just fine in the corner.”

“No, Charles, no, are you kidding me? This is why you aren’t the artist. It isn’t nearly getting enough natural light.”

“But isn’t it going to be da-”

“Over. There. Please.” There was that upward cant to Delia’s voice, the one that always accompanied her sugary-sweet smile full of cyanide.

Lydia made a face, then pulled open the cupboards. Maybe she didn’t have a mother to bake her cookies, but knowing her father, there had to be some instant hot cocoa somewhere. She pushed aside boxes of tea covered in pictures of dragons, chamomile blossoms, and smiling teddy bears, and found a large tin emblazoned with an old-fashioned logo that looked like it had once been part of a Christmas gift basket. A few moments of struggling with the lid yielded a puff of brown powder and the rewarding, heavenly scent of cocoa filled with tiny, freeze-dried marshmallows. Lydia put the lid back on the can and set about filling the tea kettle, then went on a search for snacks. The refrigerator was filled with trays of shrimp cocktail, salad, at least four kinds of sushi, and some sort of odd, grey paste spread over pale, thin crackers that looked as if they’d taste like cardboard.

“Lydia,” Delia barked from the living room, “your little friends are here!”

Abandoning her attempts at playing hostess, Lydia shoved the fridge door shut and ran out into the living room, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. She pulled open the door to find Bertha and Prudence huddled under one umbrella, a station wagon already disappearing down the hill.

“Hi,” she said. “Come on in.”

“And tell them to take their shoes off,” Delia called from the dining room. “No, Charles, not there!”

“Wow.” Bertha goggled, as she closed the umbrella and shook it out on the Deetzes’ porch. “This house really has changed a lot. Why do you have an extra wall floating on the outside of the house?”

“My stepmother did that. She thinks it’s artistic.” Lydia gave the suggestion of a shrug and pulled open the closet. “You can hang up your coats in here.”

“Thank you for letting us come to your house to study,” Prudence said softly, depositing her massive backpack on the floor with a thud so that she could take off her coat.

“It’s fine.” Lydia shifted on her feet. “Delia’s having a gallery thing later, so it might get kind of loud, but … you’re giving me a good reason not to have to put up with all the boring, pretentious New York art talk.”

“Is your stepmom famous?” Bertha hung her blue raincoat up and passed Prudence a hanger, then craned her neck, hoping to see into the dining room.

“No, she just thinks she should be, which is kind of worse.”

Prudence stood on her toes to reach the closet railing, then unzipped her backpack and pulled out a wide, square Tupperware container. “My mom sent me with magic bars. She said we shouldn’t study on an empty stomach or eat all your food.”

“That’s amazing.” Lydia grinned. “I have water on for hot cocoa?”

“It’s like you read my mind.” Bertha put a hand over her heart.

“Come on, the kitchen’s this way.”

“Your house is huge.” Bertha tilted her head back to follow the curve of the staircase up to the second floor. “It must have taken forever to move in. No wonder you sat at the back of class all the time, you were probably trying to take a nap.” She chuckled.

“No, it was more that I … didn’t know anyone,” Lydia admitted.

“That’s got to be so hard. I mean … Prudence and I have lived here our whole lives, and we’re still each other’s only friends, so.”

Lydia frowned. “No one else talks to you at all?”

“Once Claire decides she hates you, that’s pretty much the end of it.” Bertha shrugged. “You get used to it. Right, Pru? … Pru?”

Both girls looked over to see Prudence bent over Adam’s model of Winter River, carefully wedged into the back corner of the living room. “Everything’s here,” she whispered. “This is so cool.”

“My … uncle made it,” Lydia lied. “The one who helps me with math.”

“Can we meet him?” Prudence looked up at her hopefully. “He seems like a very interesting person.”

“I’m afraid he’s not coming tonight.” Lydia frowned. “I wish you could meet him, too.”

Bertha wandered across the living room, intent on inspecting Barbara’s collection of porcelain horses. “These are neat. My great-aunt had a horse farm out on the edge of town… but when she died they had to sell all the horses to pay for the funeral.”

“I remember when you went to pick out the caskets.” Prudence skirted around the table. “It was kinda neat hearing about being in a funeral home.”

Something plucked a string in Lydia’s soul, and it vibrated and sang down her spine. She swallowed down her hope and pushed nonchalance into her voice. “You weren’t sad?”

“A little. She’d been really sick for a while, though, so it was okay. I was kinda more excited to get to see everything so I could tell Prudence about it. She was really curious.”

“Weren’t you?” Lydia asked.

Bertha looked around, as though there might be someone there to chastise her. “… Yeah,” she admitted with a guilty smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but we kinda like spooky stuff.”

Lydia’s smile came out from hiding and blossomed. “I’m pretty sure we’re about to have the best study date ever.”

Six cups of hot cocoa later, the girls were sprawled out contentedly on the pillows on Lydia’s floor. Bertha lay on her stomach with her chin propped on her knobby elbows, surveying the notes Prudence diligently scribbled in her notebook while Lydia sucked coconut and marshmallow from her fingertips.

“If you don’t stop me, Prudence, I’m going to eat this whole pan of magic bars. They’re amazing.”

“I know, right?” Bertha grinned. “Technically I shouldn’t eat them because of my braces, but I won’t tell my parents if you won’t. I just need to run in your bathroom and brush my teeth before I go home.”

Lydia giggled. “Sure. Is it like having a torture device on your face?”

“It was at first. Now it’s just annoying. … So, what have we got for fundraising ideas so far, Prudence?”

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and polished off the last of her cocoa. “Okay: car wash, pet grooming, recycling program, bike-a-thon, out-of-uniform day, bake sale, bean supper, pancake breakfast.”

“Has the school done all of those?” Lydia asked, staring out the window.

“Yeah,” Bertha said. “But they’re all stuff that’s made a lot of money.”

“They’re also all stuff everyone else is going to suggest, though.” Lydia bit her lip, watching as the rain drove the leaves down off the trees. “Wait. What about yard cleanup? Everyone’s yards are huge here. We could have teams of students clean yards, and people pay for it. It’s not like a pet grooming or a bake sale. Not everyone has an animal or likes sweet stuff. Everyone in Winter River has a yard. Even businesses.”

“That’s brilliant, Lydia!” Prudence raised her voice above a murmur for the first time that day. “How did you come up with it?”

Lydia pointed out the window and shrugged. “The trees are losing all their leaves. Plus, my dad’s in real estate. I grew up learning how to leverage property.”

“I think we’ve got our idea.” Bertha sat up and stretched. “Want to go get one last round of cocoa to celebrate?”

“Delia’s gallery’s started… there are yuppie cars all over my front lawn. But we can take the back stairs and you can kind of see the rest of the house.” Lydia took the needle off the record player and led the way out into the hall.

“Why’s it so different up here?” Prudence asked, running a hand along the dark, speckled walls. “It’s so light and … country-looking downstairs. Like a lot of the other houses around here.”

“Um.” Lydia thought fast. “Delia hasn’t gotten around to remodeling the living room yet. And my Dad really wanted to leave everything the way it was when we moved in.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “You didn’t know the people who lived here, did you?”

“Mister and Mrs. Maitland?” Bertha nodded. “Yeah, kinda. Well, Mister Maitland, anyway. My dad got a lot of stuff from his hardware store. He seemed like a neat guy. He always gave me peppermints from the jar he sold at the front desk.”

That sounded like Adam all right. Lydia smiled. “That’s cool. Yeah, this is Dad’s study - see? He left it the way it was.”

“He’s even still got all their pictures up.” Prudence pointed to the top of a bookshelf. “… That’s a lot of National Geographics. Wow, neat.”

“I bet he’d let you borrow some. He reads them sometimes.” Lydia shrugged, then led them down the back stairs. The chatter of Delia’s gallery was muffled by the double doors into the dining room, but here and there, scattered laughter broke the noise. Bertha and Prudence set their mugs down on the kitchen counter as Lydia refilled the teakettle.

Bertha shuffled over to the doors and peered through. “Your stepmom does weird stuff, Lydia. I kinda like it. Especially that one of the snake, that’s super-creepy.”

“Oh, God, the snake.” Lydia shuddered. “I hate that one.”

“I wanna see.” Prudence squished herself in next to Bertha for a peek. “Ooh, that’s scary. It almost looks real… a little too real, for me.”

“How come you hate it?”

“I … it was in my nightmares.” Lydia gave herself a little silent credit for not entirely lying.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Bertha winced. “You’d think she’d try to make you feel better about a nightmare, not turn it into a piece of art to charge people for.”

“That’s Delia for you: center of her own universe.”

“Gross.” Bertha moved away from the door, but stopped when Prudence tugged at the hem of her sweater.
“What, Pru?”

“I think …” Prudence’s eyes went wide. “I think I saw one move.”

Out in the dining room, the chatter grew louder, accented by more laughter. “Oh no,” Lydia whispered, darting over to her friends’ side. Delia’s larger sculptures at the far end of the room: a life-sized representation of a wizened ghost preacher and a twisted, soaring sandworm, were beginning a slow shuffle off their pedestals. Prudence pushed the door open a fraction, and the noise became clearer.

“Delia,” a voice called out, “what are you, dabbling in animatronics?”

The sandworm sculpture reared up and surged toward the preacher sculpture, widening its clay jaws and devouring it in a single bite. The crowd screamed, and the New Wave music Delia had been pumping through the stereo system in the corner surged up to drown out the cacophony. The dining room exploded into chaos, and Lydia watched in horror as the sandworm began to grow, slithering over to block the wide, open archway that connected the dining room to the living room.

“They can’t get out!” Prudence squealed, throwing the doors open. “This way!”

Bertha and Lydia held the doors open as Delia’s guests surged through the dining room, dropping their paper plates of hors d’ouvres and trampling tuna and wasabi into the carpet. The Sandworm coiled and reared again, its second head rising from its gaping maw and flicking a striped tongue into the air. Color began to bleed into the clay like a watercolor from hell, and soon its lips were a livid red. Delia had climbed up onto the dining room table and was shaking her fist at the ceiling.

“You did this, didn’t you?” she howled. “I know you did! Well that does it! I am going to Hartford and getting on the very first goddamn train to New York and your country bumpkin asses are getting! EXORCISED!”
Charles reached up and grabbed her shawl, pulling her down off the table just before the sandworm’s head came crashing down, turning the table to splinters.

Bertha and Prudence hovered at the kitchen door, ushering the partygoers down the steps into the backyard.

“Lydia, come on!” Bertha shouted, as the kettle boiled over, its whine filling the kitchen.

“No.” She shook her head, eyes wide. “No, go on! I have to do something!” She looked past the sandworm to where the Maitlands’ model still stood proudly in the back corner of the living room. “Of course…” She raced out into the dining room and grabbed her father’s hand. “Dad, are you okay?”

“Lydia,” Delia screeched, “I told you to -”

“It’s not them!” She howled. “It’s not them and you know it! You know exactly who’s responsible, and you did this to yourself!” She flung an arm out to one side, pointing to the gruesome sculpture Bertha had admired earlier. “They didn’t do it, and I’m going to prove it!” The sandworm slithered closer, opening its mouths even wider. Lydia filled her lungs, opened her mouth …

“Gone, gone, gone!” Barbara’s voice crowed from behind her, as her hand clamped over Lydia’s mouth. The sandworm deflated as though it were an inner tube with the valve pulled open, shrinking back down to its original size, color bleeding back out of the clay. “Are you all okay?”

“No thanks to you!” Delia shrieked, wrenching her arm free from Charles’ hand and stomping toward Barbara, teetering on her heels. “You’ve ruined me for the last time, do you hear me?”

“I heard you all the way up in the attic, the first time,” Barbara said levelly. “Adam and I didn’t do this.”

“Well, you sure as hell got rid of it!” Delia shook a perfectly manicured claw in her face. “Prove it!”

“It was another ghost - maybe more than one … they…”

“Oh, sure. You set that pervert up to try and take Lydia away from us so you could save her and look good, but really you were just setting up for something bigger, weren’t you?!”

Lydia looked up at her father, eyes wide. “Dad, do something.”

“Delia,” Charles began, reaching for her shoulders.

“Don’t console me, Charles. I am beyond consolation. You are buying me a ticket to New York first thing tomorrow morning. Right now I am going to take the rest of the wine upstairs and try to pretend I still have a career. I don’t want any of you talking to me for the rest of the night.” She snatched a bottle of white wine off the bar and took a deep swig straight from its open neck before marching out through the living room.

“No.” Lydia’s shoulders fell, and she took a step toward Delia, intent on following her. Her father’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“I’ll go, pumpkin. I’ll do what I can, but …” He heaved a deep sigh and turned to Barbara, his brow crinkled with worry. “It doesn’t look good. I mean … I have to admit, unless you can prove it wasn’t you…”

“I know.” She frowned. “Adam and I have someone we can talk to about it, but I promise you, Charles, it wasn’t us.”

“I want to believe you,” he admitted, “but my nerves are a little too shot right now. Honestly, I’m mostly just hoping I can convince Delia to share that bottle of pinot.” With that, he plodded off after his wife.

“Barbara,” Lydia began, but was silenced as Barbara shook her head.

“I know, Lydia. We’ll figure something out. You should go make sure your friends are alright.”

“What are you going to do?” Her voice shook. “I can’t watch you get exorcised … that … summoning thing Otho did was bad enough!”

“We'll go talk to our caseworker.” Barbara smoothed a hand over Lydia’s hair. “She knows everything, and she can see what happens here. She might know who’s really responsible for this.”

“Do you think it could be Bee-”

“Don’t.” Barbara snapped. “Not even once.”

“But do you?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “But whoever it is, they’ve got some explaining to do. And from the sounds of it, someone needs to take my teakettle off the burner before the bottom scorches.” She whisked through the dining room doors and picked up the kettle, setting it down on a cold burner without blinking an eye.

Lydia stared in horror as the palm of Barbara’s hand blistered and peeled. “You -”

“I can’t feel a damn thing,” she shrugged. “It’ll go away. Go on, check on your friends.”

At the back door, two familiar silhouettes stood under the porch light: one tall, and one short with light refracting off her glasses. Lydia pulled open the door with a sigh. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Everyone took off in a hurry. I think one of them actually made ruts in your driveway. They’re probably gonna get stuck in a ditch.” Bertha rolled her eyes. “But what was that, seriously? Is your house really haunted like Jane in 3rd grade says?”

“Jane. … She’s the realtor’s daughter, right?” Lydia winced.

“Uh-huh.” Prudence stepped inside and peeled off her dripping wet socks. “She said it’s haunted by the Maitlands.”

Quickly, Lydia ushered them up the back steps before they could notice Barbara washing her hands in the sink. “But you said they were nice. I don’t think they’re the kind of people who could haunt a fly.”

“You’re probably right,” Bertha agreed. “I bet it’s something older. Something evil, or something. I wonder if the Maitlands knew it was haunted… I wonder if that’s what killed them!”

“They drowned,” Prudence insisted. “Don’t be silly. You know their car went off the bridge. My dad had to pull it out of the river, remember?”

“God,” Lydia realized, “everyone knows everyone here.”

“Just about, yup.” Bertha wiggled her toes against the hall carpet. “Can we borrow some socks? Standing out there kinda sucked.”

“I’m sorry.” Lydia frowned, as they reached her room. Pulling open her dresser drawer, she found two pairs of her white school socks balled up neatly and tossed one to each of the girls. “I’m sorry your feet got wet, I’m sorry my house is haunted, and I’m sorry our study date ended up being a total disaster.”

“Disaster? Are you kidding me?” Bertha laughed, sitting down on the edge of Lydia’s bed to change her socks. “This was the best time I’ve ever had! We’ve got to hang out again.”

“Yes, definitely.” Prudence rolled Lydia’s socks up over her calves, the toes too wide and floppy on her tiny feet. “I really think your idea is going to win the class contest, Lydia. But that’s not the only reason I’m glad we’re friends. You’re … pretty cool.”

As Bertha and Prudence packed up their bags and headed down to the foyer, Lydia felt like she didn’t need Adam’s magic to fly.

“Ooh, there’s my mom.” Bertha said, peering out the front door as Lydia retrieved their coats. “Thanks again, Lydia. I’ll bring your socks back all clean and dry tomorrow.”

“You’re the best,” Prudence smiled. “You can keep the rest of the magic bars and bring back the Tupperware when you’re done.”

Dumbstruck, all Lydia could manage was a grin. “See you tomorrow.”

They waved as they descended the porch steps, and Lydia’s smile lasted until she’d closed the front door after them and silence reigned in the house. Looking over into the living room, she could see the aftermath of the gallery: food scattered around the table and the floor, rips and wrinkles in the carpet from where the haunted sculpture had slithered around the room. She crossed the dining room in long, determined strides until she stood in front of Delia’s prize sculpture: the first two feet of a wide, menacing snake with Beetlejuice’s head.

“I know it was you,” she hissed, glaring into its lifeless, reptilian eyes, “I just know.”

◧◧◧

It took two hours for Charles to come back downstairs. He found Lydia toting a Hefty bag around the dining room, yellow vinyl dish gloves on her hands, picking up what she could of the mess.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he said wearily. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I had the vain thought that maybe if I helped clean up, she might listen to me. I’m convinced that - that that other ghost did all this.”

“You and me both, sweetheart.” Charles patted her on the shoulder. “Either way, she’s determined to get an exorcist in here. Maybe we can reason with him to not get rid of Adam and Barbara.”

“I hope so.” Lydia sighed, wincing as she picked up a shrimp from the carpet. “I’m sorry about tonight, Dad - you must have spent a ton of money on all this food.”

“Eh, I took it out of the Christmas Club,” he shrugged. “I’ll probably use the rest to hire a cleaner to bring one of those big fancy steamer vacuums in here. Maybe convince her to rip up the carpet instead. Tile floor’s a better idea if she’s gonna keep doing this stuff, anyway. I think we had a quarter pound of foie gras ground into the floor before the sculptures started moving.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” He took the bag from her. “Here, I’ll finish up, Lydia. You should go get some sleep. School day tomorrow.”

◧◧◧

Flannel pajamas were the perfect end to a horrible day. Lydia finished brushing her teeth, pulled the elastic off her ponytail, and slumped into the chair in front of her dresser to brush her hair. The vanity mirror reflected back the blackness outside her window, and she let her eyes lose focus, staring out at nothing in particular as she worked the tangles from her hair.

“I just know it was you,” she repeated in a whisper.

As if in reply, a low chuckle drifted out from the darkness.

“Beetlejuice,” Lydia gasped, before she could stop herself. The mirror went black, and the lights flickered. She shrieked, pushing her chair back away from the vanity, and her brush fell to the floor. The darkness receded, but it wasn’t Lydia’s own reflection which stared back at her.

“Hey, kid.” Beetlejuice smirked out at her. “Lookin’ good. I mean, I figure, if you’re lookin’ in a mirror, you might as well get some feedback, m’I right?”

“Why are you doing this?” Lydia pulled the lapels of her pajama top closed, unwilling to even let him get a glimpse of her collarbones.

“Would you believe ‘bored stiff’?” He tried. When all he earned in response was a glare, he shrugged. “Worth a college try, I suppose. But hey, seriously. You need to tell Ma and Pa Kettle up there that they. Owe. Me. And since I figure they listen to you more than anyone else, you’re my best bet.”

“So you scare my family again just to get my attention?”

The blank look on Beetlejuice’s face was almost comical. “I beg your pardon?” He grumbled.

“The sandworm sculpture in the dining room,” Lydia clarified, doubt seeping into her voice. “It … tried to eat Delia’s guests.”

“Much as I’d love to do the art world a favor,” he scoffed, “it wasn’t me. Cross my heart.”

“I don’t think you have one,” Lydia snapped.

“Oooooh, ouch.” He gave a twitch of his eyebrows. “Hey, honey, I don’t know if you remember right, but you’re the one who left me at the altar. But hey, hey, it’s all cool. It’s good. I’m over it. I’m feelin’ good. I finally left the apartment the other day. Burned all your pictures, gave your stuff to Goodwill, made some voodoo dolls - how’s the neck, by the way? Hurts? Well not half as much as it did when you ripped out my heart, sister!”

She stared at him, shaking her head slowly. “Do they have therapists on the other side?”

“We tried. It didn’t work out. I liked the shock therapy too much. You know how it is.”

“You don’t take anything seriously,” Lydia said, disgusted.

“Actually,” he said, lowering his voice and affecting a cultured WASP accent, “as a matter of fact, I do. I happen to be a consummate businessman who provides a very vital service to the community. I was hired by the Maitlands to do that service to them, I did it quite well, might I add, and yet they’ve stiffed out on payment to me.” He paused, then switched accents to impersonate a perky receptionist. “This is an attempt to collect a debt. Any conversation resulting from this call will be used for that purpose.”

“What were they going to give you, even?” Lydia squinted into the mirror as she pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Not me.”

“They were supposed to get me out. You know. Like I said: I got somebody on the other side I gotta meet, and it’s the kinda thing you gotta be there for in person.”

“That’s not my problem.” Lydia frowned. “My problem is that my house was just haunted, and if I don’t find out who did it, Delia’s going to exorcise Adam and Barbara.”

“And that isn’t my problem, toots.” Beetlejuice snorted. “I’m just lookin’ out for myself.”

“Actually,” she said, tilting her head, “isn’t it? If they’re exorcised, they can’t pay what they owe you.”

Beetlejuice’s face rearranged itself into a disgusted grimace that didn’t quite seem physically possible, then disappeared, quickly replaced by a smirk. “So let me out and we’ll do business.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean, no?”

Lydia folded her arms. “No. As in, ‘no’. As in ‘not yes’. As in ‘never, you’re a pervert’.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good thing when I see it?” He rolled his eyes. “I mean come on, you’re at least an eight.”

“I’m fifteen,” she corrected him. “Which makes you a major creep.”

“Please, guys twice the age I was when I died used to marry girls half your age.”

“Maybe in the Dark Ages.”

“Ah, good times,” he said wistfully.

“If you’re not going to help me find out who did this,” Lydia said, kneeling to pick up her hair brush, “get out of my mirror. I have school tomorrow.”

“If I find out,” he said, “what’s in it for me?”

Lydia pursed her lips. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll have to think about it. I have a question, though.”

”Shoot.”

She took a deep, slow breath, considering her words with care. “If I want to talk to you again … how do I, without actually letting you out?”

He let loose a groan that started out low and peaked high in frustration, dragging a hand over his face and muttering to himself, swears mixed in with gibberish. “Okay, fine. You can say my name without lettin’ me out, as long as three minutes passes between each time you say it.”

Lydia paused, remembering how Barbara had banished the possessed sculpture. “Three is kind of important to ghosts, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask me why, I got no clue.”

“Right. So … Once I figure out what I’m willing to do … I’ll call you back. On one condition.”

“Another one?” He gave an exaggerated sigh, arms flopping. “What now?”

“You have to tell me the truth when I do. Or … Or I’ll call you and let whoever my mother gets exorcise you, too.”

“WHAT?!”

“Hey,” she shrugged, shooting him a smirk. “I’m just looking out for myself.” With that, she threw the blanket off her shoulders and over the mirror. “Good night, Beetlejuice.”

◧◧◧

The sun lanced through Lydia’s window far too early for her liking, dislodging dreams of walking through a greenhouse carpeted with sheets of seaweed, plucking shrimp and strange grey lumps from hanging vines as sandworms slithered through the undergrowth, forever there but out of sight. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then checked the clock on her bedside table. Her alarm was due to go off in ten minutes … not enough to merit trying to go back to sleep, so she swung her feet out of bed and curled her toes around the heel of a slipper, dragging it close enough to put on.

The sight of her quilt still draped over her vanity mirror stopped her in her tracks to the bathroom, and she tilted her head at it, squinting. Then she nearly tripped on her brush, and the conversation she’d had came back to her. Erring on the side of caution, Lydia gathered up her brush and makeup and brought it all into the bathroom to get ready. She hummed quietly to herself as she cleaned up and dressed, topping off her school wardrobe by hanging her camera around her neck. By the time she slipped her books under her arm and scurried down the steps, the last echoes of her nightmare had faded, and she smiled as she reached the kitchen.

“Morning, Barbara.”

Barbara looked up from the stove, where she was tending a pan of bacon. “Hey, Lydia. Did you sleep okay last night, after everything?”

“Well … I guess, yeah. Okay enough. I might end up nodding off in Math. … Again.” She pulled the peanut butter and jelly from the cupboard and set about making her lunch. “Are we out of oranges?”

“I think there’s one more. Hang on and I can give you some bacon to go with your toast.”

“You don’t usually make bacon during the week.” Lydia looked up from stuffing her sandwich into a Ziploc baggie. “What’s the occasion?”

“Hoping I can at least soften last night’s edges a little. I know Delia’s going to be sleeping off a hangover, but your father will be up soon, I’m pretty sure.”

“Birdwatching.” Lydia smiled, watching as Barbara folded two slices of fresh bacon and half a slice of cheese into a piece of bread, then tucked it into a paper towel. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She wiped her hands on her apron and turned. “Have a great day at school.”

Lydia went in for a hug, and the familiar smell of the attic on Barbara’s clothes. “Thanks.”

“Taking pictures for the darkroom?”

“That’s the plan. I’ll see you later!” She took the impromptu breakfast sandwich, stuffed her lunch into a paper bag, and tucked it under her arm along with her books before snagging her jacket from its hook on the door and going out the back steps. The early morning air was crisp and cold, but she waited to put her coat on until she’d reached the yard, where her bike stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Her books and lunch went in the sturdy basket in the front, and she swirled her coat on over her shoulders before taking a deep breath of the fall breeze and pushing off down the driveway.

At school, Lydia quickly found Bertha and Prudence in homeroom, and sat down next to Prudence. “Hey,” she said, still breathless from her ride.

“Hi Lydia.” Prudence reached into her backpack and took out a small, slim black book with the title written in simple white calligraphy. “I brought you something. We had two copies of it in the house, and I thought you’d like it.”

“The Haunting of Hill House,” she read, feeling a little thrill run up her spine. “You mean - to borrow, right?”

“No, to keep, silly. Like I said: we have two copies.” Prudence smiled. “That way we can talk about it after you read it. Kind of like a book club.”

“It’s a pretty good one,” Bertha agreed.

“Wow. Thank you!” Lydia was glad that her cheeks were still red from the cold outside, as she gently tucked the book away at the bottom of her pile. “I’ll put it in my locker later for safe-keeping.”

At the end of their aisle, Bertha was juggling her books and notes, trying to get everything in order, when Claire Brewster came sashaying toward them.

“Oh my God, Janice, you cannot be serious,” she said to the redhead in the knot of girls making their way toward the back of the room. “If someone had said that to me, I would have simply died.” She punctuated the hyperbole with a wide sweep of her arm, which sent Bertha’s books and notes tumbling to the floor.

“Hey!” Bertha frowned. “Watch where you’re flailing, Claire.”

“Oh.” Claire gave a smack of her lips. “So totally sorry, Bertha. Gosh. Let me help you pick that up, since your arms aren’t half as long as your little horsey legs.” The girls tittered as Claire knelt, setting her own notebook down for a moment to gather it all up. “Here you go.” She flashed Bertha a syrupy smile before continuing toward the back row.

“Wow,” Prudence whispered, once they’d all passed. “That was … really nice.”

“She must want something.” Lydia frowned. “Delia only smiles at me like that when she wants something.”

“I don’t think your stepmother’s as bad as Claire Brewster,” Bertha insisted.

“That’s because you haven’t known her as long as I have.”

Miss Shannon, the headmaster, teetered into the classroom on her high heels, her grey pencil skirt impeccably clean and the ruffles at the busom of her white blouse crisp and perfect. Her red hair was done up in tight ringlets, and she smiled out at the girls from behind round wire glasses. “Good morning, girls,” she said, in the sort of high, cultured voice that always made Lydia think of country clubs and afternoon mint juleps.

“Good morning, Miss Shannon,” they all replied, dutifully - some with more enthusiasm than others.

“As you know, your assignment for the day was to come up with an idea for this year’s auditorium fundraiser. I will survey the submissions over the weekend and the coming week, and announce the winner next Friday. We’ll go in alphabetical order, off the roster, and whichever teammate’s name is called first will share their team’s submission. Ready, then? Off we go. Frances Allen?”

A round girl with her dark hair pulled up in a bun shared a secret smile with her teammates off to the left of the classroom. “A car wash.”

“Car wash, very good. And could your teammates please raise their hands? … Thank you.” Miss Shannon wrote them down in her ledger, then crossed their names off the roll. “Claire Brewster?”

“My team would like to do a town leaf clean-up, Miss Shannon,” she said sweetly. A gasp of surprise rippled through the room.

“What?” Lydia frowned. “Bertha -”

She had her composition notebook open, flipping through the pages. “But - this isn’t my - Claire.”

“An excellent idea,” Miss Shannon said over the hubbub. “Calm down, girls, calm down.”

“But Miss Shannon - !” Prudence said, struggling to be heard.

“Team Brewster, raise your hands, please… thank you.” She paused. “Lydia Deetz.”

Two can play at this game, Lydia thought, taking a deep breath and sitting up straight in her chair. “Miss Shannon, my team had also had the idea of a town leaf clean-up.”

“I’m afraid there can only be one submission per idea, Lydia. Why don’t you choose your second-best?”

“Yeah, Lydia,” Claire called from the back. “Second-best.”

Incensed, Lydia turned and gave her a glare that, if she’d had her way, would have undone Claire’s hairspray. “Bertha? Prudence? Suggestions?”

Bertha held up Claire’s notebook, with a list very similar to the one they’d amassed the night before. Lydia made a face, then remembered one of their ideas that Claire hadn’t thought of. “Pet grooming,” she said. “We’ll submit pet grooming.”

“Fair enough. And that’s the three of you. Carrying on…”

None of the other teams’ ideas were as good, in Lydia’s opinion, as the one Claire had stolen from them. She tried to concentrate on Miss Shannon’s lessons, but all she could hear were the muffled whispers of Claire’s entourage behind her. She took scattered notes, and only managed to direct her full attention to the front of the classroom for art and English.

At lunch, Bertha and Prudence invited her to eat outside with them underneath a massive oak at the corner of the school grounds. “It’s better than the lunchroom, until it really gets cold,” Bertha said, pulling a ragged fleece blanket out of her locker and carrying it outside. “Especially if we sit on this.”

“That looks like it’s seen better days.”

“I make them from scrap fabric from the craft shop in town … then, once Prudence and I wear them out, I bring them to the shelter. They cut them up and make them into blankets for the animals.” She shrugged, spreading it out on the dead grass.

Ravenous, they ate their sandwiches in relative silence, punctuated by loud crackling and crunching as Bertha attacked a bag of potato chips, sharing a handful with each of them.

“What I want to know,” Lydia said, licking salt off her fingertips, “is how Claire even got away with stealing our idea.”

“That’s the problem.” Prudence sighed. “We can’t prove it unless she’s still got Bertha’s notebook…”

“… And I found it stuffed in the girls’ toilet.” Bertha grimaced. “I lose more composition notebooks that way.”

“Does she cheat off you two a lot?”

“At least once a year.”

Fury clamped a heated hand around Lydia’s chest, and she shoved her empty Ziplog baggie into her lunch bag with gusto. “Maybe we have a more important thing to plan for than the fundraiser… giving Claire a taste of her own medicine.”

“But how?” Prudence asked.

“Leave that to me. If we can’t get her actually caught for cheating, maybe we can at least give her a good scare.”

Prudence nibbled at a carrot stick dubiously. “Will that work?”

“Trust me,” Lydia smirked. “You’d be surprised how effective it is to scare people into changing their minds. My uncle’s pretty much an expert. I’ll see what he thinks.”

“Awesome, we’ve got the Super Tutor on our side.” Bertha grinned. “Thanks, Lydia!”

“Just do me a favor. If I start even looking distracted, elbow me or something. I’m not going to let Claire keep me from what I’m supposed to be doing, even if it is Algebra.”

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Claire and her friends seemed to have calmed down somewhat, and no chatter floated up from the back of the classroom. True to their word, Bertha and Prudence kept Lydia awake through the rest of the day, and the three parted with smiles and waves once the bell rang. Lydia stayed behind for a moment, circling the school until she found the perfect angle for the late afternoon light, and took a few photos of the building, and the tree where they’d eaten lunch. Satisfied, she mounted her bike and pedaled into town, stopping as the whim seized her to take pictures of Winter River’s more interesting sights. By the time she reached the bridge, she had a full roll of film, and had lost most of her anger to the click of the camera’s shutter.

Even if Claire gets the credit, we still get to do my fundraiser, she thought, letting her photographer’s objective eye put it all in perspective, treading slowly across the bridge. She ran her free hand along the railing, pausing at the spot where it had given way and sent Adam and Barbara to their deaths. Just because it felt like the end doesn’t mean it is. … But I’m still going to ask Adam for help getting Claire back for this!

Once she reached home, she went straight up the back stairs, not even pausing to drop off her backpack. The attic was empty, the vacuum propped up in one corner, Adam’s modeling supplies neatly put away.

“Barbara? Adam? … Maybe they’re downstairs.” She shrugged, about to turn and head back to the living room when she caught a faint glimmer at the corner of her eye. At the back of the attic, in the space where the chimney met the attic floor, she could see a line of glowing green light, almost like neon. She stepped closer to inspect it, and saw a faint chalk line in the shape of a door.

“Oh,” she said to herself. “Guess I’ll come back later.” Taking off her backpack, she took out her notebook and scribbled a note for them, which she ripped out as neatly as possible. Tucking it gently between two of the buildings in the model so Adam would notice, she gave the green line of light one last curious look before heading downstairs to start her homework.

◧◧◧

Adam Maitland was the only person smiling. He crossed the waiting room with a jaunty spring in his step and set his copy of The Handbook for the Recently Deceased and a neatly folded paper down on the counter. When that failed to attract the green-skinned receptionist’s attention, he cleared his throat politely and flashed Barbara a wink.

“Excuse us,” Barbara ventured.

“What.” Miss Argentina, or so her satin shawl proclaimed, looked up at them from beneath electric-red bangs. The steel flashing in her eyes vanished at the sight of the paper, and she swept it beneath the plexiglass barrier between them. “So you finally figured out how to use a D-90. It figures. At least you got the last one right. Take a number and have a seat.”

Adam glanced around, realizing that the ticker-tape numbers each ghost held were at least six inches long. “Is there any way you could … I don’t know, expedite this? Time passes faster in the living world, and we might have an exorcist coming for us.”

A collective gasp went up around the waiting room. Even the piranha trapped in one woman’s diving helmet stopped swimming to goggle at them.

“You should have said something,” Miss Argentina sighed, grabbing a large stamp and slamming it down on the paper. “Have a seat. I’ll make sure Juno comes out here as soon as she -”

“Don’t even bother.” The back door to the waiting room swung open and a thick cloud of smoke billowed into the room. Once it dissipated, Juno stood waiting in a wool suit the color of nicotine stains, a cigarette dangling from her bony fingers. “Maitlands. C’mon.”

“Thank God,” Barbara sighed, wringing her hands as they followed her down the hall. “Juno, someone else is haunting our house. Could it be Be- er, him?”

“No, it’s not him.” Juno waved a hand, pushing open the door to her sparse, tiny office. “You’re getting awful cozy with the Deetzes, aren’t you?”

“Well … we want to be able to live with them, so … yes.” Barbara settled carefully into her chair, as though she were afraid it might bite her. Adam hovered behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders, and she tilted her head back to look at him.

“There isn’t anything wrong with that, is there?”

“Besides the fact that I’ve told you never to trust the living?” Her Bronx accent gave an extra edge to her words, and she ground her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray, then immediately lit another, smoke leaking out the slit at the front of her throat. “You could get yourselves discovered! Oh, I know, you’re ‘being careful’. I saw how you told that girl you won’t tutor anyone else: nice save. But leaving photos of yourselves out on the mantel? That model, in plain sight? You couldn’t just be happy with the attic, could you?”

“Charles Deetz likes the fact that we’re restoring the living room,” Adam began.

“Oh, and you trust him?” Juno asked pointedly.

“As a matter of fact, we do.” A note of sadness crept into Barbara’s voice. “He’s genuinely a nice man … it’s that wife of his that worries me.”

“If the wife’s a problem, the husband’s no help at all, believe me.” Juno’s wizened lips pulled back to reveal her tiny, yellow teeth as she grimaced.

“Even so, we didn’t do this!” Adam insisted. “We came here hoping you might be able to help us find out who did.”

With a sigh, Juno began to flip through loose papers on her desk. “Fine, fine. Has anything out of the ordinary happened lately? … Besides the sculptures.”

The Maitlands exchanged glances. “There was that flyer,” Barbara murmured. “It was really, really creepy. Something straight out of the Dead Deep South. Stuff about the living trying to take our homes and …”

“Ghost pride,” Adam finished with a shudder.

“The Flatliners.” Juno ashed her cigarette. “If you got their attention, you’re really getting chummy with your housemates. I’d bet money it was one of them who did it … but without concrete proof, we can’t convict them of malicious extra-terraneous ethereal transmanipulation.”

“Say what?”

Juno scoffed. “I can’t nail them for haunting people in your house!”

Adam shook his head, then took off his glasses, deciding they needed a good polish. “Why can’t anyone on this side speak plain English?”

“Mensa must’ve been raring to recruit you two,” Juno droned. “Listen, long story short: I can’t peg the Flatliners unless you get evidence. So if Delia Deetz does bring an exorcist down on your heads, you’ll have to get rid of him yourself. Use the Handbook. What do I always say? It’s in the damn Handbook. I think I need it tattooed across my forehead or something…” She blew another wisp of smoke, and it spread, filling the office in a thick brown cloud that blotted out everything.

“No, wait,” Barbara cried, knowing full well what was about to happen. “Juno!”

Adam waved an arm in front of him, clearing the smoke until the attic reappeared around them. “Barbara, honey … save your breath.”

“Ugh. I was so afraid we’d be wasting our time,” she lamented. “Sometimes I really hate being right. And she’s always so rude to you…”

“Just because I don’t speak in stereo instructions doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Adam huffed. “I’d like to see her rewire an electrical panel or completely replace a wall of insulation. I bet she doesn’t even know a Phillips from a socket wrench.”

“Calm down, sweetheart.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I know you’re clever. We just have to find a way to use that cleverness to … to catch these awful Flatliners.”

Adam kissed her temple before reaching out and picking Lydia’s note carefully from the model. “That’s the spirit. And hey, think of it this way, honey … we’re not alone this time. We’ve got help.”

“With any luck,” she added, giving him an extra squeeze, “Charles will be on our side, too.”

◧◧◧

A soft knock at the door pulled Lydia away from The Haunting of Hill House. She took a moment to reorient herself in reality, then marked her spot. “Yeah?”

The door eased open just enough to admit Charles’ hopeful face. “Hey, pumpkin,” he said, with that cheerful edge in his voice that always meant bad news on the horizon. “Gotta minute?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She set her book aside and slid out of the armchair she’d strategically placed in the corner by the window, next to her stereo. “What’s wrong?”

Surprise crossed his face, and as he opened his mouth, a brief flash of denial flickered in his eyes, then died, replaced by resignation. Glumly, he closed his mouth, frowned, and looked around the room, most likely trying to find the words to begin. “Well, for one, you’ve got Aunt Zelda’s blanket over your vanity.” His mouth puckered as he reached up to pull it away.

“No! Leave it,” Lydia cried, reaching out a hand despite being on the other side of the room. “It’s … a project for class. We have to look at ourselves in the mirror as little as possible for a week, and write this essay about vanity.”

“Huh!” Charles blinked, nodding as he mulled the concept over. “What they don’t think of in liberal arts private schools. Sounds interesting. Anyway, why don’t you come over and sit with me in the study for a bit? No mirrors in there.”

He flashed her a smile that she returned, cautiously. At least he’s trying, she thought. “Sure.”

Lydia followed him out into the hall, hearing the whine of a commercial vacuum echoing up from the first floor. Charles’ sheepskin L.L. Bean slippers scuffed softly on the boards as he entered the study and pulled out a chair for his daughter. “Have a seat. You want a peppermint? I got a bag at the little store on my way back from dropping your stepmother at the train station.”

Lydia sat, then reached for the green milk-glass dish in the center of her father’s desk. One of the sugary pillows was halfway to her mouth before the rest of what he’d said sank in. “She went to find an exorcist. Dad, no!” She leaned forward as he settled into his chair. “Why’d you let her?!”

“You know there’s no stopping her when she’s made her mind up. She’s really upset about this, Lydia. I’m not angry at you, and I believe you when you say the Maitlands didn’t do this, but … we can’t just have ghosts showing up to spoil things whenever they feel like it! It’s not exactly good for my blood pressure … and you know I have to keep that down.”

Lydia sighed. “I know. But … an exorcist? I know you said we might be able to convince him not to get rid of Adam and Barbara, but … what if that’s not the way it works?”

“Then you and Delia are going to have to come to some kind of agreement, pumpkin. I don’t want to have to be stuck in the middle, here, but if she’s not happy…”

“… None of us are happy,” Lydia finished. “I know. … I just don’t know what to do.”

Charles sank back against his chair, the leather and springs creaking, and folded his hands over his stomach. “Maybe if we just sit here, it’ll come to us. Maybe if we’re just nice and quiet …”

Lydia dropped her chin to her chest, letting her hair fall over her face, and closed her eyes. He doesn’t understand, she thought. How can I make him understand? All he wants is for it to be calm around here … but Adam and Barbara make it so much better here …

Silence drifted down into the study, adding itself to the layer of dust that kept Adam’s books and magazines company. Father and daughter sat, each mulling over their own motivations, lost in thought.

“NO, NO, NO, NO!” A brusque tenor broke the silence, somewhere outside. Charles toppled backward in his chair, hitting his head on the window sill, and Lydia sprang to help him to his feet.

“You okay?”

“I think so. The hell was that?”

Both of them scrambled out into the hall and peered over the banister to see a tall, thin man in a suit the color of spring lilacs standing over the rumpled contractor pushing the industrial vacuum.

“Turn that off right now,” he commanded. “You are sucking up all of my precious evidence, and I cannot have a single crumb disturbed. Delia, beautiful, tortured Delia, why did you not tell me this was happening?”

Delia, still in the process of shucking off her coat, froze immediately, dismay turning down her mouth in a tiny gape. “Oh! Oh, no, Teddy, did they ruin it?”

“Teddy,” Charles murmured. Lydia glanced up to see wrinkles of concern spring from the corners of his eyes.

“Only just barely not.” The visitor whisked off his poppy-red fedora and set it down on the finial at the base of the stairs. “You, what are you doing vacuuming perfectly viable ethereal leavings?”

The old man looked up at him, unfailing, from beneath a battered Heineken cap. “Th’ job I got paid eighty-two fi’ty to do.”

Delia smacked her lips, drew breath, and bellowed. “CHARLES!”

“I’m right here,” he said, descending. “I hired Jim here to do the carpets since you were so upset about it. I thought it would be a nice surprise.” He gave her his most winning and hopeful smile.

“Well, that was before we knew that you shouldn’t vacuum up the awful mess ghosts leave behind,” Delia said primly. “Charles, this is Ted Johnson, from Manhattan. He’s the absolute best exorcist in all fifty states, so says Otho, and you know how I feel about Otho’s word on things.”

Lydia felt her stomach roll, and crouched down behind the railing, trying to remain out of sight.

“Well, if the expert says so, I guess that’s the way it’s gonna go. We’ll just … walk around it, or put newspaper down for now, or … ehh … something.” Charles put on his best business meeting grin and pulled out his wallet. “Of course, Jim, I’ll still pay you for your time. And you’ll get the call when we’re ready for the rest to come up.”

“Long’s your money’s good,” Jim shrugged, accepting the sheaf of twenties and tucking it away in his pocket before pushing the massive steam-cleaner out the front door.

“Mr. Deetz.” Ted held out a hand and smiled without showing teeth. His eyes were dark and shining like a crow, beneath thick, fuzzy black eyebrows that put Lydia in mind of dead caterpillars. His bushy hair had been molded to the shape of his fedora, and he reached up with his free hand to ruffle it back in place. “Such a pleasure. Delia tells me you have quite the haunted house, here. But no words are necessary.” He let go of Charles’ hand and pivoted on one shiny loafer, squinting around the living room as though he’d scented rotten eggs. “I can feel their presence. It’s seeping into every board, every crack in the ceiling…” He reached out a hand and touched the wall, only to pull his fingers back as though they’d been singed, with a gasp. “Even the wallpaper!”

“Ugly as sin, isn’t it,” Delia grumbled.

“Sin does not even begin to cover it.” Ted curled his hand in a gesture of distaste which would have looked at home on a French courtier. “Salt, I need salt and warm water. I have touched ethereal residue. Cleansing is required. This whole house must be cleansed if we’re going to even begin the process successfully.” He strode back toward the kitchen, holding his affected hand out in front of him as though it were covered in sewage.

“Cleansing,” Charles echoed, walking over to Delia. He put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down. Lydia strained to hear him. “If he means we could have just hired a maid and been fine… From the cut of that ridiculous suit, he’s going to cost me even more than Otho did.”

“Of course he is,” Delia said, reaching up to run a fingertip behind Charles’ ear. Lydia cringed. “After all, he’s at least twice the paranormal expert Otho thought he was. And he’s going to get rid of every single ghost in this house. For good.”

Charles winced. “But -”

Delia looked up over his shoulder and met Lydia’s eyes. “Every. Single. One of them.”