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Mrs. Third Floor lived on the third floor. She wore sturdy leather shoes. She smelled like furniture polish, arthritis cream, and peppermint. She had a scary folding wheely cart that she sometimes took outside. She always spoke to Mrs. Food and patted Butterbean on the head when she saw her. That was pretty much everything there was to know, as far as Butterbean was concerned. But Mrs. Third Floor wasn’t a door pounder. And Butterbean had never ever heard her make squeaky noises like that before. She never would’ve guessed it was possible. Something was very wrong.

Mrs. Food looked as shocked as Butterbean felt.“What is it? What’s happened?” Mrs. Food gasped. (Mrs. Third Floor was squeezing her a little too tightly.)

“It’s—” Mrs. Third Floor said in a strangled voice. The entire room waited while she choked back a sob. “It’s…” she said again. “I’ve had a shock,” she finished apologetically.

Mrs. Food nodded.“Here. Sit.” She led Mrs. Third Floor toward the sofa and helped her sit down, brushing bits of lamb fluff off the seat.

Butterbean watched with satisfaction. She’d done a very good job distributing the fluff.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. Food picked up the remote. “I’m sorry about this noise. I don’t know how it got turned up so loud.”

“No, keep it on—oh darn, we missed that segment on appliances,” Mrs. Third Floor sniffled.

Oscar snapped his beak in irritation. He was going to go bald now, he just knew it.

“Mildred.” Mrs. Food looked serious. “I don’t want to talk about appliances.”

“And I don’t think I like that anchorwoman’s dress. It’s not a flattering color.” Mrs. Third Floor kept her eyes locked on the Television.

“Mildred…”

“Oh and look! Breaking news!” Mrs. Third Floor turned to Mrs. Food with a tight smile on her face. “It’s about that octopus at the zoo. Oh no, Mr. Wiggles is missing. That’s terrible!”

Mrs. Food turned the Television off. Mrs. Third Floor sagged.

Oscar fluffed his feathers grouchily. First the bald thing, and now this. He was a big fan of Mr. Wiggles. He liked to keep up with all the Wiggles-related news. He just hoped Mrs. Third Floor had a good excuse for the way she was acting.

Mrs. Food patted Mrs. Third Floor on the shoulder.“Mildred, tell me. It’s okay. Whatever it is.”

Mrs. Third Floor twisted her hands in her lap.“You’ll think I’m being silly.”

“I won’t think you’re being silly,” Mrs. Food promised.

“Okay.” Mrs. Third Floor took a deep breath. “It’s that apartment. It’s haunted.” She burst out in a new round of sobs.

Walt shrugged.“I think she’s being silly.”

“Huh.” Butterbean sat back on her haunches. That hadn’t been what she’d expected. “Haunted?”

“I was going to guess a natural disaster,” Oscar said. “Although they probably would’ve covered that on the News. IF WE’D SEEN IT.”

“It’s just your basic nervous breakdown,” Walt said, getting up and stretching. “Nothing to see here.”

Mrs. Food had a strange expression on her face. It didn’t look like a haunted apartment was what she’d expected either. “Haunted? You meanhaunted haunted? As in, um… ghosts?”

“WAIT, WHAT?” Butterbean yelped. “GHOSTS?”

“She’s losing it, Bean,” Walt sighed. “There aren’t ghosts.”

“Yes, GHOSTS,” Mrs. Third Floor wailed. “There are GHOSTS in my beautiful rental unit. What am I going to do?”

Mrs. Food scanned the room, like she was going to find the answer lying around somewhere. Like in a book calledGhosts: How to Handle Them orWhat to Do If Your Friend Flips Out.“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” she said finally.

“THERE IS NO REASONABLE EXPLANATION,” Mrs. Third Floor screeched. Her voice was starting to hurt Butterbean’s ears, it was that shrill.

“Okay, so explain,” Mrs. Food said. “How do you know you have ghosts?”

Mrs. Third Floor took a deep breath.“You know I’ve been getting that furnished apartment on five ready for renters? Well, for the past few days, there have been SIGNS. OF SUPERNATURAL ACTIVITY.” She sat back against the cushions, crossing her arms as if there was no need for further discussion.

Mrs. Food frowned.“Signs?”

“PARANORMAL SIGNS,” Mrs. Third Floor snapped. Her jaw was set.

Walt snorted.“Please. As if.”

Mrs. Food nodded slowly.“Right. Supernatural activity. Paranormal signs. Of course. Let me get you some tea.” She stood up abruptly and hurried over to the kitchen.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, five? Did she say the apartment on five?”

Butterbean knew this one.“She did. She said there are GHOSTS. ON FIVE.”

Walt shot Oscar a look.“Oh no,” she groaned.

“Yep.” Oscar sighed.

“What?” Butterbean looked from Walt to Oscar in confusion. She hated it when they had secrets.

“Oh, I know!” Marco piped up from the rat aquarium. “Isn’t that where Wallace lives now?”

Walt made a face.“Exactly.”

“WHAT?” Butterbean gasped. “WALLACE IS A GHOST?”

“No, Bean. Wallace isn’t a ghost. But it’s got to be him. Whatever he’s been doing is freaking Mrs. Third Floor out. That’s the obvious explanation,” Oscar said, shaking his head sadly.