The Ghost, the Buttons, and the Magic of Halloween (Steampunk Sorcery Book 6) Page 2

  The three Button children looked up at the canopy of green leaves. Sunlight was shining through in bright beams. And as if by magic, an old man appeared in the light. He was floating through the air, coming down to the street. He was wearing fancy shoes, a pinstriped suit, and a bowler hat with goggles around the rim. There was a dandelion pinned to his lapel. He had a kind face too, with dark rectangular spectacles over his eyes, and a mustache and goatee covering his mouth. But there was something stranger than this old man floating down from the treetops. His whole body was completely see-through and he glowed as green as a bottle.

  Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley had never seen a ghost before. They had never believed in them, even though they lived in a city that had the highest population of ghosts, specters, wraiths, spirits, and phantoms. But the Button children knew almost immediately that this elderly man had to be a ghost, since all of him was, well, quite ghostly.

  The only part of him that was not ghostly was the umbrella he carried in one hand. It was bright red with a black handle.

  The three Button children hid their faces beneath the windowsill, not knowing if he was a friendly ghost. Yet ever so cautiously, they brought their eyes up just enough to peek out. They wondered which house he might go to. They never suspected he would come to theirs.

  The elderly ghost floated over the sidewalk with the tips of his shoes just brushing the tops of the grass growing between the cracks. He happened to see Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley watching him, and he saluted them with his umbrella.

  “Hello, dear children,” he said in a gravelly old voice. “My Mist Map suddenly ran out of mist. I believe Miss Broomble might have used it all up last night searching for a new pub in the French Quarter called the Guzzling Goblet. I fear I am a bit lost; it happens from time to time. Could you please tell me where I might find the Button residence?”

  Beatrice, who was much less timid around strangers, immediately stood up and said, “This is the Button home. I’m Beatrice.”

  The elderly ghost tipped his hat to her and gave her a polite smile.

  “How do you do. My name is Mr. Fuddlebee.”

  He turned to Bernard who was bravely standing up from his hiding spot beneath the windowsill. The ghost pointed his umbrella at the boy. A little light shone from the tip and it made strange buzzing noises. Then he brought the handle close to his ghostly spectacles where he studied important readouts.

  “You must be Bernard,” he said.

  “How do you know my name?” Bernard asked.

  “The real question is why don’t you know yours,” replied Mr. Fuddlebee. “I have found that it is always polite to introduce one’s self, so that the other person won’t have to make guesses, or scans with suspicious onbrellas. Do you not know the old saying? Guesses make messes.”

  “Onbrella?” Beatrice said. “You mean umbrella, don’t you?”

  “That is a very good guess,” the ghost replied, holding up what appeared to be his red and black umbrella. “This might look like an umbrella. This might act like an umbrella. But that is just its disguise. This is in fact an onbrella. You see? Guesses do indeed make messes.”

  “I’ve never heard that saying before,” she argued. “And I’ve read many books.”

  “Oh, it is a popular saying in the Necropolis,” the elderly ghost replied, “especially with the necromancers. Do you know they once tried to guess the best way to make a zombie. Unfortunately they guessed wrong and turned themselves into zombies instead. What an odd and odious kerfuffle that was! You cannot imagine how hard it is to tell a zombie necromancer to stop eating his heart out. They’re like kittens; they never listen.”

  “I would have introduced myself if you were a person,” Bernard protested. He always thought of himself as a stickler for rules and he was upset because he did not know this one. “But you’re not a person. You’re a ghost. And I’ve never spoken to a ghost before. So I do not know the proper way of doing so.”

  “That is very understandable, my boy,” Mr. Fuddlebee said. “The custom of most mortals when they see a ghost is to run away. But you appear to have lots of mettle.”

  “If you mean my armor, it’s upstairs in my room,” Bernard said, thinking of his helmet and sword.

  “Oh no, not that kind of metal,” the elderly ghost said with a chuckle. “I mean mettle. You have lots of bravery.”

  Right at that moment, strange noises started coming from the Button house. There was creaking in the corners. There was booming in the basement. There was slithering in the ceiling, and rattling in the rafters, and clinking in the cupboards.

  Even if you had never believed in haunted houses before, you would have probably started right then. It was a horribly frightening sound.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Baffling Mr. and Mrs. Button

  Mr. Fuddlebee pointed his onbrella at the Button house. It made more buzzing noises like before. And like before, he studied the readouts on the handle with great interest.

  “It seems I am indeed at the correct address.”

  “Our house always makes those noises,” Beatrice said.

  “We’ve grown up with them,” Bernard added.

  A shriek suddenly came from the kitchen.

  Mr. Fuddlebee held up his onbrella like a rapier.

  “Now, my dear children,” he said cautiously, “it might be best to invite me inside. We have much investigating to do to determine whether your home is haunted a lot or a little.”

  Beatrice quickly hurried to the front door and opened it.

  “Wait!” Bernard hissed at her. “You’re not supposed to invite ghosts into the house.”

  “Strangers,” she said in a know-it-all tone. “You’re not supposed to invite strangers into the house. And he’s not a stranger. He’s a ghost.”

  Before Bernard could object any further, Mr. Fuddlebee came gliding inside, nodding to them kindly.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s see what’s cooking in the kitchen.”

  The three Button children followed him into the kitchen where they found Mrs. Button staring in fright at a carton of milk in her hands. Mr. Button was looking over her shoulder at it too with an expression of revolt.

  “What’s wrong?” Bernard asked them.

  In absolute horror, Mrs. Button stammered, “The expiration date on this milk is October 31st.”

  “That was exactly twelve months ago!” Mr. Button barked.

  She dropped it as if it were a dead bird.

  Berkeley the toddler used the power of his mind to stop the carton just inches from the tiles, right before the milk splattered all over the kitchen floor. He made it float up into the air and into Bernard’s hands.

  The older brother studied the date too.

  “Today is October 31st.”

  “It’s Halloween!” Beatrice said brightly, imagining all the trick-or-treat candy she might get that night.

  “Of course it’s Halloween,” Mr. Button snapped. “This milk is exactly one year old.”

  “But we bought that milk this week,” Beatrice said. “And if it were a year old it would be more like cheese than milk.”

  During this conversation, Mr. Fuddlebee had been watching the toddler. He pointed his onbrella at Berkeley and then studied the handle.

  Then the elderly ghost gave him a little smile.

  “You are quite the mischief maker, aren’t you,” he said under his breath.

  Next he pointed his onbrella at the milk and studied the handle once more.

  “At present, this milk is the most ordinary part of this kitchen,” he announced.

  Mr. and Mrs. Button noticed the elderly ghost for the first time. Then they scowled at their children.

  “What have we told you about bringing strangers into the house?” Mr. Button growled.

  “He’s not a stranger,” Beatrice said. “He’s a ghost.”

  Mrs. Button humphed. “What have we told you about bringing strange ghosts into the house?”

  Mr. Fud
dlebee cleared his ghostly throat.

  “Good day to you both. I am Mr. Fuddle—”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Button interrupted, exclaiming in a tone of relief. “I know exactly who you are!”

  “You do?” asked Mr. Button.

  “You do?” inquired the elderly ghost, astonished. “I had no idea mortals had heard of me. Perhaps it’s my bottle cap collection.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Button said to her husband. “This is the new nanny.”

  “Excellent!” barked Mr. Button, looking the elderly ghost up and down. “Get to work immediately.”

  “Nanny?” croaked Mr. Fuddlebee. “Actually, my dear sir and madam, I work for SPOOK. I’m here about your house.”

  “Yes, of course you’re here about the house,” Mrs. Button yammered. “You’re here to clean it when you’re not looking after the children.”

  “But before that,” Mr. Button added, “you will wash rugs, squash bugs, bake fishes, make wishes, scrub tubs, mop slop, wipe pipes, stitch glitches, and lay bricks, and then do whatever else people do in a house. Just don’t act like a louse. I simply cannot tolerate louses… or is it lice or lices? Oh, whatever. Just get to work with you!”

  “I fear you have me confused,” Mr. Fuddlebee said to them. “I’m here to investigate whether your house is possessed, alive, or any number of marvelously magical possibilities. You might have an infestation of poltergeists, goblins, trolls, or teacup gremlins—and when I say ‘teacup’ I am of course not referring to their favorite leaf. Teacup gremlins, though petite, are quite deadly with lots of teeth, a high metabolism, and a strict diet of meat, bones, and honeydew melons.”

  Right at that moment, the sink started shaking, wailing came from behind the walls, and a foul smell rose up from the floorboards.

  And right after that, all the cabinet doors in the kitchen began flinging open and slamming shut, the chairs started sliding around the tile, and the plates began bouncing up and down on top of one another like a glass accordion, clanking and making an awful racket.

  The three Button children were not too worried. They had seen all this happen several times this past week.

  Mrs. Button waved away the clatter too. “Don’t worry about that,” she insisted.

  “It’s just the pipes,” Mr. Button put in.

  “My dear sir and madam,” the elderly ghost replied. “Pipes do not moan, cabinet doors do not open on their own, and plates are often less unruly. I really should investigate the matter further.”

  “Wait a second,” Mr. Button said in a professional manner. “We have business to discuss. How much?”

  Mr. Fuddlebee blinked.

  “Well, I’m not entirely sure,” he stammered. “At this point I cannot say for certain how much investigation is in order. I shall investigate until the mystery of this odd and odious kerfuffle is solved.”

  “Now look here, you ninny nanny nincompoop,” Mr. Button snapped. “I will not pay you more than a dollar a day. And if you ask any more, I’ll pay you a penny per week!”

  “My dear sir,” Mr. Fuddlebee declared, “hopefully my work will only cost an hour or two of your time. At the latest I shall be gone at sunset.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it,” barked Mr. Button.

  “Do I?” asked the elderly ghost innocently.

  “How much money is your nanny service going to cost me?” shouted Mr. Button in frustration. His cheeks were turning purple.

  “My actual services will cost you nothing,” Mr. Fuddlebee said. “They are entirely free.”

  “Deal!” barked Mr. Button.

  Then he turned to Mrs. Button, pecked her on the cheek, and patted his three Button children on the head.

  “I’m off to work,” he said in a routine tone.

  Then he scuttled to the front door, kicked it open, and went to work in a very tall building, where he sat at a desk all day and shouted words like “Buy!” and “Sell!” because people thought those were important things to say.

  Mrs. Button grabbed her handbag. “I’m off too,” she announced.

  “Mother—” Bernard started to say.

  But she was already moving quickly toward the front door.

  “Kids,” she called back, “be sure the new nanny doesn’t steal anything?”

  “Steal anything!” Mr. Fuddlebee spluttered in offense. “Now look here!”

  But before he could protest further, Mrs. Button left the house too and scuttled down the sidewalk toward her favorite coffee shop, where she would drink coffee, eat sugary donuts called beignets, and talk about everyone else.

  The house was silent for another minute or two.

  Mr. Fuddlebee floated in bewilderment at the front door.

  Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley gazed at the elderly ghost with eager expressions.

  “So what should we investigate first?” they asked.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mr. Fuddlebee’s Unusual Onbrella

  Mr. Fuddlebee, Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley began their investigation on the first floor. They went from room to room.

  The elderly ghost pointed his onbrella at everything he saw. It buzzed and buzzed, and he studied the readouts on the handle.

  Once he paused in fascination at a rubber duck on the floor. Then he poked it with his onbrella. The rubber duck squeaked in reply.

  “What a baffling bird!” he remarked.

  “Mr. Fuddlebee,” Bernard spoke up, “where do you come from? Is it a city of ghosts?”

  “It is called Welkin City.”

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose in confusion.

  “I’ve studied all kinds of maps of the world, and I have never seen a place called Welkin City.”

  The elderly ghost studied her with his onbrella.

  “You are quite magical, aren’t you?” he replied with a knowing smile.

  Beatrice did not know what to say.

  Mr. Fuddlebee regarded the three Button children with a warm expression.

  “If you are going to help me investigate, then you must start to look for clues. You asked, Where do I come from. Yet had you asked, Where did I come from, then you might have answered both questions all by yourselves.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked Bernard.

  The elderly ghost next studied a teakettle with his onbrella. It was shaped like the Cheshire Cat.

  “That’s three questions now, and not one answer,” he said to the Button children. “This does not bode well for good detective work. Answer the first question first, and then you might get an answer to the others. Where was I coming from when you first saw me?”

  “You came from above the trees,” the two older children answered together.

  “Excellent observation! So if I came from above the trees, then perhaps the place I am from is above the trees too.”

  “Like in the clouds?” asked Bernard.

  “That’s impossible,” Beatrice argued.

  Berkeley used the power of his mind to lift the rubber duck and the Cheshire Cat kettle into the air. Then he made them dance around in a waltz.

  Mr. Fuddlebee, fascinated, once more studied the toddler with his onbrella.

  “How can you be sure what is impossible and what is not?” he said to them. “You can study every map of the world, and you can study every map of the stars, but if you have never studied a map of the clouds, then I can see how you might be a little lost.”

  Beatrice, who always had something to say about a topic, was almost speechless after hearing this. Yet finally she confessed in a small voice, “I didn’t know there were cloud maps.”

  “Oh, my dear children,” the elderly ghost guffawed, “cloud cartography is a bustling business in Welkin City.”

  This fascinated the two older Button children immensely. They suddenly burst into a barrage of questions.

  “Is Welkin City really in the clouds?”

  “Is it far?”

  “Can I visit?”

  “What’s the weather like?”r />
  “What’s the population like?”

  Mr. Fuddlebee answered the questions as quickly as they came. “Yes… three days… one day… unpredictable… even more unpredictable.”

  Right at that moment the house shook violently.

  Bernard stopped a lamp from falling off a table. Beatrice stopped books from falling off a bookcase. Berkeley made the television float because to him that was the most important thing in the house.

  The shaking ended a second later and everything became peaceful again.

  “Was that an earthquake?” asked Bernard.

  “New Orleans does not have earthquakes,” Beatrice answered, recalling all the words of a book she’d read once when she was five. “The last one was in 1958, but that was in Baton Rouge, over eighty miles away. It is more likely that the Mississippi River will flood several more times before another earthquake happens.”

  “You are quite correct, child,” said Mr. Fuddlebee, watching the house alertly. “That was no earthquake.”

  “What was it then?” asked Bernard

  The elderly ghost pointed his onbrella up at the ceiling, then at the wall, then down at the wooden floorboards. Each time his onbrella made all sorts of buzzing sounds. And each time he brought the handle close to his ghostly eyes, lowered his ghostly spectacles over the bridge of this ghostly nose, and studied the onbrella’s readouts.

  “Curious. Very curious indeed.”

  “Mr. Fuddlebee,” said Beatrice in a polite voice, “your onbrella is very interesting.”

  The ghost’s face brightened.

  “Why, thank you, child. It was made by the Two Tinkerers. They call it the Bionicly Omni Onbrella. Of course I just call it BOO for short. It’s my little BOO.”

  “Bionic means it’s alive,” Beatrice said.

  “Quite true,” Mr. Fuddlebee said. “It is alive, with a mind of its own, probably because it runs on the Dimensionally Intelligent Operating System, though for short she is simply called DIOS.”

  “But what exactly does your onbrella do?” asked Bernard.

  The elderly ghost pensively mulled his ghostly lips.