The Great Mephisto

Welcome to all new readers! I’m so glad you have you here.

I’ve been hard at work on finishing my second novel titled The Great Mephisto, and I’d like to share a sample chapter with you. The synopsis:

Fifteen-year-old Leo Rose loves the rambling hotel on the beach in Cape May, New Jersey, that his family has owned for generations. The paint may be peeling, the decor like something from the Victorian penny dreadful, but to Leo, it’s the best home he could imagine, especially after the death of his firefighter father on September 11th, 2001.

But the hotel has fallen on hard times and back taxes are owed. If something doesn’t change soon, Leo, his sister, Poppy, their mother and aunt and uncle could find themselves out of their family business forever.

Then one day, a dusty book is found in the attic titled Magic, and suddenly another guest makes himself known: the ghost of The Great Mephisto, a magician who disappeared from the hotel on Halloween night in 1939, banished to haunt the halls of the Ocean Inn by the other magicians for writing the book that gave away their secrets.

As the season comes to a close and the last of the autumn leaves fall, a stroke of good luck: a group of men book the hotel for a corporate fishing trip. If the Corporate Fishermen enjoy their stay, they’ll pay enough to keep the tax collectors at bay and the hotel will be safe for another year.

But there’s one problem: The boss is the grandson of the Amazing Blackstone, the magician whose evil magic banished Mephisto, and Mephisto doesn’t intend on allowing the grandson of his dreaded rival to have a good time. Can Leo and Poppy find a way to make the Corporate Fishermen happy, while fighting a ghost whose magic is now stronger than before?

This is a long post and will be cut off in the email, so please head over to the app to read. Also, I’m looking for anyone who would like to be a beta reader. If you’d like to be a reader, please let me know. AND I’m looking for an editor! Shoot me a message if you are interested in either.

CHAPTER 16: THE CLAW MACHINE

My father stands on the ferry terminal dock on the Hudson River. The dock, built to withstand the pressure of the ferries, sways. Across the river, the Empire State Building reclaims its title of the Tallest Building in New York City. The Twin Towers are gone, a gaping hole. No smoke, no massive pile of rubble. Just an empty space. A white, double-deck ferry pulls out of the terminal, churning dark green water into white foam, the name Yogi Berra in script across its stern.

My father is dressed in his fireman’s pants, boots, suspenders and a white t-shirt. There is a scarlet splash of blood across the shirt, and the contrast of pure white and bright red glows against the drab bottle-green of the river and the dank dock. He points to the name on the boat. Those days are over, he says, shaking his head, lowering his hand as the boat with the name of the 1950s Yankees star catcher disappears.

He raises his other hand, like a priest beginning a blessing, the names Leo and Poppy tattooed in script on his forearm. I reach for him but can’t move. Dad… but the word is just empty air.

My father drops a handful of the little rubber balls stamped with OCEAN INN OF CAPE MAY onto the dock. They bounce away, making loud metallic tapping noise as they land.

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

The rain tapping on the window pulled me from the dreamworld and I sat up, the steel grayness outside slowly coming into focus. I touched the silver streaks on the opposite side of the glass, the October rain caught in the gusts.

It had been a long time since I dreamed of my father. I never remembered my other dreams. At most I’d retain a blurry image or two when I woke, only to forget moments later. The dreams of my father were always clear, and near the surface, on the other side of my eyes before the first opening. But in these infrequent night visits, his face was grim, completely unlike the man he was in life. As if he were unhappy in the place he now lived, as if his spirit was dwelling in an in-between world where he didn’t want to be.

My alarm clock glowed green with the numbers 8:32 a.m. It’s late! Uncle Warren must have let me sleep, knowing it was going to be a long, long day.

And the rain was going to make the day drag on to oblivion. Rainy days in the summer were both good and bad for business. Good because if the beach was out, tourists tended to linger in the restaurant and bar for longer, having one more drink or one more appetizer. Bad because people’s moods turned very salty when they weren’t getting the beach time they were primarily there to enjoy. You can’t stop the rain, Gram used to say. But you can stop a customer from cashing in with a drink on the house. We had all kinds of tricks for rainy days: stacks of coupons for $5 off Big Dave’s, causally mentioning that if you brought back one of the big stuffed toys that it was good for a free ice cream for the kids, which of course led to the adults buying their own snack or drink. Rainy day discounts on the Trolley Tour, half-off at the antique store (which never mattered because no one ever bought anything anyway) and little contests in the bar area if there were good sports games on the television.

This rainy day is going to feel like a week with these guys. I shoved off the covers and my bare feet hit the cold floor. The Corporate Fishermen were here for one reason: to fish. But after yesterday I also realized they were here for an additional reason: to drink. Fishing and drinking went very well together. The local fishermen stocked their boats with booze and when they fished off the surf, they’d stick a six-pack in a bag in the sand. Rainy days never stopped them. When your livelihood depends on catching fish who live in the ocean, only the most violent of storms keep you away.

The CPs didn’t have the grit of real fishermen. Today was supposed to be their full fishing day and if the rain didn’t let up, we were going to have to find another activity for them, and fast.

I grabbed my hooded sweatshirt off the bedpost and fumbled around the floor for my jeans. I clicked on the bedside light and pulled my top drawer open.

My underwear was gone.

I blinked, clearing the last fog of sleep. My top drawer, which held both my socks and clean underwear, now was half full of balled up socks that rolled freely like pool balls. No underwear.

“What the hell is going on?” Only the rain’s patter answered. I pulled on my clothes and sneakers and quietly exited the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. With each staircase the scent of bacon, ham and coffee grew stronger with the clinking of silverware and dishes out of the kitchen.

“Leo,” Aunt Elsa shuffled papers at the front desk. “Watch the desk for a minute, will you? I have to run back upstairs.”

“Sure, Aunt Elsa.” She rushed past me. “Where’s Uncle Warren?”

She grunted. “That Dummkopf says he can’t get dressed because he has no underwear. Like I don’t do the wash around here! Light the fire, will you?” She nodded toward the fireplace.

“Oh, no,” I moaned when she was out of earshot.

“Oh, yes.” The Great Mephisto stretched his legs in the navy-blue velvet chaise lounge by the fireplace.

I walked over. “What is going on?”

He looked sideways at me, and grinned. “Fire, fire, burning bright. Isn’t that how that poem went?” He flicked his hand at the fireplace and full-on flames burst onto the wood. He considered. “No, it was Tyger tyger burning bright. How could I be so intellectually clumsy? It must be the company I’m keeping.” He eyed me sideways.

“You’re right. A mental giant such as yourself should have been locked forever in Einstein’s house.”

“How fresh!”

“What do you expect? Where’s my underwear?” Then I saw it.

The Claw Machine, that squeaky, 100-year-old carnival machine with its huge glass case and hand crank was filled with underwear. Men’s underwear.

“What the hell?” I sputtered. “Take those outta there! Where’re the rubber balls?”

“Why? Don’t have clean ones on? Your Uncle’s ‘tightie whities,’ as I believe you call them, are something to behold. So many holes, like Swiss cheese. Perhaps venting is the intended effect, but eeewwwww.”

Noise began to stir upstairs. Door creaked open and slammed shut while bits of conversation floated down. Hey…did you?...where is my…

The rest of underwear…oh God…. Anger boiled. I walked toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?” I growled.

“Why, I’m helping you. How do you not see that?”

“By putting all their underwear in the Claw Machine? How’s that helping?”

“My dear Leo, it’s a little f-u-n! Aren’t you up for a laugh or five? You are a wet blanket most of the time, I’m sorry to say.”

“It’s not funny. Put it all back now!” My hands formed tight fists and I slowly advanced, the way Dad taught me to approach a fight. Take your time. The longer you take the more afraid of you they become. Keep eye contact. Don’t retreat.

He frowned and stood up, backing away, his cape swishing through the flames of the fireplace. Then he stopped and smirked, remembering his eternal advantage. “You can’t hurt me,” he said, wiggling his fingers by the fire. The flames licked red, then purple, then green, and back to yellow. “You can’t fight smoke, nor can you fight the Greatest Magician Who Ever Lived!”

“You mean The Amazing Blackstone? Seems as if he got the best of you, doesn’t it?”

He froze, his eyes narrowing until they almost disappeared. He then pulled the wand from under his cape with dramatic slowness. “Well. I thought you and I might be friends. But I see I was right all along.”

“Right about what?”

“About you being a whiny looser. That little Rug-Scratch devil has you pegged correctly.”

Suddenly breathing was very difficult, and I trembled with a bottomless rage. My hands clenched and my fingernails cut my palms.

“And every muttonhead member of your family, with the exception of my beloved, will be outwitted by Rug-Scratch Senior. You’re going to lose this hotel!” He spat.

“At least,” I bit off the words, “I am not a thief who stole money from his girlfriend’s family.”

His nostrils flared. Incredibly, a deck of playing cards began to flip from under his cape, fluttering to the floor. They were all spades. Then a white rabbit scrambled from under his top hat and landed at my feet. It was one of those albino rabbits with red eyes. It hissed at me before hopping away into the bar area.

“Are you malfunctioning?” I asked nastily. “Because if you are, I’m sure we can find some four-year-olds for you to perform…”

The words froze in my mouth. I tried to talk, but my jaw wouldn’t open and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. My feet, which felt like cement blocks, began to slide backwards toward the navy-blue chaise lounge.

Help! My butt hit the seat and I was flipped like a marionette puppet so my legs splayed along the lounge. The morning edition of the Cape May Star lifted from the coffee table and opened, fluttering like a butterfly with multiple wings. A tingling ran through my body, an electrical pulse that moved my hands up and grabbed the paper. From the opposite angle I must have looked like a guy lounging and reading the paper by the fire on a rainy morning.

“Leo! Are you down here? We have a problem…” Poppy’s voice from behind the paper.

My legs and arms were completely frozen. My mind willed my mouth to speak but it was as if I had eaten a combination of peanut butter and crazy glue. All that was visible were the day’s stories. Garbage Pick Up to Reduced Winter Days After Thanksgiving. Fishing Boat Stranded in Channel. Nor’Easterner Expected for Halloween. Antique Auction to Feature Historical Cape May Items.

“Leo?” A glittered-nailed hand reached over the paper and pushed it down, my sister’s disgusted face appearing. “What are you doing? We have a problem and you’re actually sitting here reading the paper?”

“Hmmmmm-hmmmm!” Strangled sounds came from my throat.

“He says he’s terribly sorry, but he’s practicing his new mime act and cannot speak for the rest of the month. Try again later!” Mephisto chuckled.

“What did you do to my brother?” Poppy let the paper go and moved away. Thankfully, the crumpling of the paper created a window where the lobby was now visible. The Great Mephisto leaned against the Claw Machine, arms folded, smirking.

“What did you do to him?” Poppy repeated. “Undo it! And what…” Then she stopped, her hands slowly came up sideways and ended up on her hips. Her back was to me but the gesture meant only one thing: a blow up.

“What’s that?” She nodded toward the Claw.

Mephisto smacked the glass. “It’s a rare example of a 1930s arcade game,” he recited as if in a TV commercial. “Notice the one Penny-to-Play slot! Now if you adjusted that for inflation, you’d get…”

“You know what I mean,” Poppy snapped. “That’s underwear. And it belongs to the Corporate Fishermen, who are now upstairs running around like a bunch of headless chickens asking each other what happened to the underwear in their own suitcases.”

“Headless chickens? I thought you didn’t believe in that sort of thing?” Mephisto snickered.

Thankfully, my eyeballs weren’t frozen and moved freely, straining all the way to the right. My sister had the even temper of an crystal lake but get her mad enough and her stare could shatter icebergs.

“And I’ll tell you what else is going to happen,” Mephisto said, contemplating the rapid footsteps overhead. “In a few minutes they’re going to trot down here like a herd of demented donkeys and demand to know the whereabouts of those drawers.”

And right on cue, three men clomped down the stairs, led by that snake Daniel. Seeing there was no one at front desk, he swung toward me. “Hey, junior,” he approached in his usual fashion, fists shoved in the front pockets of his khakis and felt zipper up straining against his beer belly. “We seem to have had a bought of thievery in this really fine, upscale place of yours. Only it’s not our money that’s gone, it’s items from our suitcases.” He stopped, looking me up and down and frowning. “You hear me?” he asked when I didn’t answer. “What’s the matter? You look like a House of Wax display.”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation to all of this, sir,” Poppy hurried over.

“The perfectly logical explanation is that someone, most likely someone with a key to all of these rooms, thought it would be a hoot to steal everyone’s underwear. I know mine are gone, and I packed seven pairs.”

“Seven pairs? We’re going to be here for three days,” a lanky blond guy said.

“Shut up, Carl,” Daniel said, not even looking at him and the blond scowled.

“Hey, what the hell is that? Look!” The other guy pointed to the Claw Machine and a groan escaped my throat.

Daniel walked over in that deliberate, I’m-not-ever-in-a-hurry way that people use when they think the world will always wait for them. He grabbed the crank and pulled it toward him but it wouldn’t move. “Well, isn’t this hilarious,” he said, trying the crank again but only succeeding in moving the lever a few centimeters, causing the claw itself to sway. “Is this how you express your thanks to our group for gracing you with our hard-earned money? You sneak into all of our rooms, presumably when we were on that ‘ghost trolley tour,’ which should have been called the ‘Psycho Waste Of Money Tour,’ and take our underwear?”

“Why in the world would we do such a thing?” Poppy said and terror gripped my frozen heart. If she loses it with him, we’re going to be in massive trouble.

“I don’t know why you do most of the things you do, like keep this dump going, for starters. But for now, how ‘bout getting everyone’s underwear out of here, okay? Then we’ll forget this little prank ever happened and proceed to fish…or something…today. Got it?”

“We didn’t do it!”

“So then who got into all of our rooms? If you’re letting thieves, even ones with a sense of humor into this hotel, then you’ve got bigger problems then just the décor here.” He rattled the handle.

Mephisto folded his arms and smiled. “Pray, Miss Poppy, why don’t you tell this creature to stuff it into his...ahem…’boxer briefs.’”

The crank began to move on its own. Daniel stepped back. “What the…” he started. The white lights around the glass box lit all at once, then began to blink in patterns. The crank, now freed, turned and little metallic clicking noises followed the claw back and forth.

“This thing works on its own?” Carl said, but he and the other guy had uneasy expressions.

“Uh, yes, of course it does! It’s an old machine and it always shorts out and does stuff like this! Hahahah.” Poppy was the worst liar ever.

The crank stopped, and the lever that made the claw drop down clicked, plunging the claw into the pile of underwear. It paused for a second, the lights flashing, then the crank started up again in the opposite direction. Out of the sea of underwear rose a pair of faded light blue briefs, frayed at the elastic. The crank turned in midair, and the funny thing was that the underwear wasn’t limp, like clothes that are hung on a clothesline. No, these surfaced as if someone was wearing them. They swung around and the name DANIEL MILLER written across the elastic.

The other two men burst out laughing. “You still write your name in your drawers, Dan?” The smaller guy could barely get the words out.

“Oh Danny, your mommy called and asked you to make sure you write your name in your underwear before you come home from kindergarten,” Carl mimicked in a high-pitched voice, tears squeezing from his eyes.

“Shut up!” Daniel snapped. “What if I lose them at the gym?”

That only made the two guys laugh harder, holding their sides and hitting into the counter. “What if he loses them? Oh, what if I find them? I can call the number on the elastic!”

Daniel seethed, his eyes darting from the laughing men to his underwear. More footsteps overhead. Now a whole procession of CPs trotted down the stairs, Dunkleberger in the lead.

As usual, his suave and cool manner was as uncrackable as his Spray Netted silver hair. Thankfully, he was drawn to the sound of the laughter and didn’t notice me, still frozen in the same position, newspaper crumpled in my hands.

“Excuse me, Poppy,” Dunkleberger smiled, and you know that he was the type who could smile in the face of any business-type disaster. “We seem to…” then he caught site of the Claw Machine. “The mystery is solved.”

The men glanced at each other and side-eyed Dunkelberger, trying to gage his reaction, which was hard to tell from his stoic expression.

The Claw Machine started up again, and to Daniel’s visible relief, the crank began to whirl and the claw opened dramatically, dropping his faded blue-name-tagged drawers into the pile.

The Great Mephisto balanced his wand on one hand. “You can find out a tremendous amount about people just by looking at their undergarments. You know, back in my day there really wasn’t a lot of variety when purchasing one’s intimates. One or two colors and that was it. But now, the variety!” Inside the Claw Machine, the underwear moved around as if they were little eels in a tank.

The CPs stared in disbelief.

“It’s like a washing machine.”

“Dan, are you cranking that thing?”

“He’s good at cranking!” This from Carl again.

“Does it look like I’m cranking it?” Daniel snapped, throwing up his hands like don’t shoot! and stepping backwards.

The lights blinked faster and switched patterns. A tinny, crackly music began from inside the Claw Machine. Poppy threw a glance my way. No, I had no idea there was music in that thing, I tried to shrug, but only one shoulder came up. It’s weakening. I have to break this. I worked that one shoulder until my whole arm began to move, pins and needles rushing where no feeling had been. It was as if I had slept on the arm all night and was just waking up.

The crank threw and clinked, causing a few surprised yelps to issue from the crowd. Then the crank turned, click click clicking up.

The Claw gripped another pair of underwear, frozen as if on a department store dummy, this one boxers with SpongeBob Squarepants floating all over a dark green background, wearing a Santa Hat. There was only one Patrick Star, positioned right over the fly, wearing reindeer antlers.

The CPs roared. Even Dunkelberger laughed. The only one who didn’t laugh was that quiet guy Richie. He plastered a grin that was more horror than humor, so it wasn’t difficult to tell whose underwear was hanging on the Claw.

“I have to say,” Dunkelberger grinned. “That some people hide their creativity. Perhaps we should have a creativity contest at work so people can let out their inner cartoonist. Because I’ll tell you what, I’d be willing to promote anyone who has the guts to claim this underwear as their own. He must be a man of humor, and whimsy. A man who has a creative streak that’s well worth looking at.”

The rest quieted down. Dunkelberger’s delivery made it hard to tell if he were kidding or serious about really wanting to know which of his employees wore SpongeBob underwear.

The CPs looked around. Daniel was watching Richie, and by his expression, he knew the owner of the drawers. His eyes narrowed and he stepped forward. “They’re mine, Howard.”

The good humor drained from the group as they realized who was going to get the kudos for the ridiculous underwear. “Well, Dan, that’s not a surprise,” Dunkelberger smiled. “Always the standout. Unique. With a sense of humor!”

“It’s a surprise to him,” Mephisto nodded toward Richie, whose expression was a mix of relief and anger. “Can you imagine being such a snake that you’d claim undergarments patterned with a diabolical yellow sponge as your own? Just to kiss up to the butter and egg man?”

“What?” Poppy forced the question through her frozen smile.

“That’s the guy with the dough, Miss Poppy, otherwise known as Dunkelberger.”

“Oh,” Poppy squeaked.

“Time to send this crumb a little message.” He raised the wand. The CPs were chattering, congratulating Daniel on his funny pants and ignoring Richie, as they always did, who stood off to the side with a frozen fake smile.

No one saw the fluorescent green streak that appeared on the backside of the hanging SpongeBob underwear. For a second, I thought Mephisto was going to just light up the underwear and make it dance or something equally as dumb. But then, I realized what he was doing.

“…no…” Poppy moaned.

“….aaahhhhrrrrrggg…” My jaw was finally beginning to loosen up.

“What can I tell you? He should watch his fiber intake.” He held the wand straight out in front, twirling it in small circles.

The faces of the SpongeBob and Patrick changed from their high-hilarity to horrified screams. Patrick Star threw his starfish stumps over his eyes. The green blinked a few times, illuminating like a light bulb getting ready to burst from an electrical surge. Then the green, which was beautiful in its unique color, began to fade to an ugly, horrible brown and there it was.

A skid mark.

“You can’t. You can’t. It’s not right! It’s not fair.” Poppy backed away from the Claw and almost into one of the CPs, who was yucking it up with the others and not noticing her self-talk.

“Not fair?” Mephisto scoffed. “Not fair is using the New York Times to attend to one’s backside in an unheated outhouse with snakes and mice for company. You modern people, who know nothing of The Great Depression, have no excuse for such poor personal hygiene, little girl. If you had to live like we did back then, you’d fall on your knees and worship that pillowy stuff that’s currently hanging in your bathroom, let me tell you.”

“You can’t do this…” I tried, but it came out as Ewww aaannt ooo issss.

“What’s that, Leo? You seem to be struggling for the right words. Maybe a little song will help you out.” He flicked the wand and that little tune played from inside the machine, but now it was as if an invisible hand had cranked the volume because the tinny song became louder and more out of tune until all the CPs had turned toward it, some with their hands over their ears.

“What the hell is that…”

“Stop it! My ears!”

The underwear swung on the Claw. It stopped and began to tremble. The Claw opened, flipping the underwear so it turned circles in the inside air of the Machine. Then it stopped, and my stomach sank. The underwear was again hanging on the Claw only this time it was inside out, with the backside facing forward, that ugly brown streak for all to see.

The mood changed from a mix of good humor, laughter and slight jealousy toward Daniel, to one of horror and cringe.

“Looks like everyone’s smile has been wiped off.” Mephisto cackled. His wand disappeared and he folded his arms.

The smiles were indeed gone. Dunkelberger’s face was hard, and the easy-going humor of moments ago vanished, replaced by a stern man. The boss has arrived. Daniel, basking like a bloated walrus in his boss’s good favor, was frozen. His perpetually annoying grin slipping notch by notch until gone. The others turned their eyes toward the ground or shuffled away completely. There was only one face that found a smile, and that was Richie. He leaned against the doorway of the antique shop, arms folded in a weird mirror image of Mephisto, and watched the humiliation.

“A joke’s a joke, and I’m up for a good joke just like anyone else,” Dunkelberger began, addressing Poppy, whose face drained of all color. “But it only goes so far. This goes beyond good taste.”

“Sir, I assure you, I did not do this! Neither I, nor anyone in my family, would pull a prank like this!” Poppy stuttered.

“I see,” he said, clearly not believing her. “Then I do find it quite odd that these items,” he gestured toward the Claw, “which were locked securely in all of our rooms, found their way here. But that seems to be an unsolvable mystery. What I’d like now is for you to remove all of these items and put them in a pile upstairs so all can reclaim their possessions. And if there are any more, and I mean any more, shenanigans such as this, we’ll take it up with your uncle.” He turned on one heel, ready to storm out, but stopped when he saw me. While he spoke, the spell loosened and I slumped in the chair, before dumping the Cape May Star on the coffee table and springing up, never happier to be standing in my life.

“I’m disappointed in you, young man,” Dunkelberger said, and his voice had the same effect that my father’s voice had on me when he was mad. I hung my head in shame. “Didn’t expect this from you, that’s for sure.” He retreated to the stairs.

Richie peeled himself off the wall and sauntered past the Claw. “I guess I’ll go upstairs and wait for my underwear to arrive,” he said, passing Daniel without a glance.

Daniel was the only one left. “I’ll fix you,” he whispered, darting his eyes between Poppy and me. “You think this is funny?”

“We didn’t do this! It had to be one of you guys!”

“You think this motley crew of idiots could pull a stunt like this? They’re lucky if they can even find their underwear. No. I know it was one of you. And if you think you’re not going to pay for this, you’re sadly mistaken.” He huffed away.

I wanted to call after him that if he didn’t claim underwear that wasn’t his own, he wouldn’t have been mortified. And he should stop being an ass-kissing clown and act right, but my jaw was still recovering from the spell. I moved it back and forth like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz when the oil frees him.

The music from the Claw Machine died down and the lights blinked three times, then all was quiet. All at once, the underwear behind the glass disappeared. The last to go was the SpongeBob boxers. The faces on the characters were now back to being happy and loving their Santa hats. The skid mark was gone, too. There was a little snap! Like the flick of a rubber band and they disappeared. For a moment, the machine was empty, then, like bubbles in a bath, the little rubber balls rose from the bottom and filled the machine, like always.

My blood boiled to temperatures I’d never experienced before. Even Rug-Scratch at his worst never provoked a reaction like this.

“So shines a good deed,” Mephisto paused, twirling his index finger in the air. Smoke in that same green color enveloped him. “So shines a good deed, in a mean, cruel, ugly world.” The smoke covered him completely and when it dissipated a moment later, he was gone.

“That’s not what Willy Wonka said,” I muttered, referring to the Gene Wilder character in the movie.

Poppy collapsed into the striped armchair, setting off a little mushroom cloud of dust. “That was Shakespeare, you goon. So shines a good deed, in a weary world.” She sighed dramatically, falling forward with her head in her hands.

“It’s over,” my vocal cords produced the voice, but it wasn’t mine. It was a stranger’s, the voice of a defeated person. “There’s nothing more to do. We might as well give them their money back and just forget this whole weekend ever existed. And it’s only 10 a.m.”

Poppy didn’t say anything. Upstairs, more noise. They must have gotten their underwear back. Wonder if Richie will ever wear those boxers again?

“It’s not hopeless,” Poppy said, head still down.

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

Her head whipped up. “Because of this!” She pointed to the open paper on the coffee table. She picked it up and began to read:

“The Antique Auction will take place on October 24th,…that’s today!...and there are over a hundred items to auction. WCMR-FM’s own Jim of the Ghouls and Galaxies Radio Hour will be the auctioneer. He has a very special item to auction. “It’s a magician’s top hat,” he says. “I’ve had it in my collection since my grandfather picked it up off the beach on November the first in 1939. It’s the hat of the magician who went missing on Halloween night after the Magician’s Convention…” She stopped reading and looked up.

I deflated even more. “So? Even if it is his, who cares? That’s not going to make what just happened go away.”

“No, but it might make him go away. For good. If we’re going to banish him from this Inn, we’re going to need something that was his. And now we have it.” She tapped the paper.

I rubbed my eyes. More voices at the stairs.

“They weren’t there when I went to get dressed this morning! What do you think I am, blind?” Uncle Warren huffing down the stairs.

“Yes, you goat! You tell me you have not one pair then we open the drawer and there are a hundred!” Aunt Elsa right on his heels.

I realized that we had to do something…anything…to fix this. Yesterday, the thought of banishing Mephisto would have made me sad. Especially after seeing what had happened to him at the Lighthouse. But now? The sooner we got him out of the Inn, the better chance we had of getting these guys to pay us. “So what do we do with the hat?”

Poppy clapped her hands. “We need to go to Psychic Sharon.”

“C’mon!”

“No, Leo, it’s the only way. Trust me. If there is anything I know about, it’s how to clean a house of ghosts. I don’t run a ghost story radio show for nothing.”

“Kids,” Uncle Warren said. He was dressed for surf fishing, with his flannel shirt and raincoat and carrying his giant rubber waders. “You can go do whatever it is you do today. The men still want to fish, although the weather isn’t the greatest, but I’ll take them. You get some rest for tonight, because I’ll need you.”

“What’s happening tonight, Uncle Warren?” Poppy asked.

“We’re having an event in the bar. Video Trivia Night! It should be a blast!”

Poppy and I exchanged horrified glances. There was an electronic trivia game set up in the bar, but it was from 1998 and never worked right when anyone tried it. If Mephisto got up to his tricks tonight, we’d be further sunk.

“Sure, Uncle Warren. We’re going into town.”

“Great! Have fun.”

Buying a decrepit old magician’s top hat with no money and banishing a vengeful ghost? It was the most fun I could imagine.

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