The ghost with the Victorian nightgown hadn't disappeared; she had simply retreated into the shadows, likely suffering from a "vibrational migraine" caused by the Headmaster's megaphone.
"ONWARD, INFANTRY OF THE INFUSED!" the Headmaster bellowed, his neon vest flickering like a dying lightbulb in the thick fog. "We have no time for 'Lollygagging in the Limbo'! My Great-Uncle Barnaby is hovering somewhere in this vicinity, and he's the only one who knows the 'Ceramic Coordinates' for the tea pot!"
"Sir," Aaron (The Bookworm) whispered, frantically checking a dusty old map he'd found in the bus. "According to the legends of the 'Village of the Vexed', Uncle Barnaby was known as 'Barnaby the Silent'. I don't think he's going to appreciate you screaming into a megaphone at 2:00 AM."
"Silence is a 'Communication Crisis', Aaron!" the Headmaster shrieked, making Julian jump so hard he nearly tripped over a headstone. "Uncle Barnaby was only silent because he was hiding from his creditors! He owes me five shillings and a very specific ginger biscuit! Malik! Hadiya! Check that hollow tree! I see a 'Luminescent Limb' poking out!"
Malik squeezed my hand, his palm a bit sweaty. "Hadiya, if I get snatched by a ghost uncle, please tell my mom I died doing something cooler than looking for a tea pot. Like... fighting a dragon. Or a very large cat."
"I'll tell her you were a '10/10 Hero', Malik," I whispered back, clutching my guitar case. I could feel the cold air swirling around us, smelling like damp earth and old library books.
Suddenly, a faint, blue glow began to seep out from behind a jagged rock. A tall, thin ghost with a very long beard and a very grumpy expression floated into view. He was wearing a tattered suit and holding a spectral pocket watch.
"UNCLE BARNABY!" the Headmaster screamed, charging forward. "STOP THE STAGNATION! I've come for the 'Ginger Debt'! Also, where is the tea pot? Auntie Gertrude said you hid it under a 'Substantial Stone'!"
The ghost of Uncle Barnaby didn't speak. Instead, he put a translucent finger to his lips. "SHHHHHHHHHH," he hissed. The sound was like a thousand dry leaves blowing across a grave.
"Don't 'Shush' me, Uncle! That's a 'Verbal Violation'!" The Headmaster leaned in with his rusted magnifying glass, peering right into the ghost's see-through chest. "I see it! The 'Mutiny of the Memory'! You've forgotten where you put it, haven't you? It's a 0/10 for 'Ancestral Organization'!"
The ghost looked at us—the Bloom Buddies—with a look of pure pity. He pointed toward a dark, iron gate at the edge of the village and then pointed back at the Headmaster, making a "chatting" motion with his hand and shaking his head.
"He's saying the Headmaster talks too much," Xixi (Olivia) translated, crossing her arms. "Even the dead are tired of his lectures. Honestly, same, Uncle B. Same."
"I AM NOT TALKING; I AM 'ORALLY ORIENTING'!" the Headmaster shrieked.
Suddenly, the ground began to vibrate. From the shadows of the iron gate, three more ghosts appeared—they looked like ancient town guards, carrying spectral spears.
"Hadiya! Malik! Look out!" Angela cried, pointing as the guards began to march toward us, their eyes glowing with 'Ancestral Anger'.
"Aha! 'Security Spirits'!" the Headmaster shouted, unbothered. "Greetings, Officers! I need to report a 'Vibrational Trespass'! My Uncle is refusing to pay his biscuit debt!"
The guards didn't look like they wanted to talk about biscuits. They looked like they wanted to 'Harvest' our souls for making too much noise in their quiet village.
"Run?" I asked Malik, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Run," Malik agreed, and we didn't need a second invitation. We took off toward the iron gate, leaving a trail of dust, while the Headmaster continued to chase Uncle Barnaby, shouting about 'Compound Interest' and 'Spectral Savings Accounts'.
The spectral guards weren't walking; they were gliding, their translucent spears pointed directly at the Headmaster's neon vest. The air turned so cold I could see my breath, and it smelled like old copper and wet stone.
"HALT!" the Headmaster bellowed, not at us, but at the ghosts. He reached into his vest and whipped out a wooden clipboard with a flourish so dramatic you'd think he was unsheathing a sword. "YOU ARE IN CLEAR VIOLATION OF THE 'DEATHLY DECIPHERING' ACT OF 1922! LOOK AT THIS!"
He shoved the clipboard—which was covered in coffee-stained papers and butterfly clips—right into the face of the lead ghost guard.
"Sir, I really don't think ghosts care about paperwork!" Aaron shrieked, ducking as a spectral spear swung over his head. "They are literally made of 'Ancestral Anger' and you're giving them a '0/10 for Punctuality'!"
"It's not punctuality, Aaron! It's 'Improper Haunting Procedures'!" the Headmaster screamed back. "Look at this guard! His spear is translucent, yes, but it's at a 30-degree angle! That's a 'Postural Problem'! And you—Uncle Barnaby! Why are you fading? That's 'Ethereal Laziness'! I'm docking your 'Spectral Savings Account'!"
Suddenly, the lead guard hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, and lunged forward.
"Hadiya! Look out!"
Before I could even blink, Malik swung into action. He didn't have a megaphone or a clipboard, but he had me. He grabbed my waist and pulled me behind a large, moss-covered tombstone just as the cold tip of a spear whistled through the air where my head had been a second ago.
"Are you okay?" Malik whispered, his chest heaving as he pressed his back against the stone, shielding me with his own body. He was shaking, but his eyes were locked on mine, full of that "10/10 protection" energy. "I'm not letting any 'Vexed Ancestor' touch a hair on your head, Hadiya. Not on my watch."
"I'm fine," I breathed, clutching my guitar case. "But the Headmaster is about to get 'Harvested' if he doesn't stop poking that ghost with his pen!"
"SIR! RUN!" Julian (The Model) yelled, trying to hide behind a very thin tree. "YOUR CLIPBOARD ISN'T A SHIELD!"
"Nonsense! It's 'Reinforced Plywood'!" the Headmaster countered, actually using the clipboard to swat away a ghostly hand. "Now, Hadiya! Malik! While I am 'Distracting the Dead' with this 'Report of Systemic Slumping', get to that iron gate! Uncle Barnaby dropped a 'Ginger Key' near the rocking chairs! It's a 'Spiritual Snack' that opens the way to the tea pot!"
I looked over the edge of the tombstone. Sure enough, a glowing, orange biscuit—shaped like a tiny teapot—was hovering in the mud.
"I'll get it," Malik said, squeezing my hand one last time before lunging out into the open.
"Malik, wait!" I cried.
He dove through the legs of a confused ghost guard, snatched the glowing biscuit out of the air, and rolled back toward me just as the Headmaster started shouting again.
"AHA! A '10/10 Retrieval', Malik! Perhaps there is hope for your 'Physical Education' grade after all!" the Headmaster shrieked, dodging a spear by accidentally tripping over his own shoelaces. "Now, to the gate! The tea pot is calling! It says 'Brew me, or suffer the Ancestral Steam'!"
We didn't wait for a second invitation. With Malik leading the way and the Headmaster still lecturing the ghosts about "Improper Nightgown Maintenance," we sprinted toward the iron gate.