The Great Ghost Hoax

The Great Ghost Hoax

Emily Ecton and art by David Mottram

To Cupcake, Pepper, and the dogs of Belmont Park

—E. E.

— 1 —

“NOTHING EXCITING EVER HAPPENS TO US!” Butterbean wailed, flopping over onto her back in the living room. She’d hoped that saying that would make something exciting magically happen, but it didn’t work.

She’d done her best to make the day fun. She’d finished chewing her rawhide chew. She’d disemboweled her squeaky lamb toy and carefully scattered its stuffing around the living room. She’d attempted to tunnel through the living room carpet (unsuccessfully). There was nothing left to do. She’d done it all.

“Nothing! Nothing exciting ever happens!” Butterbean wailed again, in a different key this time. She liked to mix things up.

Walt rolled her eyes and inspected her paw. “Hello, remember heisting?”

“I wouldn’t call an International Crime Syndicate nothing,” Oscar sniffed, puffing out his feathers indignantly. He wasn’t about to let Butterbean diminish his status as an International Crime Boss. Not to mention the fact that he was the only crime boss who was also a mynah bird. It was no small feat.

Butterbean rolled over onto her stomach. “That was a million years ago. Nothing happens NOW. Just look! Everything’s BORING. And even Madison is gone!” Madison was the medium-sized girl who had moved in with them temporarily while her aunt was deployed overseas.

“Madison is at school,” Oscar said, absentmindedly flipping through one of Mrs. Food’s magazines. “She goes to school every day, Butterbean. It’s a thing humans do.”

“Not the other day,” Butterbean whined. “It wasn’t school the other day.”

Walt sighed. “We’ve gone over this, Bean. That was a field trip, and she came back! She always comes back!” Walt shook her head. “You need to get a grip.”

“A FIELD TRIP.” Butterbean pouted. “WITHOUT US.”

“Let it go, Butterbean,” Oscar said, hopping on the remote to unmute the Television. “The News is back on. They’re about to identify the common household appliance that can make us go bald.”

Ever since their heist, Oscar had been obsessed with the News. Butterbean wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like the News was even talking about their heist anymore. They were old news. On the other hand, she didn’t want to go bald.

Butterbean blew on a piece of squeaky-lamb fluff and groaned.

“I get it, Butterbean,” Marco said, climbing out of his cage and plunking down next to her. “Us former criminal types have a hard time adjusting to regular life. It’s rough. But at least you see Madison. I barely ever see Wallace anymore.”

“SEE? Wallace is GONE,” Butterbean said triumphantly, sitting up.

“Shhhh,” Oscar hissed, turning the volume up on the Television. “Bald, Butterbean.”

Walt finished licking her paw. “Moving into a new apartment isn’t gone. Wallace just got his own place.”

“It’s not like he lived with us anyway,” Polo said, following Marco’s lead and climbing out of their cage. “Wallace is still a wild rat, you know.”

Wallace was a former pet rat who lived in the Strathmore Building’s seventh-floor vents. But a few weeks ago he’d discovered an empty apartment on the fifth floor. And since nobody seemed to be using it, he’d moved his stuff in and sent out change-of-address notices. (Polo thought that was a little formal, but Wallace seemed very proud.)

“Nothing wrong with a little peace and quiet,” Walt said, examining her other paw.

“Personally, I like retirement. It’s relaxing! We’ve got Mrs. Food, and how many rats have an extra bonus person to take care of them? We’ve got it made!” Marco patted Butterbean on the paw.

“And it’s not like nothing exciting will ever happen again,” Polo said, patting the other paw. “Something exciting could happen AT ANY TIME!”

“Right! Something could happen right now!” Marco chimed in.

Polo nodded. “Or now!”

Marco tilted his head and waited a second. “Or now!”

Polo grinned. “Right. Or now!”

“Cut it out, you guys,” Walt said.

“Or not,” Polo said. “Maybe not RIGHT now.”

Walt sighed. “Bean, we can’t expect something exciting to happen just because we’re bored.”

“AHA! So you’re bored too!” Butterbean jumped to her feet. “I knew it!” she barked happily. “You—” But she never finished the sentence. Because that’s when the pounding started.

Five heads swiveled to look at the front door. The pounding was so loud that they could almost see it—it felt like the door was bouncing inward with each blow. And with each blow the animals cringed and retreated farther into the room.

“Places, everyone!” Oscar screeched, and the animals scrambled so they wouldn’t be caught out of their cages. Oscar had barely gotten his cage door closed before Mrs. Food appeared in the hallway, carefully making her way toward the front door. (She was always extra careful now, ever since she’d slipped in a patch of Butterbean’s barf and had to go to the hospital. Nobody wanted that to happen again, especially Butterbean. She still felt guilty.)

“Don’t open it!” Butterbean yelped. She could feel the hairs on her back prickling. She didn’t want to know what was outside in that hallway. Trying to get in.

But Mrs. Food didn’t listen.

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Food threw the door open. In one swift motion, the thing in the hallway lunged at Mrs. Food, clutching her and sobbing into her shoulder.

“AAAAHHH!” Polo shrieked, diving underneath the cedar bedding in the corner of the cage.

“URGH!” Mrs. Food braced herself against the doorframe as the thing squeezed her. It was shaking and making weird squeaky hiccuppy noises.

Walt crouched down, flexing her claws. “I’ll go for the eyes!” Going for the eyes was Walt’s go-to attack method.

“Wait, is that…” Butterbean sniffed. The monster attacking Mrs. Food smelled very familiar. And it kind of looked more like a hug-attack than an attack-attack. And what kind of monster made squeaky sobs?

“Wait, who…” Oscar craned his neck to get a better look.

Butterbean took one last sniff. “It’s Mrs. Third Floor!” she gasped.

“Stand down, Walt.” Oscar snapped his beak shut. Mrs. Third Floor was not an enemy.

Walt shot him a look in response, but she stayed in attack position. You could never be too sure.

Mrs. Third Floor was a lady from the building, and up until that moment, Butterbean would’ve said she knew everything about her. After all, she’d seen her around the building since she was a puppy. (Butterbean, not Mrs. Third Floor.)

Mrs. Third Floor lived on the third floor. She wore sturdy leather shoes. She smelled like furniture polish, arthritis cream, and peppermint. She had a scary folding wheely cart that she sometimes took outside. She always spoke to Mrs. Food and patted Butterbean on the head when she saw her. That was pretty much everything there was to know, as far as Butterbean was concerned. But Mrs. Third Floor wasn’t a door pounder. And Butterbean had never ever heard her make squeaky noises like that before. She never would’ve guessed it was possible. Something was very wrong.

Mrs. Food looked as shocked as Butterbean felt. “What is it? What’s happened?” Mrs. Food gasped. (Mrs. Third Floor was squeezing her a little too tightly.)

“It’s—” Mrs. Third Floor said in a strangled voice. The entire room waited while she choked back a sob. “It’s…” she said again. “I’ve had a shock,” she finished apologetically.

Mrs. Food nodded. “Here. Sit.” She led Mrs. Third Floor toward the sofa and helped her sit down, brushing bits of lamb fluff off the seat.

Butterbean watched with satisfaction. She’d done a very good job distributing the fluff.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. Food picked up the remote. “I’m sorry about this noise. I don’t know how it got turned up so loud.”

“No, keep it on—oh darn, we missed that segment on appliances,” Mrs. Third Floor sniffled.

Oscar snapped his beak in irritation. He was going to go bald now, he just knew it.

“Mildred.” Mrs. Food looked serious. “I don’t want to talk about appliances.”

“And I don’t think I like that anchorwoman’s dress. It’s not a flattering color.” Mrs. Third Floor kept her eyes locked on the Television.

“Mildred…”

“Oh and look! Breaking news!” Mrs. Third Floor turned to Mrs. Food with a tight smile on her face. “It’s about that octopus at the zoo. Oh no, Mr. Wiggles is missing. That’s terrible!”

Mrs. Food turned the Television off. Mrs. Third Floor sagged.

Oscar fluffed his feathers grouchily. First the bald thing, and now this. He was a big fan of Mr. Wiggles. He liked to keep up with all the Wiggles-related news. He just hoped Mrs. Third Floor had a good excuse for the way she was acting.

Mrs. Food patted Mrs. Third Floor on the shoulder. “Mildred, tell me. It’s okay. Whatever it is.”

Mrs. Third Floor twisted her hands in her lap. “You’ll think I’m being silly.”

“I won’t think you’re being silly,” Mrs. Food promised.

“Okay.” Mrs. Third Floor took a deep breath. “It’s that apartment. It’s haunted.” She burst out in a new round of sobs.

Walt shrugged. “I think she’s being silly.”

“Huh.” Butterbean sat back on her haunches. That hadn’t been what she’d expected. “Haunted?”

“I was going to guess a natural disaster,” Oscar said. “Although they probably would’ve covered that on the News. IF WE’D SEEN IT.”

“It’s just your basic nervous breakdown,” Walt said, getting up and stretching. “Nothing to see here.”

Mrs. Food had a strange expression on her face. It didn’t look like a haunted apartment was what she’d expected either. “Haunted? You mean haunted haunted? As in, um… ghosts?”

“WAIT, WHAT?” Butterbean yelped. “GHOSTS?”

“She’s losing it, Bean,” Walt sighed. “There aren’t ghosts.”

“Yes, GHOSTS,” Mrs. Third Floor wailed. “There are GHOSTS in my beautiful rental unit. What am I going to do?”

Mrs. Food scanned the room, like she was going to find the answer lying around somewhere. Like in a book called Ghosts: How to Handle Them or What to Do If Your Friend Flips Out. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” she said finally.

“THERE IS NO REASONABLE EXPLANATION,” Mrs. Third Floor screeched. Her voice was starting to hurt Butterbean’s ears, it was that shrill.

“Okay, so explain,” Mrs. Food said. “How do you know you have ghosts?”

Mrs. Third Floor took a deep breath. “You know I’ve been getting that furnished apartment on five ready for renters? Well, for the past few days, there have been SIGNS. OF SUPERNATURAL ACTIVITY.” She sat back against the cushions, crossing her arms as if there was no need for further discussion.

Mrs. Food frowned. “Signs?”

“PARANORMAL SIGNS,” Mrs. Third Floor snapped. Her jaw was set.

Walt snorted. “Please. As if.”

Mrs. Food nodded slowly. “Right. Supernatural activity. Paranormal signs. Of course. Let me get you some tea.” She stood up abruptly and hurried over to the kitchen.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, five? Did she say the apartment on five?”

Butterbean knew this one. “She did. She said there are GHOSTS. ON FIVE.”

Walt shot Oscar a look. “Oh no,” she groaned.

“Yep.” Oscar sighed.

“What?” Butterbean looked from Walt to Oscar in confusion. She hated it when they had secrets.

“Oh, I know!” Marco piped up from the rat aquarium. “Isn’t that where Wallace lives now?”

Walt made a face. “Exactly.”

“WHAT?” Butterbean gasped. “WALLACE IS A GHOST?”

“No, Bean. Wallace isn’t a ghost. But it’s got to be him. Whatever he’s been doing is freaking Mrs. Third Floor out. That’s the obvious explanation,” Oscar said, shaking his head sadly.

“Right. Okay.” Butterbean didn’t know why Wallace would do something like that, but Oscar usually was right about things. Especially obvious things.

“I don’t know,” Polo said, fiddling with the button she wore on a string around her neck. “That doesn’t sound like Wallace. He’s usually pretty careful.”

“I know, Polo, but this time—” Walt started, but she never finished the sentence. Because that’s when they heard the screaming.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” Butterbean barked in alarm. She’d wanted things to get more exciting, but she hadn’t counted on there being so much noise.

The screaming was echoing through the vents, and it was so loud that they were sure that even Mrs. Food must hear it.

Five heads swiveled toward the secret vent opening behind the sofa. A few seconds later a small rat came streaking out into the room.

Wallace’s eyes were huge. As soon as he saw Walt, he shot over and grabbed her by the leg. “Help! Oh Walt, guys, help!” Wallace gasped.

Butterbean frowned. Polo was right. Wallace was usually a very careful rat. And right now he was being anything but careful.

Walt patted Wallace on the head as she turned her body slightly to hide him from view. Whatever was wrong, it had to be bad if he’d turned to a cat for help. And if he wasn’t worried about being seen by the humans, it had to be even worse. “What is it, Wallace?” she said softly.

Wallace looked up at her and took a deep shuddering breath. “It’s my apartment! On five! Guys, that apartment is HAUNTED.”

— 2 —

“I KNEW IT! WE’VE GOT ghosts!” Butterbean yelped.

“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t Wallace,” Walt said, frowning.

“Hmm,” Oscar said, eyeing Wallace carefully. He’d never seen him so upset. “I have to admit, this is a bit concerning.”

“Wallace is definitely more credible than HER,” Walt said, jerking her head in the direction of the couch. “But still—ghosts?”

Mrs. Third Floor had taken a tissue out of her pocket and was absentmindedly shredding it. Butterbean watched in approval. She did good work.

“Wallace, we’ll need a report.” Oscar looked around carefully. Mrs. Third Floor wouldn’t be a problem. She wasn’t paying attention to anything—she was just staring straight ahead, shredding. But Mrs. Food seemed to be taking a very long time with the tea. She could come back any minute. “Bean, do a Mrs. Food check, please?”

“Gotcha.” Butterbean hopped to her feet and did a jaunty walk into the kitchen. A second later she jaunty-walked back into the living room. Mrs. Third Floor didn’t even seem to notice. “Mrs. Food is staring at the counter, stirring a cup. She looks like she’s in a trance.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Probably trying to buy time.” Oscar had a feeling Mrs. Food didn’t know how to handle a ghost situation either. “I think we’ve got a few minutes. Quick, everyone, huddle near the rat cage. Rats, you’ll have to stay inside, I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay,” Marco said. “We can hear you. WE’RE HERE FOR YOU, WALLACE!” he shrieked.

“WE’LL TAKE CARE OF THOSE GHOSTS, WALLACE!” Polo smacked her fist into her other hand in a way that would make ghosts tremble.

Walt pushed Wallace into the center of the huddle. “Right. So what did you see, exactly?” she asked, keeping an eye on the kitchen as she talked. “Mrs. Third Floor said supernatural activity.”

“Oh yes, definitely supernatural. It was terrible. It was just… noises, at first. Weird, eerie noises. I thought it was only apartment sounds, but they were everywhere. I could even hear it in the vents. But then I started noticing things… moving.”

“Moving?” Butterbean shuddered. That didn’t sound good. Although, to be fair, she did move quite a bit herself. “You could see them move?”

“No, but things would be different. I left a bunch of sunflower seeds on the table, right? And then when I came back, they’d MOVED. They were scattered all over the floor. And another time, I made a little nest for myself in the fruit bowl, and when I came back from getting dinner, IT WAS GONE. NO FRUIT.”

Oscar snapped his beak. “But maybe someone—”

“NO.” Wallace shook his head. “There was NO ONE THERE.”

Walt frowned. “Could it have been Mrs. Third Floor?”

Wallace shook his head again. “I checked the trash. No fruit peelings or apple cores or anything. The fruit was just gone. ALL OF IT.”

“Well, that’s strange, but…”

Wallace’s whiskers trembled. “That’s not all. There’s so much more. Like just yesterday, I was in the kitchen, and a salt shaker fell off of the counter and landed right next to me! For no reason. I could’ve been killed! And I keep thinking—next time, it could be a knife! Or a salt shaker with better aim! Or a piano! I’ve seen that happen in cartoons a LOT.”

“Well, maybe it was a…” Oscar trailed off. He couldn’t think of what it could’ve been. Salt shakers didn’t usually just jump off of counters. And Wallace was right about pianos. He’d seen it on the Television himself.

“And then today, I was—”

“SHH!” Walt cut him off. “Mrs. Food’s coming.” Walt threw herself onto the floor in a lounging position to block Wallace, while Oscar flew back into his cage. Butterbean tried a variety of poses, but none of them felt right, so she ended up flopped on her tummy with her tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Their poses didn’t matter in the end, though. Mrs. Food didn’t even look at them as she walked back into the room carrying a tea tray.

She set the tray down on the coffee table and handed a mug of tea to Mrs. Third Floor. “Mildred,” she said slowly. “I don’t know what you saw, but we’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise.”

“But I told you—”

Mrs. Food held up her hand. “I know you think it’s ghosts, but it could be something else. We’ll do some investigating.”

“OOOOH! Investigating! Can we be investigators?” Butterbean hopped to her feet and looked at Walt with her best puppy dog eyes. “If we can’t do crimes anymore, we can be ghost investigators. Please?”

“GHOST HUNTERS! YEAH!” Marco cheered.

“YEAH!” Polo echoed.

Walt and Oscar exchanged a glance. “I don’t know how much we could do,” Walt said. “If Mrs. Food gets involved, it’ll be hard. It’s not like she’ll take us along with her.”

Butterbean narrowed her eyes. “Or will she?”

Oscar cocked his head. “Probably not, Bean.”