Chapter 2

Beetlejuice stared at the ceiling, cursing it fervently. He had sent out fliers, TV ads, and subliminal dream messages, all many, many weeks ago, and he had not been called once. The lack of response might have been the fact that he had directed his attention towards a human audience, who were much less receptive to that sort of thing, but still. Someone should've been curious enough to call his name.

This wasn't working. Well, it could possibly have worked for someone with a vast amount of patience and resources, but Beetlejuice had neither. He needed a new plan. But he had had over six hundred years to think of plans, and somehow, they always found ways to backfire on him.

Maybe it was time he read the damn handbook. He might possibly be able to fish something out of its cloudy depths that could help him.

One pounding headache and six Tylenol later, he found what he was looking for.

The deceased, by use of a reflective surface, might on occasion utilize the occasion of observing the outerworld through the surface, thereby rendering the viewer, and those whom are viewed, visible each to the other, and to a limited degree, capable of contact. This practice is not advised, as it has led to many exorcisms

Bingo.

He scoffed at the mention of exorcism. Beetlejuice exorcised? The self-proclaimed, "Ghost with the Most"?

Bah. Not gonna happen.

Now to find a mirror.

Beetlejuice tore up his room, searching frantically for a mirror, overturning boxes and picture frames, a gila monster, and other things better left unnamed. Finding nothing, he resorted to going through his pockets. A pipe cleaner twisted to look like a spring; several snakes; a spear; a cow stomach in a jar; innumerable beetles; a rat; a surprising amount of monarch butterflies; a vial of cobra poison; the book Moby Dick; another picture of Lydia he drew himself, which he hurriedly set aside; a human hand; a baby grand piano ("Where did that come from?" he wondered) a packet filled with human toenails; and finally . . .

A lady's compact and mirror! He gave an unholy shriek of triumph, and snapped it open. To his disappointment, the mirror wasn't even big enough to fit his hand through, but it would have to work, until he could steal a bigger one. He sneezed, spilling the dust everywhere. Putting one eye up to the smeary silvered surface, he concentrated on . . . Damn. Which house should he concentrate on?

He remembered a nice beach house in California he could terrorize. But there was a lot of kooks in California, a lot of superstition disguised as trendiness, and there might possibly be someone there who knew how to deal with poltergeists. His thoughts turned elsewhere.

The Deetz household, a tantalizing thought in the corner of his mind sang out. He gritted his teeth, and thought about Germany. Nice place, a little cold, but . . . Dammit, no! He would not got to the Deetz's!

And because he was concentrating so hard on not wanting to go to the Deetz's, that's exactly where he ended up. The glass rippled, and he was suddenly looking at a kitchen, drastically different than the one he remembered. This was all cherry wood, and warm, bright colors. Copper pans were hanging over the stove; the counter was light green marble, or something similar. The walls were painted the lightest shade of tan possible.

Suddenly, everything lurched forward, and to the side. Beetlejuice found himself staring at a wall, nose to nose.

"What the?" he wondered, but then, everything lurched back, and the short, but nauseating ride began again, this time in reverse.

Beetlejuice realized he must be looking through a doorknob, as everything suddenly spun upside down. He groaned quietly, and once things settled down, he looked around intently, searching for a familiar face.

He saw a thick bush of blonde, preppy looking hair, instead. Blonde as she most certainly was, she was also deadly pale, and wore very red lipstick, and a very loud plaid skirt. She looked like the devil incarnate. Her eyes were small and set close together, marred by crow's feet spreading from their corners, and of an indefinite color. She was thin as a rake.

Behind her trod a man, with raven black hair, touched with gray. He turned around, and Beetlejuice felt something akin to a kick in the stomach. The man had every single one of Lydia's features, broadened and more masculine, but there it was. This was either her son, or her brother. Beetlejuice was willing to bet it was her son.

"Oh Eddie!" trilled the blonde. She had a lovely voice, but there was an unpleasant hard edge to it. Beetlejuice hated her at first sight. "What is it Fantasy?" the man sighed.

Beetlejuice almost choked. Fantasy? Was that her name? What kind of messed up joke was this?!

"Serafina has shut herself in her room," 'Fantasy' said flatly.

"I'll talk to her," he said.

Beetlejuice was intrigued. He began trying to perfect the art of mirror hopping. Thank goodness this 'Eddie' was wearing dog tags!

Eddie traveled up a flight of stairs. Beetlejuice's eyes widened when he looked at the railing he had possessed, and made into the Beetlesnake. It was hard to believe it had survived the years. He chuckled. Good times.

They finally approached a room. Eddie knocked on the door.

"Leave me alone, dad!" shouted a voice from within.

"Sara, I just want to talk," her father said soothingly. "You shouldn't fight with your mother like that. You know she always finds a way to pay you back in the end."

A young girl, who looked to be about eighteen, poked her head out the door. She bore very little resemblance to Lydia. "This isn't even close to the end," she snarled angrily. She slammed the door, but not before Beetlejuice jumped to the mirror hanging on her wall.

He watched carefully as she flung herself onto the bed. Almost everything in the room was dark red. The trimmings were silver and white, and the carpet was black. A couple of plastic stars adorned the ceiling, glowing faintly. He sighed and curled his lip. He just didn't like the juvenile touch that those stars suggested. And it all seemed . . . tacky somehow. Like she was faking it.

Just for one moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of thinking about Lydia, of missing her. Then he stuffed it down, and prepared to reveal himself to this little mortal girl, who had no idea who was about to come crashing down on her little world.

Little. Yes, that was the word. Looking out from the silvered surface of the mirror, everything on the other side seemed like cardboard cutouts, flat and flimsy. He felt strangely disappointed, and disillusioned. He felt like maybe he'd outgrown this world, depressing as that may sound.

This wasn't like him. He obviously needed this gig, to take his mind off this strange habit he had picked up of brooding and worrying, and feeling depressed. That's what it was! He was depressed! He obviously needed to have some fun, liven – "or deaden!" he cackled to himself – things up.

Once again, he prepared himself, but then was struck by a thought. He had repulsed Lydia. Might not this girl, too, be repulsed? He ran a quick eye over himself. Dusty, moldy . . . there wasn't much wrong with that by the standards of the dead, especially one who hearkened back so far, and had died in the conditions he did. But the living had a problem with it for some reason.

He hesitated, then reluctantly zapped away what he had come to consider his seond skin. After all, he wasn't going for a haunting this time around, he was attempting wooing. Deciding he might as well go the distance, he fastidiously pulled on his suit, making it even more crooked than before, and self-consciously pulled the ratty pillow out from underneath his shirt.

For the third time, he returned his attention to the breather before him. But then a sight met his eyes that made him drop his jaw. He absent-mindedly picked it up again, and fit it back into place.

Lydia had drifted into the room, going straight through the wall. She didn't look a day older than thirty-five. Her complexion was waxen, and slightly blue, and there was a small hole in her neck, just below her chin. She looked very dead. Her black hair had just one silvery strand in it; the rest was still as black as he remembered. She had most certainly filled out in all the right places since he last saw her.

"Babe?" Beetlejuice spluttered.

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