Plenty of Blues to Go Around
The first logical place Myrriah could think of to search for her phone was George's office. Master Gracey was usually cool, collected, and calm… until he found some new gizmo. He would run off to his office with it, giggling like a child. One could, on slow days or after a forgetful guest left, find him sitting at his desk, screwdriver in hand, taking apart some little gadget a foolish mortal had left behind. Even after an explicit "Don't touch, just look", he would ignore the warning and find some way to get his transparent hands on whatever knick-knack he wanted to tinker with. It wouldn't have been such a problem if he actually knew how to put it back together after he took it apart.
Myrriah approached the grand office door. Before she could so much as grip the intricate bronze dragon shaped handle, a nasal, high-pitched voice rang out, "Who goes there?" Rolling her eyes and groaning, she looked up to see Master Gracey's disembodied bodyguards materialize. To her left was the towering executioner, with his black hood and ax resting on his shoulder. Standing on her right was the ghost who had spoken, a scrawny knight holding his decapitated head in his hand.
"Hey guys," Myrriah began, "I need to get in there and—"
Whoosh! The ax stopped millimeters from her face.
"You nearly nicked my glasses!" she snapped. She took of the spectacles and examined them. "I just got these, too, and they weren't cheap!" Scowling, she put them back on. "And I even paid for transition lenses. Do you have any idea how much that costs?"
The knight scowled. "No one, except Master Gracey himself, or someone with the Master's permission, is to enter into his private chambers." He added a smug, "Humph."
Thinking quickly, Myrriah said, "I have his permission. He said, 'Miss Harolds, go right on in if you need anything'."
The executioner scratched his head. "I s'pose dat's right. Well, I's hopes you find what's youse been lookin' fer." He reached meaty hand down to open the door for her and the knight slapped it.
"Knave! We cannot just allow thee fair maiden to pass!"
"Wow, you think I'm a fair maiden?" she asked cheerfully, genuinely considering the notion.
He continued on with his knightly decree, ignoring her. "Thou must guess thee password before thou canst enter." He turned his head to face her. "M'lady guesseth thee the entry word. Then, and only then, can thee set foot into thy master's chamber."
"Um…" The fair maiden wracked her brain trying to think of something to say. What would George have for his password? I know him well enough to make an educated guess, don't I? That vainglorious drama queen would do something he would think was tricky. His password would be… She grinned triumphantly. "There is no password, good sir knight," she answered haughtily. "So, why don't you scoot aside and—"
"Eerrt!" The executioner made a sound like a buzzer. "Dat's wrong, miss. It's...uh…um…"
"Georgie porgy," the knight interjected. "But now that thee fair, if empty headed, maiden knowseth it, we shall changeth it again...eth.
"Quit trying to speak Middle English, you medieval poser!" Just then, Little Leota crept out of the office. "How did she get in there?" Myrriah demanded.
L. L. scoffed. "I walked it. These guys were off taking a tea break."
"We would do nothing of the sort, you lying urchin!" snapped the knight. Then as an afterthought added, "Knave!" He held his face inches from hers. "Why werest thou in thy master's chambers?"
"If you're asking what I was doing in there, 'cause that was the basic gist I got from that bizarre sentence, Miss Perky and I were playing hide and seek. I thought I saw her run into the office."
Myrriah rubbed her temples. "You didn't see a little phone, did you? 'Bout yea big." She held out her hands three inches apart. "Shiny, black. Has 'Dead Man's Party' for the ring tone."
L. L. shook her head, black hair flying in multiple directions. "No." Shooting a glare at the bodyless bodyguards, she grabbed Myrriah's hand and dragged her into the foyer. "You've got to help me! Sally's a blonde nutca-"
"Oh, there you are!" Sally Shine gushed as she made her pink, perfect appearance at L. L.'s side. Hugging Little Leota and grinning a perfect psychotic grin, Sally turned to Myrriah and said, "I hope she hasn't been bothering you, Miss Harolds. We were playing a swell game and I just lost track of her." She batted her eyelashes. "It won't happen again," she ordered through clenched teeth into L. L. 's ear. She waved. "Ciao!" Holding Little Leota's wrist, she dragged her into a dark hallway and the two disappeared behind a door.
Sighing, Myrriah plopped down on the couch next to the snoring Emmaline. "Keep up the good work, Emmy," she commended, patting the ghost's shoulder. The nanny snorted and drooled in response.
"Our library is well stocked with priceless first editions," announced George as he, Gilbert, and Carolyn entered the library. It was probably the most tranquil room in the mansion. Towering bookshelves, crammed full of impressive tomes, lined the walls. Each shelf had its own glaring marble bust. A ladder rolled back and forth as books were put into their proper places by an invisible hand. "This is also the haunting ground of our very own librarian, Milton Dewey, a…" 'Hopelessly obsessive nerd' seemed a bit harsh. "… a young man who's a literary connoisseur. How you doing, Dewey?"
The librarian didn't materialize, but stayed invisible and continued organizing books. "Very busy, sir, as usual." He stopped and the others got the distinct feeling that he had turned to face them. "That little brat was in here again. I tell you, the only person who visits me and it's some punk who gets kicks out of putting the encyclopedias in the wrong order. And this time she had someone helping her."
Carolyn furrowed her brow. "That doesn't sound like Sally, she wouldn't do such a thing."
"Quite right," added Gilbert sarcastically. "We all know she's an angel."
"Besides," Carolyn continued, oblivious to his mocking tone, "Emmaline's watching them. She's a very vigilant woman."
They could practically feel Milton's scowl. "Well, I'm telling you what I saw and—"
George cleared his throat. "Milton, who don't you read us some of your favorite sonnets, hmm?"
The whole library seemed to brighten. "Can I? Really? And I'll finally have an audience!" Grabbing a thick volume off the shelf, he cleared his throat. "I'm going to read my favorite Shakespearean sonnets. Oh course, that's all of them." He laughed. "Before I start, though, I just want to say that those jerks who think he didn't write all of those classics are complete morons. Now, I know some so-called scholars argue that…"
George slunk out of the room, leaving Carolyn and Gilbert. He almost felt guilty about leaving the singer. She really did seem like a sweet person, but Gilbert was getting on his nerves. The actor's criticizing comments almost made him wish he were alive so could hang himself again just to get away.
"George!"
He looked up at the sound of Myrriah's voice. "Greetings, Miss Harolds. To what do I owe the pleasure?" At her frown, he smiled his best smile, his blue eyes twinkling with only the deepest sincerity. It was a look he had practiced years to perfect.
"My phone, Gracey. You have it don't you?"
"Why I don't know what you're…" He backpedaled under her fierce glare. "It's in my office. Follow me." As they walked down the hallway, he said, "Being a ghost certainly left its mark on you; you've gotten scarier over the years."
She blushed, suddenly feeling embarrassed. It was true that she had toughened up, and had even become more cynical. Years of doctors saying, "It's only going to get worse", "We can't do anything", and "You'll be in a wheelchair by your early thirties", will do that to a person. Well, that, and she was in a really, really bad mood. Trying to make up for it with a light hearted compliment, she said, "You're spiritual sentinels certainly sentry seriously."
"That must have been a tough sentence to say."
"It was, actually," she mused absentmindedly.
"And I've fired them three times this week. They just can't get it through their dead heads that they're not needed. I mean, why do I need guards? It's not like people are going to keep coming back anyway."
"Sir…are you crying?" She put a hand on his shoulder.
"No, no, I've just got…something in my eyes. That's all." After a moment of silence, he said, "I think this may be the end for us."
"But what about the new ghosts?"
"Gilbert hasn't been any help, all he does is complain and brag about the hotel. Carolyn has come up with a few ideas, but what's the point?" As he approached the office door, the guards immediately parted, allowing him to pass. They crowded in front of Myrriah threateningly. Before the executioner could lower his ax, George held up a hand. "She's with me." The mortal and the ghost entered the room.
The office was amazingly immaculate, save for some papers piled precariously on the edge of the desk. "What are all those?" Myrriah asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
George looked up from the drawer he was searching in. "Some of our happy haunts have asked if they can…"
"Retire from retirement?"
"Precisely." He opened another drawer. "I thought even if things were to slow down everyone would stick around. We're all like one big dead family. Even the hallway ghouls who just rattle door handles have written letters of resignation."
"Who's staying?"
"Victoria, she doesn't think I can take care of myself, you know. Ezra, Phineas, and Gus, are staying too. I thought they would be the first to leave, being hitchhiking ghosts. They're the most loyal friends I've ever had. Dustin's staying; he never cared much for scaring people anyway. Emily will probably leave, but only if we throw her a huge going away party and make a big deal out of it. Prudence will stay, because…well, she just doesn't care. Huet and Sewell have a good act going. They'll probably find some old tavern to haunt."
"What about Madam Leota?" The file cabinet was a luckless search.
He sighed. "It's my responsibility to keep an eye on her." Looking around they realized that the once clean office was in complete disarray. "I know I had it on my desk. I was just listening to the ring tones. I didn't even take it apart! That's a lot of self- restraint for me!"
Getting upset wasn't going to fix anything, and she would just feel embarrassed about it later. "I think," she said, keeping her tone level, "someone stole it."
"Who?"
"Little Leota was in here earlier."
George shook his head. "She wouldn't steal… well, your phone anyway. Believe it or not, she's been behaving better since her mother tried to escape thirteen years ago. It must have shocked her."
Myrriah remembered that L. L. had run through the doors. She wouldn't have been able to do that while holding a solid object. "I should go see if I can get my car started. Maybe I can drive as far as the next gas station." She cringed at the sound of thunder in the distance. "Or maybe I'll just wait here 'till the storm passes."
George caught a paper as it fluttered off the pile. "Hmm… this is a return form."
"Huh?"
"This is just a paper from one of our older residents. He left years ago to try haunting a hat shop. Hated to share the limelight, he did."
"Who?"
"An old spook named Sklar." George smiled at a fond memory. "That man knew how to scare. He might be just what we need."
"Great," Myrriah muttered. No car, no phone, and the cereal just has bready bits without any marshmallows.
"Look, I know someone who is having a worse day than you are." When Myrriah just cocked an eyebrow, George explained, "Dustin's down in the dumps after this morning's fiasco."
"He made a pass at Carolyn, didn't he?"
"And struck out miserably. The poor boy's a hopeless romantic, always has been."
"What would be so bad about the two of them dating? What's the harm?"
George arched his eyebrows and stared at her as if she made some sort of faux pas. "Rich girls don't marry poor boys, Miss Harolds."
She scowled. "Thank you for the lesson, F. Scott Fitzgerald. In case you didn't notice, it's the twenty-first century."
"Some of us are a bit stuck in our ways, I'm afraid. Besides, you've seen the way Gilbert looks at her. He's in love with her, and he sees Dustin as no more than dirt. If Dustin were to so much as smile at Carolyn, Gilbert would use that as an excuse to beat him into a little ectoplasmic pulp."
Myrriah felt anger flare within her, but it quickly subsided and was replaced with pity. "Thanks for helping me look for the phone. Uh, you need help cleaning up?"
George shook his head. "I'll clean the mess. I need some time alone to think anyway. If I may be so bold to ask, where are you going?"
"Misery loves company, Master Gracey."
"Ah, that's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure I was right." He flashed her a ghostly grin.
As Milton lectured on the importance of the structure of the Shakespearean sonnet, Gilbert and Carolyn slunk out. The librarian was so caught up in his speech that he failed to notice a particular book was missing.
Myrriah followed a duet of voices to the attic. It was certainly Emily and Dustin. To her amazement, it didn't seem as if they were arguing. From what she recalled, a shouting match usually erupted if you left the two of them alone together. The humble driver and the overly dramatic bride clashed constantly, one throwing out petty putdowns and the other responding with dry wit. Not knowing exactly why she did it, Myrriah knocked on the attic door.
"Come on in, Miss Harolds," Dustin called.
"How'd you know it was me?" she asked, stepping over a trunk with a suspicious bit of white cloth sticking out of it.
Emily scoffed. "No one else around here has any respect for my privacy." She flipped her white hair over her shoulder. Slowly and softly, her glowing heart was beating. It could be seen through her white wedding gown. For the first time, Myrriah wondered if maybe part of Emily's attitude problem came from having to listen to her heartbeat constantly. An eternity of hearing that was liable to make anyone grumpy.
The attic was just as cluttered and messy as Myrriah remembered it. A group of bats dozed in the corner. Old musical instruments, stacks of books, ancient newspapers, old paintings, and random junk cluttered the floor and walls. Dustin was sitting on a cardboard box across from Emily, who had claimed an old piano stool as her seat.
Standing up, the dead bride crossed her arms over her chest and cast an evaluating eye over the mortal. "You really haven't changed much, you know. I mean, you've grown up, obviously, but other than that…" She waved the rest of the observation away. "What's with the cane?"
"I just have some problems with my leg, it cramps up and gives out occasionally." She tried not to look at Dustin.
Emily nodded sympathetically. "Well, welcome back."
"Thanks." Myrriah cleared her throat. "I heard that Dustin was in a funk and thought he could use some cheering up." She smiled at Dustin, who was staring glumly at his feet.
The ghost glanced at him. "There's no breaking him out of it. I saw the whole thing from the window. Rolly threw Carolyn off and Gilbert ran out and said some harsh words. Then George didn't really make it any better. Poor Dustin just looked so pathetic that I invited him up here to talk to him. I mean, who knows better about a broken heart than me, right?" She chuckled hollowly.
"Wow, you're being nice to him."
"Oh, don't sound so shocked." She looked back at Dustin, and then at Myrriah. Grabbing the other woman's arm, she led her to a cobwebby corner. "I was thinking that maybe we could help him."
"Go on."
"With my incredible fashion sense and your…whatever, we can fix him up."
"You want to give him a makeover?" Myrriah asked skeptically.
"Sure, why not? Maybe if Carolyn would notice him, he would stop moping and get on with his afterlife. Plus, I'm really, really bord." Emily clasped her hands together. "Please?"
"Fine, but how? We need some good dead threads. Where are we going to find some that fit and suit him?"
"Right here, missy!" a voice called from the gloom.
Myrriah jumped with a yelp. "Who was that?"
Emily exhaled sharply, causing a stray hair to float up. She put her hands on her hips and tapped one foot impatiently. "It better not be who I think it is, or I will wring his scrawny neck for showing up here!"
"It's so wonderful to hear you're sweet voice again, Emily." The voice came from somewhere near Myrriah's feet. "Down here, missy," the voice said as she looked down.
All Myrriah saw was a big, old hatbox. "Don't tell me what I think is in there is really in there." Shuddering, she leaned down, untied the ribbon, and slowly took off the lid. A leering skeletal face peered back up at her.
The head winked a bulging eye and a gold tooth twinkled. "Call me Sklar, darlin'."
Emily fumed through gritted teeth. "That Hatbox Ghost!"
A/N: I sincerely apologize for taking so long to update this. I've had nasty writer's block with this story, and my Atlantis fic was going so well that most of my spare time was spent on that. Melanie Gracey, Jocelyn Angel, and alanluver, thanks for always taking the time to leave reviews and not giving up hope on this. Hi, Blue Paratroopa! Thanks for the kind reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying this story so far. I hope you like my niche for the Hatbox Ghost.
The "rich girls don't marry poor boys" notion came from F. Scoot Fitzgerald's novel The Great Gatsby.