May Bird and the Ever After

  Pumpkin whimpered and held his hands up to his ears.

  “Oh, really, Pumpkin.” Arista’s antennae drooped sadly as he turned back to May. “The worst fate that can befall a ghost. He sucks you up into nothingness.”

  May tried to imagine becoming nothing. It made her stomach ache. Her lips began to tremble. “But why?”

  “Who can say, dear? He works for Bo Cleevil. That’s enough of a reason for evil.”

  May scratched her chin. “Mom used to say that if I stayed up too late, the Bogeyman would get me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, actually, I always thought it was the boogeyman.” May remembered with an ache in her heart, staying up in bed, imagining what the Bogeyman was like. Usually he was very scary, and he liked to dance. And then she’d run into her mom’s room and curl up under her covers with her.

  “Well, actually, that’s how he started out—dancing. Before he came up to this realm he used to throw big parties, apparently, for all the Dark Spirits, in South Place.”

  “Hm.” May rested against the window, too overwhelmed to ask any more questions. She didn’t think she wanted to know, anyway. For a few minutes all she could see was the endless stretching sand in either direction. A few tumbleweeds started to bounce into sight and roll past them.

  May peered through the little slot at the front of the cab that gave a tiny view of the driver’s seat. She could see the back of the horseman, who was indeed headless, his hands outstretched and holding a pair of reins that were connected to nothing but the empty space out in front of them. There were no horses. And just inside the front of the carriage, there was a little box with two sets of blinking numbers. One was marked PRICE and the other was marked MILES. The miles number clicked past 100, 150, 200, 250, 300.

  “Are those really the miles?” May asked, and Arista nodded. “But we’re not going that fast.”

  “Things here are not like they are in the living world,” Arista said simply.

  May moved back to the window just in time to see a woman in a bathing suit ride by on a rusty bicycle. Her skin was completely blue, like she’d stayed underwater too long.

  And then Belle Morte proper came into view.

  The town of Belle Morte crouched at the base of a set of enormous cliffs that curled out above it like giant black waves. May shrank back, hating the look of them immediately. But then curiosity overcame her, and she leaned forward again. The town itself was made of the same slate gray color as the cliffs. It rose in points, its roofs puckered triangles, reminding May of a bunch of lopsided ice-cream cones—like houses that were a little bit melted, with irregular rectangular windows that shrank together at the top, blue glows emanating from inside.

  Ahead May could see the main street that cut through town, festooned with blue lights on invisible strings. At the very end of it was a glowing blue box that looked like a phone booth and said TELEPORT on top.

  “The Boulevard,” Arista said with a hint of pride in his voice. “Pretty, isn’t it? Carved from rock from the cliffs. They brought the Easter Island people in to design them about thirty years ago. Of course, Easter Island was their minimalist phase. Dear, I can’t tell you what it’s done for tourism. Prettiest town in all of South Ever After.”

  As they rolled into the edge of town, they passed a very tall building, at least seven stories tall, with flames leaping out its windows. A sign along the double doors read TOWERING INFERNO HOTEL. As May tried to peer through the front doors, a person plummeted past her window, letting out a horrible scream and landing on the road with a thud. Another person followed, and then another.

  “Arista!” May cried. “Help!”

  Arista chuckled, but he didn’t bother to move. “Makes ghosts feel like they’re in an actual fire. Very pleasing. Zzzz, very popular with specters who died in volcanic eruptions.”

  May pressed her face to the window, amazed. The three figures lying on the road sat up slowly, their faces and bodies blackened and burned. They were all wearing togas. They stood and brushed themselves off, then started laughing and patting one another on the back.

  “You see,” Arista went on, “that’s the Pompeii crew. Very friendly for specters. Wish I spoke more Latin.”

  The figures turned around and raced back into the hotel. A few seconds later came another set of screams, and May looked out the back of the carriage to see them lying in the road once again.

  “But. . . why would they want to do that?”

  “Like I said earlier. Specters. Stuck in the past. Spirits don’t change, generally. They don’t get older, they don’t get smarter, or braver. Unlike you, zzz, spirits have no hope of growing inside or out. Specters are no exception. Anyway, it’s a great hotel. Pumpkin loves the pool.”

  “I like the slide,” Pumpkin added, blushing.

  “Zzzz. Quiet now. We’re getting into traffic soon.”

  Just as he said it, a carriage like the one they were in zoomed past, and then another—neither of them pulled by horses. And then they got to the crowds. May held her breath, amazed. This wasn’t like the crowd back at the Spectroplex, where everyone had been human-looking. These ghosts were all shapes and sizes.

  A woman as gooey and soft as caramel, with long drippy eyes and a frown that hung down off her chin, sifted through a bag slung over her hunched, tiny shoulders. A moment later she pulled a length of long metal chain out of the sack and held it next to her ear, giving it a good solid rattle. A large white tag dangled from it on which were scrawled the words I’D RATHER BE IN BELLE MORTE. For a moment her frown lifted above the line of her chin, in an expression that May could only assume was a smile, and she stuffed the chain back into her sack and moved on.

  “Lots of people in town on account of Lost Souls Day,” Arista said. “Most of them traveling here from up north. Lots of money coming in.”

  A bald man with devilish horns walked by carrying a knapsack, and then three clowns whispering to one another. One of them laughed at what another had said, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth. And then a carriage, racing from behind and coming out of nowhere, ran over him. May watched, stunned, as the other two clowns grabbed their knees, laughing. The third one stood up, his head completely flattened now, looking annoyed.

  It was like every character from every nightmare May might have had, thrown together onto one street, shopping.

  They passed a shop with a sign across the front door that said SILK LADIES’ FASHIONS FOR ALL ERAS. In the window stood several mannequins, each hunched over or deformed in some way. One was missing an arm. Another had a hangman’s rope dangling from her hand. One female mannequin wore a look on her face of pure terror while another stood beside her, her arms raised as if to startle the first, a snarl across her features. May shuddered.

  “Why do those ladies look so mean?” she whispered.

  “Oh, the Silkies,” Pumpkin whispered, widening his eyes. “They’re murderesses.”

  May shuddered.

  “There’s a group of them in town who like to have tea at the Public House,” Arista added. “They don’t do anyone much harm, just like to talk and whisper to one another about the people they killed when they were alive. Compare notes, that sort of thing.”

  “You couldn’t pay me to get near one,” Pumpkin said.

  “You couldn’t pay Pumpkin to get near much of anything,” Arista replied, annoyed.

  They pulled to a stop a few minutes later, in front of a large window full of shattered glass. “Okay, my dear, hop in.” Arista indicated the laundry basket—May obeyed, pulling the clothes over her head, but still leaving a few little cracks to breathe and see.

  They climbed out of the cab, Pumpkin and Arista holding either side of the basket. There was the sound of jangling as Arista paid the driver. Then the sound of the door closing. Through the cracks of the basket, May got just a glimpse of the carriage as it drove away In the window, to her amazement, were a bearded man and a beautiful woman, both wearing crowns, playing a game of car
ds.

  “Pumpkin,” Arista said, “do stop looking so petrified, will you? You’ll give us away. And watch where you’re going.”

  “Arista!” someone shouted. May sank farther into the clothes. She could just make out the outline of a figure hurrying up beside them. “Laundry day, huh? I’ve just got a new shipment of bees in from the west. Thought you might want to take a look at them, do you think . . .”

  Staying as still as she possibly could, her heart racing, May held her breath. Through the crack she could see that the man was standing just off to the side of Arista, in front of the large window full of broken glass. Above it a sign read: THE MOLDY PAGE: PURVEYORS OF FINE USED BOOKS SINCE THE WRITTEN LANGUAGE WAS INVENTED.

  The shelves behind the glass were filled with all sorts of books, many so yellowed and decayed that they’d crumbled in half, splitting apart at their seams. A few piles of dust looked like they might have been books in a past life. None of them had anything written on them. But then, as May stared at each one, words began to form themselves in green letters on the covers: Life after the Guillotine: The True Story of My Two Hundred Years in the Western Territories by Marie Antoinette; I’m Dead, You’re Dead by Dr. Franco Smiley; The Real Ghost’s Guide to Runes by Ra.

  In the center of the display, on a special shelf all its own, another stood out: I’ve Got Spirits, How ’Bout You: The Unauthorized Biography of the Ever After’s Most Infamous Spirit, Bo Cleevil.

  As she stared, something else began to form on the cover. May felt the hairs on the back of her neck go up again. Two eyes, red and angry—the same as from the brochure—appeared. They glowed a deep, dark red.

  Another line of words began to write itself on the bottom of the cover, beaneath the eyes. I. . .s. . .e. . .

  “Bring them by tomorrow, then,” Arista was saying. May felt herself being lifted again. She kept her eyes on the book.

  e. . .y. . .o. . .

  She could feel herself being carried toward a doorway, and the bookstore fell out of sight. But not before May had made out what the words spelled, her heart pounding.

  I see you.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Undertaker

  We have an appointment.”

  Though May was still piled under the clothes, she could tell they’d come into a dark hallway A few moments ago she’d heard a door creak open and slam shut. And then she felt the cool air blowing on her sweaty face.

  Now she could just make out the legs of a desk. And then a pair of feet hovering before her.

  “Right this waaaaay. . .”

  May was jostled along, and then they came to another stop.

  “You will be called in shoooooortly.”

  Another creaking door sound, and then the clothes over her head were pulled out of the way, and Pumpkin smiled down at her. “How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “You can come out, my dear,” Arista said.

  May climbed out of the basket and looked around. They were in a pitch-black room. She couldn’t see anything but Pumpkin and Arista sitting next to each other, and a glowing sign that read 2,007,998 SOULS SERVED.

  “Arista,” May whispered, “back at the bookstore—”

  Ding, ding, ding.

  A list unrolled before them in the dark:

  RULES OF THE UNDERTAKER

  • Please extinguish any burning body parts before entering.

  • Please, no cameras. The Undertaker, while extremely good-looking, will not show up in photographs.

  • Under the psychic privacy act, views of your past, present, and future are protected.

  • No talking in the waiting room!

  ANYONE NOT FOLLOWING THESE RULES WILL BE SUBJECT TO POSSIBLE MUTILATION AND A FINE.

  Looking back and forth between Arista, who sat calmly and gravely, and Pumpkin, who no longer seemed afraid but curious—swinging his legs and looking around the room as if they were at a picnic—May said, “But that book—”

  “Silence!” The voice that came out was so loud it made the walls shake. Pumpkin shook with them. He sat on his hands.

  They all stared at one another, May bursting with the news of what she’d seen.

  Just then, ahead of them, the darkness began to open up, one section at a time, like puzzle pieces of light being put together. The pieces formed a childlike shape, with skinny legs and a bob haircut. It was the shape of May, glowing blue before them. The sign above it announcing the number of served souls dinged to 2,007,999.

  May looked from Pumpkin to Arista, who nodded to her, then back to the cutout May in the darkness.

  She walked up to the opening and squeezed through. It was a perfect fit.

  May was in sunlight. All around her were white, fluffy clouds. Her feet appeared to be standing on nothing.

  A red velvet couch sat a few feet away, and on it, a figure in a long black robe, a black hood obscuring its face in an oval of darkness, its hands gently stroking a sharp, gleaming scythe.

  May shrunk back just as the figure sat up and reached for its hood. She took a few more steps backward, but her feet began to sink into the clouds beneath her, and she moved forward again. The hood fell back, revealing a beautiful woman with long glossy black hair, alabaster skin, and ruby red lips. She smiled at May as she splayed her feet out in front of her and filed her nails against her scythe. There were wings on her ankles.

  The woman squinted for a moment. “You’re alive.”

  May nodded.

  “What’s your name?” The woman arched her perfect black eyebrows in a question mark. “May Bird, ma’am.”

  “Born in?”

  “Briery Swamp.”

  “May Bird. May Bird.” The woman put her manicured pointer finger to her chin and tapped it thoughtfully. Her fingernails were decorated with tiny painted earthworms. She laid down her scythe, pulled a tiny black book out of her cloak, and flipped through it. “Ah, yes. Yes, May Ellen Bird. From West Virginia. You’re early”

  May swallowed. “Arista made an appointment—”

  “You shouldn’t be dead for eighty-three more years.”

  “But—”

  “And to show up here alive, at a time when it couldn’t be more dangerous.” The woman shook her head. May shrunk under her disapproval. “What are we going to do with you?”

  She swept off the couch and sashayed across the clouds at their feet, a few snakes unfurling themselves in a trail behind her. “Do you mind if I take a look at your past, present, and future? You have the right to refuse. And the privacy clause keeps me from seeing too many personal details.”

  May nodded, dazed.

  The woman crouched and looked into May’s eyes, squinting thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, the portal. Interesting . . . you seem so timid, but . . . hmmm.”

  May couldn’t stop marveling at how beautiful the woman was, and then at her cloak and her scythe.

  The Undertaker smiled at her obvious curiosity.

  “Are you the Grim Reaper?” May asked boldly, surprising herself.

  “And I already saw that you’re exceptionally curious. Which helps to feed your exceptional imagination. I see that very well.” She pulled back, then shook her head a little. “ ‘Grim Reaper’ is what Live Ones call me sometimes. The Living can be so dramatic. I much prefer ‘Undertaker.’”

  May shrank back. “But Grim Reapers . . . You . . . kill people!”

  “No no no. Most people get that wrong. We Undertakers are actually psychopomps.”

  May looked at her blankly. The Undertaker didn’t look like a psycho, but May suddenly felt too shy to say it.

  “A guide. I just help people out when they’re dead. With things like finding the right house and the right place to haunt, getting a job.” The Undertaker waggled her hands casually. “Actually, there are several of us, all siblings. We’re very powerful, you know. Very unique. All the Undertakers are. And very speedy. We have so many dead coming in that we have to be.” She indicated the wings on her heels. “But
I’m probably the best-looking. Don’t you agree?”

  “Um, yes?”

  The Undertaker nodded, satisfied. “We’re here to help. The Ever After can be a dangerous place, especially nowadays. And especially for you, my dear. Even more than most Live Ones, I’d say.”

  A wave of frustration ran through. May She didn’t think she could take more bad news. She clenched her fists.

  The woman squinted into her eyes again. “There are powerful spirits around you. Who are they?”

  May shrugged, feeling on the spot and nervous. The Undertaker frowned more deeply. And then May remembered.

  “I. . . I got a letter.” May reached into her pocket to pull it out, but the Undertaker held her hand in a stop motion.

  “I see it in your file. Hold on.”

  Then she tossed her head back, letting her long black hair swish out behind her. She looked at May for a long time. Now that May was staring into her eyeballs, she could see motion in them. She gasped. There was May, a horrible black dog lunging at her, and shattering glass, and a boy surrounded in light.

  The Undertaker grew very grave and held out her hand for the letter, then read it a few times. Finally she folded it up solemnly.

  “May, this is very big. It means you are attached to a powerful spirit.”

  “Wh-What kind of spirit?”

  The Undertaker ran a hand along her scythe again, thoughtfully.

  “Nobody knows much about the Far North or the spirits who live there. But it’s the seat of the old ways. All of the old rules come from there. And the Lady of the North Farm is the oldest, and the most powerful, of its spirits. She’s a great mystery. To say that she needs you, well . . . I don’t understand it. It means you are surrounded by power, certainly, but I’m afraid it also means you are surrounded by great danger.”

  “The Lady is dangerous?”

  The Undertaker took May’s hand.

  “I couldn’t say. It’s not that simple, and I really don’t know. But her enemies certainly are. Keep the letter secret. Whatever it means, you don’t have a choice. You have to go.”