A Gust of Ghosts Read Online Free Page A

this camera while I tighten the tripod,” Mr. Malone said.
    Sighing deeply, Franny stood up and slouched over to her father. “And to think I could be at home watching my favorite TV show,” she said bitterly. “Or any TV show, for that matter. Even the nightly news would be more interesting than this.”
    Mr. Malone started to hand her the camera, then stopped, frowning. “Just look at yourself,” he said accusingly. “What have you done with your hair?”
    For the first time since they had arrived at the cemetery, Franny smiled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “Well, first I used that new conditioner and then I used my curling iron to make loose ringlets—”
    â€œTie it back. Now.” Mr. Malone reached in his pocket. “Here’s a rubber band.”
    â€œBut I spent an hour getting it to look perfect,” Franny protested.
    â€œYou know the rules,” Mr. Malone said impatiently. “If any skeptics see a photo of you looking like that, they’ll claim that any anomalies we happen to film were just your hair flying around in front of the camera lens.”
    â€œFine.” Sulkily, she pulled her hair into a ponytail.
    â€œGood. And wear this, just to be on the safe side.” He handed her a shapeless cotton hat.
    She closed her eyes as if in pain, but put it on. “Of course, I’ll have horrible hat hair tomorrow, but I suppose you don’t care about that,” she said gloomily.
    â€œYou’re right, I don’t,” said Mr. Malone, turning back to the camera. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. “What is that obnoxious odor?” He sniffed again, then glared at her. “Are you wearing perfume?”
    Franny crossed her arms and stared at him defiantly. “Yes! And it’s not obnoxious! It’s called Evening Dreams. I read about it in a magazine. It’s the favorite perfume of all the movie stars in Hollywood—”
    â€œI don’t care if it’s the favorite perfume of the maharajah himself!” Mr. Malone roared. “Get a bottle of water and a paper towel and scrub it off!”
    Franny scowled. “If I can’t look nice, I should at least be able to smell nice.”
    â€œNow, dear, be reasonable,” said Mrs. Malone. “You know that ghosts often get our attention through our olfactory sense. Remember when we all smelled lilacs in the dining room at the old Oakwood mansion? Think how you would feel if we missed making contact with a ghost simply because you wanted to wear perfume!”
    Poppy slumped down, her back to a particularly worn headstone, and closed her eyes. Yawning, she waited for the inevitable argument to come to its inevitable end.
    Fifteen minutes later, Franny was sulkily double-checking the cameras, after having scrubbed off her perfume with a paper towel and a bottle of seltzer water.
    â€œWill, why don’t you put the EVP recorder on that nice flat tomb,” Mrs. Malone said. “We don’t want to miss a chance to capture the sound of any disembodied voices that happen to show up.”
    By the time the equipment was set up, night was officially falling. The Malones took their stations. They were scattered among the gravestones, close enough to see and talk to one another, but far enough apart so that they could each observe a different part of the cemetery.
    â€œNow remember, ghosts respond to our vibrational frequency,” said Mrs. Malone. “I suggest that we all meditate for a few moments. That will open a portal so that the spirits can more easily contact us. Rolly, stop throwing pebbles at that marble plinth, dear. Come sit beside me.”
    She closed her eyes and began making a low humming noise. For several moments, that was the only sound.
    Then her eyes opened and she glared around at her family. “I cannot do this alone, you know,” she said severely. “I need everyone’s