The Great Ghost Hoax

“OUT!” Walt screeched at the white cat.

Jerome rolled his eyes. “Oh fine, you’re no fun.” He waved a tentacle at the white cat. “Let the grumpy cat out. It doesn’t matter to me. Stop laughing, Chad.”

Chad spit water at him.

Jerome turned on the faucet in the tub. “If those men are gone, I’m taking a bath.”

Walt’s eyes widened. “PLEASE, CAT! NOW!”

The white cat smirked down at her. “Just a sec.” Her face disappeared from the grate.

Jerome tested the water with one tentacle and looked around. “I probably shouldn’t use bubble bath, should I? Bad for my skin, I’d guess.”

“Probably not?” Walt said. She couldn’t imagine that bubble bath would be good for an octopus.

“Good thing the tub makes its own bubbles,” Jerome said, turning on the Jacuzzi jets.

There was a thump on the other side of the door, and then it swung open.

“Oh thank goodness.” Walt raced for the door. “Jerome, we’ll have a discussion later. Make plans.” She didn’t want to stick around for a conversation. She just had to get out of there.

“Sure, sure…” Jerome said. Then he snapped his tentacles at Chad. “Chad! Get me some tub snacks, pronto.”

Chad clenched his tentacles.

Walt didn’t bother to see what happened next. She streaked past the white cat and into the vent behind the couch. She had to find out what was happening downstairs.

“See there? That’s your ghost.” Mr. Slick Hair pointed at the video on his tablet. “Right there.”

“That’s a ghost?” Mrs. Third Floor squinted at the screen. “It looks… well…”

“It looks like smoke. Is that smoke?” Madison asked, peering over her shoulder.

Butterbean stood up on the chair to get a better look. It wasn’t easy to see, though. Mrs. Third Floor’s head was in the way.

“It’s a GHOST, kid. You’ve got a GHOST PROBLEM.” Mr. Slick Hair leaned back and glared at her.

“It’s always a shock the first time people see one, Johnny,” the Bald Guy said, jiggling his foot as he sat at the table. He glanced at his watch like he had somewhere better to be.

“Right, of course.” Mr. Slick Hair slicked his hair back and then wiped his hand on his pants. “Look, I don’t want to be a jerk, but you don’t have a lot of time to figure out what you want to do.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Third Floor looked startled.

“We can get rid of the ghost, no problem. But we have to move fast,” the Bald Guy said. “A nasty ghost like this, once it gets established?” He whistled. “You might never get rid of it. Didn’t they have to demolish that one house, Johnny?”

Mr. Slick Hair nodded sadly. “Total loss. But unfortunately, the work we do? It’s not cheap, especially with a rush job,” Mr. Slick Hair said. “We’ll give you a fair price, though. In exchange, we’ll just need you to do some publicity for the show.”

“PUBLICITY?” Mrs. Third Floor shot up like she’d been launched from a rocket. She scared Butterbean so much that Butterbean jumped back into Oscar’s cage stand, almost knocking it over. “I don’t want any publicity! I want this kept quiet!”

“It’s not much, just a couple of interviews, a photo spread, maybe a commercial or two. Do you think that doorman out front will talk to us? Maybe some of the neighbors?”

Mrs. Third Floor grabbed the back of the chair. “No, absolutely not! Publicity would ruin me. Can’t we do it a different way?”

Mr. Slick Hair shrugged. “I don’t know. We do a TV show.”

“We could make an exception, couldn’t we, Johnny?” the Bald Guy said. “Since she’s such a nice lady?”

“Oh yes, could you?” Mrs. Third Floor held her breath.

“Well… I guess so,” Mr. Slick Hair said, after thinking about it. “Maybe we could blur out the identifying information?”

“We could…” the Bald Guy said slowly. “But you know the problem.”

“That kind of technology costs a lot,” Mr. Slick Hair said sadly. “And that’s on top of our ghost elimination fee.” He stood up. “I’m sorry. It’s probably too much. We should just let you find someone else.”

“NO!” Mrs. Third Floor grabbed his arm. “Please, I need you! It doesn’t matter how much it costs—I can pay you. PLEASE!”

Mr. Slick Hair shot a look at the Bald Guy, who shrugged. Then he wrote something down on a notepad. “This is the lowest we can go with no publicity.” He handed it to Mrs. Third Floor. She looked at it and swallowed hard.

“She looks like she’s going to throw up,” Butterbean said, watching Mrs. Third Floor carefully. She knew that look. “I hope she aims for the tile.”

“If she does, she needs to clean it up,” Polo said sternly. They’d had problems with barf on the floor in the past.

Mrs. Third Floor looked up at Mr. Slick Hair, her face grim. “I can pay this. How soon can you eliminate the ghost?”

Mr. Slick Hair shot a smug look at the Bald Guy, so quickly that Oscar almost missed it. But he didn’t miss it. He frowned. He wished Walt was there to go for the eyes.

The Bald Guy stroked his mustache as he thought. “Like I said, you need to work fast with this kind of ghost, or it can be dangerous. We could do it maybe… tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, that’s perfect!” Mrs. Third Floor clutched her hands together. “I’ll be ready tomorrow!”

“But, Mildred,” Mrs. Food said urgently.

Mrs. Third Floor waved her off. “No, Beulah, I have to do this. Tomorrow sounds fine.”

“Great,” Mr. Slick Hair said. “We’ll take half up front, and half when the ghost is gone.”

Mrs. Third Floor looked even greener than she had.

“She’s definitely going to blow,” Marco said, moving back behind the water bottle. It never hurt to be out of range.

“I—I don’t have my checkbook with me at the moment,” Mrs. Third Floor stammered.

“We might be able to make an exception this time,” the Bald Guy said, heaving his bag over his shoulder. “You can pay us tomorrow. We trust you.” He patted her on the arm as he headed for the door.

Mrs. Third Floor smiled stiffly as they left the apartment. Then she sank down onto the chair.

Mrs. Food locked the door and then turned, her face serious. “Mildred, I don’t think…”

Mrs. Third Floor stared at the floor. “I don’t have a choice.” Her voice was flat. “No one will rent a haunted apartment, and I can’t afford to have it empty. And if there’s publicity? It’ll be empty forever.”

Mrs. Food took the notepad and looked at the number written there. Her eyes got wide. “But how can you afford that?”

“I can’t!” Mrs. Third Floor’s voice sounded strangled. “But I have to. I’ll figure something out.” She sat up and grabbed Mrs. Food’s hand. “You’ll support me, whatever I do, won’t you? You don’t think I’m being silly?”

“Of course I’ll support you,” Mrs. Food said. “You’re my best friend.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Third Floor slumped back in her chair.

Butterbean jostled Oscar’s cage again. “Should we do something?” she asked in a low voice. “We can’t let those guys do this, right? There’s no ghost!”

Oscar peeked out through the bars. “I didn’t think so. But did you see that video? That wasn’t Jerome.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Walt said, sticking her head out of the vent opening behind the couch. Her fur was matted and sticking out all the wrong ways. “It wasn’t Jerome. But it wasn’t a ghost.” She crawled out into the room and shook off. “It was a fake. And we’ve got to stop them.”

— 14 —

“WAIT, THEY PICKED YOU UP by the SCRUFF OF YOUR NECK?” Butterbean gasped. After Mrs. Third Floor had gone home, Mrs. Food had gone to her room with a headache, and Madison headed off to read in her room. It was nice not to have the humans underfoot for a change. Plus, it gave Walt a chance to fill them in on all the gory details.

“Like I was a kitten,” Walt said, trying to keep her cool. She’d already told Butterbean the story four times, but for some reason, Butterbean kept coming back to that one detail.

“BUT THE SCRUFF?” Butterbean was shocked.

“That’s so undignified,” Oscar said, clicking his beak in disgust.

“Tell me about it,” Walt said dryly.

“Wait, though.” Butterbean was still trying to process everything. “You mean the SCRUFF OF YOUR—”

“YES, BEAN!” Walt snapped. It wasn’t an experience she liked reliving over and over. She took a deep breath. “Look, it sounds worse than it was.”

“Oh sure,” a voice came from the vent. “Looked pretty bad to me. But what do I know? I’m just the one who rescued her.” The white cat stepped out into the living room and looked around appraisingly. “So this is where you guys live, huh? More personal touches than the other place, I’ll give you that. Kind of shabby chic. Emphasis on the shabby.” She sniffed Mrs. Food’s end table and curled her lip.

“Walt,” Oscar whispered. “What’s she doing here?”

Walt held up a paw at him. “Rescued is a pretty strong word, cat,” Walt said, lashing her tail indignantly. “And didn’t someone once say it was rude to stick your head inside someone’s apartment uninvited?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” the white cat said. “Besides, what’s the big deal? I don’t see any humans around.”

“That’s not the point,” Walt said, the fur on her neck bristling.

“I think what Walt’s trying to say is WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Oscar said, hopping closer and eyeing the white cat carefully. “Surely we’re not disturbing your vocal exercises all the way down here?”

“Pish,” the white cat said, licking her paw.

“Oh no, did Jerome do something?” Polo asked from the safety of her cage. Not that she thought she was in danger, but there was a strange cat in the apartment. It didn’t hurt to be careful.

“I bet he did. Is that it?” Marco made a fist and waved it menacingly. “I’ll fix him!”

“Really.” The white cat looked at them like they were hors d’oeuvres. “Well, since you asked, I came for the show!”

“What?” Walt said flatly. “What show?”

The white cat smirked. “I want to know the plan! Obviously, you’re going to try to stop those men from scamming your human. And obviously, you’re going to fail miserably. And I’m not going to miss a minute of it!” She settled down onto Walt’s cushion.

Walt gritted her teeth.

The white cat stretched. “So tell me everything. What have you come up with? Some sort of physical attack?” She watched them expectantly.

“Don’t be silly,” Walt said, shifting uncomfortably. She decided not to say anything about going for the eyes.

“What, then? Trickery? Some sort of sabotage?”

Walt stared at her in cool silence. Butterbean did not.

“We haven’t come up with ANYTHING yet,” Butterbean said chattily. “We still need to come up with a plan. We’ve got NOTHING.”

Walt shot Butterbean a dirty look. “Look, cat, what makes you think we’d—”

A squelching sound from the kitchen distracted them. It was a pretty repulsive sound, but one that Walt and the others had become all too familiar with.

“Who needs to be stopped? Jerome? Total agreement.” Chad’s voice came from the kitchen, his tentacles making a slippery sound as he slid down the counter. “He needs to go NOW.”

“EXCUSE ME, but we’re having a conversation here,” the white cat sniffed. She turned to Oscar. “Mr. Wiggles needs to teach his help not to interrupt.”

“HELP?” Chad’s tentacles curled.

“But Jerome is your friend!” Polo said, climbing on top of the water bottle. “Isn’t he? Don’t you like hanging out?”

“FRIEND?” Chad scooted across the carpet toward them. “Do FRIENDS eat all of your sardines? Do FRIENDS snap their tentacles at you and make you adjust the thermostat ten times a day? DO THEY?”

“Um…” Polo squirmed nervously. She’d never seen Chad quite so worked up, and that was saying something. Chad was grumpy ninety percent of the time.

He wasn’t finished, either. “Do FRIENDS demand that you spritz them with a mister when their tentacles start to feel crispy? Do FRIENDS erase your shows so they can tape MR. WIGGLES UPDATES? WOULD A FRIEND DO THAT?”

“Um, maybe?” Marco stammered. He shot a sideways look at Polo.

“HEY!” Polo squeaked. As if she would do any of those things.

“Maybe not that part about the shows, though,” Marco added. “Or the… um… tentacles.”

“I have TRIED to be a good host. I found him an apartment. I cleaned up his cocktail sauce. I ordered him a PIZZA! I AM NOT AN UNPAID ASSISTANT.” Chad’s tentacles were going wild.

“Wow, Chad. What are you going to do?” Butterbean sat down next to him, eyeing him carefully. He was changing colors so quickly it made her eyes feel funny.

Chad whirled around, almost smacking Butterbean with a flailing tentacle.

“What am I going to do? What are WE going to do?” Chad said. “YOU OWE ME.” He pointed at Oscar with an accusatory tentacle.

Oscar ruffled his wings. “Er, I suppose…”

Walt shrugged. “He’s right.” There was no point in arguing.

Oscar nodded. “True. We owe you.” Chad had helped them out more than a few times, and all he’d ever asked for was sardines. Well, sardines and unlimited access to Mrs. Food’s kitchen.

“Okay, fine,” Walt sighed. “We need two plans now. Plan Number One, get rid of the ghost men. Plan Number Two, get rid of Jerome. Anyone have any ideas?”

Oscar stared at the floor. Marco and Polo stared at the ceiling. Butterbean stared at her treat jar in the kitchen. No one met anyone else’s eyes.

Walt sighed again. “Well, we have to move fast. We’ve got a deadline.”

She looked at the white cat, who had folded her paws and was watching them all with amusement. “Are you just here to gloat or are you planning to help?”

The white cat made a surprised face. “Oh, I can’t imagine you need me. I’m sure you’ll do very well on your own.” She smiled smugly.

Walt clenched her teeth. “Fine. But you need to answer one question. Did you or Wallace see what the men did after I was… um…”

“Tossed in the bathroom like a rag doll?” the cat smirked. “I saw a little. But who’s Wallace?”

Butterbean’s eyes got wide. “Wait a minute. WHERE’S Wallace?” she asked, standing up and looking around like she might have accidentally squished him.

“He’s not back?” Walt frowned. “I just assumed…”

She looked suspiciously at the rat-sized pile of cedar chips in the aquarium, which was apparently just a pile of cedar chips. “He said he was coming back here. He ran for the vent when I was… um…”

“Tossed in the bathroom. We know,” Polo said helpfully. “Like a rag doll.”

“He didn’t come back here,” Marco said. His eyes widened. “Do you think something happened to him?”

Oscar hopped up onto the bars of his cage. “Don’t be silly. Wallace is fine. He must still be in the vents. He does live there, after all.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Polo objected. “He lives in 5B now. He moved all his stuff.”

Marco nodded. “I carried his collection of lost keys myself.”

Walt felt cold in the pit of her stomach. “He said he was coming to tell you what happened. He was coming straight here.”

“Well, he probably changed his mind,” Oscar said. But as much as he hated to admit it, that didn’t sound like Wallace. Wallace might be a wild rat, but he was practically a member of the family. Besides, he was part of their International Crime Syndicate. And as far as Oscar could tell from his Television programs, that meant they had an unshakable bond.

“That’s it,” Polo said, hauling herself out of the cage. “I’m going to find him.” She hopped onto the floor.

“I’m coming too,” Marco said, hopping down next to Polo. “He’s sure to be somewhere.”

“UNLESS JEROME ATE HIM!” Butterbean gasped.

“Jerome didn’t eat anyone,” Oscar said. He wished no one had ever mentioned that possibility.

“Oh, that’s true,” Chad said. “He wouldn’t catch a rat himself. He’d expect ME to hand him one on a SILVER PLATTER.” He folded his tentacles in disgust.

“Um. Sure,” Oscar said. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all, but he didn’t think this was a good time to contradict Chad. He’d seen those tentacles in action.

Polo marched toward the vent, making a wide circle around the white cat.

“I’m going to walk past you, visitor cat,” she said. “So no funny business.”

“Yeah, don’t try anything,” Marco said in his best tough-guy voice.

The white cat swished her tail as the rats scurried past. “As if I’d eat a RAT.”

Polo made a strangled sound and started to turn back, but Marco grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her moving.

“Never mind her,” he said quietly as they hurried into the vent. “I’m sure we taste terrific.”

Saying they’d find Wallace was one thing, but actually doing it was something else altogether. They had no idea where to look. And there were so many vents. They could be looking all night.

“Where do you want to start?” Marco asked, hurrying toward the nearest up vent. “Up? Or should we try down?”

“Up,” Polo said. “He was coming from five. We’ll retrace his steps.” She tried not to think about the fact that Walt had already retraced them when she came home. It seemed like a bad sign.

“Good plan,” Marco agreed, slicking back his fur.

They crawled up the vent and out onto the fifth floor, looking around carefully. The vents were silent and echoey, with the only noises drifting in from the various apartments. None of them sounded like Wallace sounds.

“Are the vents usually this creepy?” Marco said after a minute. He took a step closer to Polo. “I mean, they’re always kind of creepy. But this seems extra creepy.”

“They’re just vents, Marco,” Polo said, her whiskers trembling. The vents were definitely a thousand times creepier than they’d been before, but there was no way she’d admit it. “It’s probably just because we’ve been talking about ghosts so much. That’s all,” she added.

Polo shivered. She wished she’d never mentioned ghosts. Because suddenly the idea that the vents could be haunted seemed like a very real possibility.

Marco nodded.

“Right,” Polo said. “Let’s get moving. He’s sure to be in one of these.”

“Sure,” Marco said.