Read Online The Night Tourist by Katherine Marsh - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Marsh
Tags: Fiction - Young Adult
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raising her own.
The old ghost squinted at her through his glasses. “A question, okay. What is it?”
“I know that no living person has ever gotten into the underworld but, uh, what would happen to them if they did?”
The old ghost shook his head so that his wisp of white hair waved. “You’ve heard too many stories, young girl. Never happens.”
“Yes, but . . . but what if it did happen?”
The old ghost sighed and pulled a small, well-worn book out of his front pocket. “Live people coming in,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “Okay, let me see. Flight accidents and liability; maximum occupancy of fountains . . . Aha. Here it is.” He stopped flipping and began to read aloud as he traced his finger down the page. “‘Regulation 41.5a. No living person has ever entered into the realm of the dead. But if they did, they would be fed to the flesh-eating three-headed dog that guards the underworld.’”
Jack swallowed so loudly that he was certain everyone heard. But the rest of the ghosts didn’t seem to notice. The old ghost slammed the handbook shut, which released a small cloud of dust. “Any other questions?”
When no one answered he drifted off. The rest of the recently dead began to file out of the rotunda, several attempting short bouts of flight. “So,” Euri said when they’d left, “feel better now?”
Jack glared at her. “You knew about the guards and the dog, what they would do to me. You knew, and you still had me come.”
Euri looked hurt. “I’ve given you an opportunity. You said you wanted to find your mother. There’s still a good chance you can. Come on, Jack. And besides, except for your eyes, you really look like one of us.”
“Thanks,” he said gloomily.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s go see Professor Schmitt. He’ll help you find your mom.”
But as she led him out of the rotunda, Jack swore he heard Cerberus’s paws tapping on the marble floor.
XIII | Professor Schmitt’s Secret
They floated into a catalog room, past a living guard tipped back in his chair asleep, and toward another door. Above it, Jack noticed an inscription: A GOOD BOOKE IS THE PRECIOUS LIFE-BLOOD OF A MASTER SPIRIT, IMBALM’D AND TREASUR’D UP ON PURPOSE TO A LIFE BEYOND LIFE . They passed through a wood-paneled foyer and then turned right into an enormous room. Hundreds of the dead sat at rows of tables quietly reading. Dozens of others hovered just under a ceiling mural of billowing clouds blowing across a blue sky.
“They think they have light deprivation,” Euri said, gesturing toward several who seemed to be sunning themselves.
She pointed to the other end of the reading room. “Professor Schmitt’s usually at the back.”
As they passed over rows of tables, Jack noticed a cadre of ghost librarians sailing up to a balcony filled with bookshelves and then zooming down to drop books into the hands of readers. A short ghost with a handlebar mustache caught one of them, opened it up, and pointed to the first page. “See here!” he cried, handing it to a skinny, big-toothed ghost who reminded Jack of a horse. “The latest copyright date is this year. I’m still in print.”
“So what?” said the horsey-looking ghost. “The important thing is the last time someone took you out. Look, no one’s checked out your book. Someone checked out mine last week. You’re not exactly flying off the shelves, old boy.”
The handlebar mustache grew red in the face. “This generation fails to appreciate me, is all.”
Euri rolled her eyes at the two writers. “Too bad their egos didn’t die with them.”
Jack laughed, but he felt a little sorry for the handlebar mustache.
“Professor Schmitt’s not like the others,” Euri mused aloud. “He reads other people’s books, new writers. Even though he died over a century ago, he’s . . . I don’t know . . . less dead.”
“Why hasn’t he moved on yet?” Jack asked.
Euri shrugged. “Some people move on
The old ghost squinted at her through his glasses. “A question, okay. What is it?”
“I know that no living person has ever gotten into the underworld but, uh, what would happen to them if they did?”
The old ghost shook his head so that his wisp of white hair waved. “You’ve heard too many stories, young girl. Never happens.”
“Yes, but . . . but what if it did happen?”
The old ghost sighed and pulled a small, well-worn book out of his front pocket. “Live people coming in,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “Okay, let me see. Flight accidents and liability; maximum occupancy of fountains . . . Aha. Here it is.” He stopped flipping and began to read aloud as he traced his finger down the page. “‘Regulation 41.5a. No living person has ever entered into the realm of the dead. But if they did, they would be fed to the flesh-eating three-headed dog that guards the underworld.’”
Jack swallowed so loudly that he was certain everyone heard. But the rest of the ghosts didn’t seem to notice. The old ghost slammed the handbook shut, which released a small cloud of dust. “Any other questions?”
When no one answered he drifted off. The rest of the recently dead began to file out of the rotunda, several attempting short bouts of flight. “So,” Euri said when they’d left, “feel better now?”
Jack glared at her. “You knew about the guards and the dog, what they would do to me. You knew, and you still had me come.”
Euri looked hurt. “I’ve given you an opportunity. You said you wanted to find your mother. There’s still a good chance you can. Come on, Jack. And besides, except for your eyes, you really look like one of us.”
“Thanks,” he said gloomily.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s go see Professor Schmitt. He’ll help you find your mom.”
But as she led him out of the rotunda, Jack swore he heard Cerberus’s paws tapping on the marble floor.
XIII | Professor Schmitt’s Secret
They floated into a catalog room, past a living guard tipped back in his chair asleep, and toward another door. Above it, Jack noticed an inscription: A GOOD BOOKE IS THE PRECIOUS LIFE-BLOOD OF A MASTER SPIRIT, IMBALM’D AND TREASUR’D UP ON PURPOSE TO A LIFE BEYOND LIFE . They passed through a wood-paneled foyer and then turned right into an enormous room. Hundreds of the dead sat at rows of tables quietly reading. Dozens of others hovered just under a ceiling mural of billowing clouds blowing across a blue sky.
“They think they have light deprivation,” Euri said, gesturing toward several who seemed to be sunning themselves.
She pointed to the other end of the reading room. “Professor Schmitt’s usually at the back.”
As they passed over rows of tables, Jack noticed a cadre of ghost librarians sailing up to a balcony filled with bookshelves and then zooming down to drop books into the hands of readers. A short ghost with a handlebar mustache caught one of them, opened it up, and pointed to the first page. “See here!” he cried, handing it to a skinny, big-toothed ghost who reminded Jack of a horse. “The latest copyright date is this year. I’m still in print.”
“So what?” said the horsey-looking ghost. “The important thing is the last time someone took you out. Look, no one’s checked out your book. Someone checked out mine last week. You’re not exactly flying off the shelves, old boy.”
The handlebar mustache grew red in the face. “This generation fails to appreciate me, is all.”
Euri rolled her eyes at the two writers. “Too bad their egos didn’t die with them.”
Jack laughed, but he felt a little sorry for the handlebar mustache.
“Professor Schmitt’s not like the others,” Euri mused aloud. “He reads other people’s books, new writers. Even though he died over a century ago, he’s . . . I don’t know . . . less dead.”
“Why hasn’t he moved on yet?” Jack asked.
Euri shrugged. “Some people move on
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