Chapter Eleven

"Greetings, pilgrim," said a plummy voice, backed by ethereal music that sounded like whale song accompanied by a theremin. "If you're calling about crystals or candles, please visit the online store. If you're looking for wind chimes, I'm sorry, but I no longer carry them. For custom mantras or chakra evaluation, press 1. To schedule a video session without exorcism, press 2. For a video session with exorcism, press 3. For all other inquiries, press 4, but if you tried raising a demon, on your own head be it. You were warned."

I pressed 4, half expecting to get another automated menu. Instead, a cheese-grater voice said, "Whatcha got?"

"Hi. Um… Sorry? Is this Marguerite Windflower?"

"The same. But Hootie says you don't need the woo-woo bullshit, so might as well get real right out of the gate. You can call me Peg."

"Okay. Yes. Well…" I took another breath. Admitting to a stranger that I'd seen a ghost was harder than I expected. "My name's Maz. Do you know anything about ghosts?"

She chuckled. "You could say that. One's been my constant companion for more years that I want to count."

"Oh thank goodness," I breathed.

"Honey, you wouldn't say that if you knew Hootie. Sucker cheats at cards. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I inherited a house out in Ghost—"

"Oregon?"

"Yes. You know it?"

"Sure. That place is haunted as shit."

I frowned, which probably came through in my tone. "But the people who live here say there's never been a manifestation."

"That's because that bonehead, Thaddeus Richdale, pissed off every spirit within a hundred-mile radius. Ghosts can carry a grudge for a long-ass time, seeing as they're not bound by details like mortality. You saying there's finally been a sighting? Where? At the Manor? That's the last place I'd expect something to happen, not with that lousy seance room smack in the middle of it, disrupting the etheric resonance."

"No. Not there. At… at my house. It's across the road from the estate."

"Hmmm." I heard the sound of a match striking. "Sounds like someone's thumbing their nose at old Richdale, doesn't it? On his very doorstep yet not crossing the threshold. The ghostly equivalent of egging his house."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure it has anything to do with Richdale."

"Sweetheart, in Ghost, everything comes back to Richdale, one way or another. But never mind him. What happened?"

I told her about the library and about the typewriter message. She whistled.

"Both gross and fine psychokinetic force plus unambiguous direct writing? Holy shit, kid, you've hit the trifecta."

"I don't know about the unambiguous part," I grumbled. "So, um, what does it mean when you actually see a ghost? I mean a transparent entity."

"Physical manifestation?" Her words were muffled, probably because she was speaking around a cigarette clenched in her teeth, but her excitement was evident. "Amorphous mist or discernable orbs?"

"Neither."

"Flashing lights? Unexplained shadows?"

"Nope. He looked like any guy at a coffee shop or the grocery. Except I could see through him."

She sucked in a breath and started coughing, so it was a while before she wheezed, "You mean a full body apparition?"

"I guess? If that means there was a transparent guy in my kitchen, making rude comments about a manuscript. Not that I could blame him. The manuscript sucked."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. He spoke to you?"

"Yeah. Why? Is that unusual? Doesn't your ghost, uh, speak?"

"Speak, yes, although only to me and not with actual words. He can manipulate objects too, but he's never been visible, not even to me. Has anybody else seen this ghost?"

"My cat seems to be able to detect him. But a friend came over while the ghost was, um, commenting on the document, and he didn't spot anything unusual. Why can I see him but he couldn't?"

"Hard to tell. Could be several reasons. Maybe he considers you a kindred spirit. Maybe he thinks you can do something for him. Maybe you're simply in a place he considers his."

"Well, he did say it was his house."

"That might do it. Territoriality. Confluence of ownership."

"But why do ghosts show up in the first place?"

"Again, several reasons. Although in my experience, they're all motivated by some major life event. Something that they need or want to do. Something that left a big enough impact on their soul that they couldn't quite sever themselves from life."

"Unfinished business?" I said dryly.

"Hey, don't knock it. It's right up there in the top ten. But from what I've learned—Hootie being a case in point—they can pick up new reasons to remain on this plane. Just because they check one thing off their cosmic to-do list, doesn't mean they can't replace it with something else. In Hootie's case, it's a poker addiction and a terrible busybody tendency. He's too nosy to move on."

"Can you, well, encourage one to move on? And where do they move on to ?"

"Yes to the first, although there are consequences you might not like, and as for the second? Nobody knows. As far as I've heard, once they move on, they never come back to tell us what's out there waiting."

"Say I did want to encourage this guy to move on. How would I go about it?"

"Well, since he can communicate with you— Is he there now, by the way?"

"No. He vanished a while back, when my friend was here."

"Once he comes back, ask him."

"Ask him what?"

"Who he is. What he wants. What would make him happy."

"Make him happy? How the heck do you make a ghost happy?"

" I don't know," she said, exasperation clear in her tone. "That's why you ask . Don't complain, pal. You've got a huge advantage. Most people who are haunted just have to guess."

I sighed. "Okay. Is there, um, any danger? I mean, he was able to throw books around. Could he hurt me? Hurt my cat?"

She hummed tunelessly, obviously thinking. "Can't rule it out. Most injuries are more collateral damage—like if you'd been standing in the way of one of the books. But your guy is already high on the haunting scale, so ordinary rules may not apply. Might be a good idea to keep a go-bag ready. Just in case."

"Thanks. That's so comforting."

"Hey. I don't make this shit up. Ghost still has that occult shop on Main Street, right?"

"Sort of, although it's merged with a needlework store."

"Then give me your email and I'll send you some info on protective herbs and crystals."

"Okay." I gave it to her. "And thanks. Really. What do I owe you for the consult?"

"Don't worry about it. This one's on the house. Good luck, kid. Keep in touch. I want to hear how things turn out."

I disconnected the call and sighed. "Just ask him," I muttered to Gil. "Like that's so easy. I don't know when he'll show up again."

However, I decided to take Marguerite's— Peg's —advice and prepare for a quick bug-out. It wasn't like I'd actually be able to sleep tonight, not when I was wondering when that transparent guy might pop in and peer at me from the ceiling like River Tam in Serenity .

So I prioritized my most precious possessions: to wit, Gil and my laptop. I loaded Gil into his carrier with a few treats. He complained a bit, but settled down to snooze after gobbling the treats. I tucked my laptop into my messenger bag and slung it over my shoulder. Then I sat down at the table, my car keys clutched in my hand, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited .

After about half an hour, the keys had made painful ridges in my palms and my shoulder itched under the bag's strap. Clearly I needed a better strategy.

I uncurled my cramped fingers and set the keys on the table to shake out my hand. Transparent guy had shown up when I'd been reviewing that awful memoir. Maybe he'd show up again for the same reason. It hadn't appeared that he could scroll the screen before, so maybe his ability to interact with the environment, so to speak, was limited to things that didn't require the touch of actual skin.

I set the laptop up again and opened the document. I waited for another ten minutes, and when still nothing happened, I decided to escalate. I scrolled down to the beginning of the second chapter and cleared my throat.

"‘On my second day of first grade, my Superman lunchbox held an apple, a bologna sandwich on Wonder Bread with mayonnaise, two Chips Ahoy! cookies, and a box of Capri Sun cranberry apple juice. I sat next to Sherman Dudikoff on the bus. He was wearing a red T-shirt to my green plaid button-down although both had short sleeves since the weather report predicted the temperature would rise above seventy-two degrees by recess. When we reached the school, he—'"

"Drivel."

I took a breath, turned slowly, and yep. He was back, once more glaring at the screen.

I swallowed hard, because this was it. Talking to a ghost . "Yes. It is."

He tore his gaze from the train wreck of a memoir and focused on me, which was really weird, because while I could tell his eyes behind his spectacles were dark and intense, I could see the kitchen cabinets through them. "Then why are you reading it?"

"I'm trying to decide whether to take the job of vetting it."

He straightened. "Don't. It's hopeless."

"I've come to the same conclusion, however, I need the work." I stood up slowly, so he wouldn't be looming over me, and discovered we were exactly the same height. "I'm Maz Amani."

"I don't know any Maz Amani."

"You do now." I swallowed, rubbing my damp palms along my jeans. "Who are you?"

His forehead wrinkled, as though he were confused by the question. "I live here." He glanced around. "This is my home."

I felt like a total bonehead when the light dawned. "You're Avi."

His frown deepened. "That's what I said." He looked around. "My home. Our home. It's just what we'd imagined. Just what he promised. Our place. Where we'd be together."

"Who promised?"

His confusion was clearly tempered with impatience now. "He did. Oren. Once he's finished in Toronto, he'll be back and we'll be together."

Of course. Oren. But Oren had never come back, because Avi had died.

"Oren is gone, Avi," I said gently.

"Yes, I know that." He turned and moved out of the kitchen with the slight jerkiness of somebody walking, not floating, although I wasn't certain his feet actually met the floor. "He's been gone for months on that Toronto job. But I made sure our home is ready and waiting for when he gets back." I caught up with him outside the library and he smiled a little shyly. "I haven't even slept in the new bed yet. I wanted the first time to be with him."

"That's not what I—" Dial it back, Maz. Don't, er, spook him . "Avi, what year is it?"

"That's a stupid question."

"Well, I'm the guy who's considering vetting that manuscript, so humor me. What year is it?"

"2014."

"No. It's not. It's 2024. And I'm here because this is my house now. I inherited it from my Uncle Oren."

He stilled. "You can't. You couldn't have. You can only inherit something if somebody is… If they're…"

His eyes, wide, dark, and yep, transparent, begged me to tell him something other than what I was about to. I bit my lip and spread my hands, palms up, because he didn't really need me to say the words. He knew what I meant.

Silvery tears spilled over his lashes and tracked down his face. Behind him, through the library doors, I spotted Professor DeHaven's neat stack of Borderline pages beginning to flutter on the desk.

"Uh oh," I muttered.

A moment later, a book toppled off a shelf, followed by two more on the other side of the room. I really didn't want this to escalate into another library tornado, so I lunged forward, reaching for him. But he choked out a sob and disappeared.

After he vanished, I stayed where I was outside the library doors, well out of the way of any books that might suddenly take flight. But the papers on the desk settled, and nothing else became airborne.

What were the chances Avi was done for the night? He hadn't seemed angry or hostile to me specifically. Only sad. So I decided to roll with it and take a chance. I needed to be sharp tomorrow if I wanted to impress Saul and justify Taryn's contract terms, and for that, I needed sleep.

I collected Gil in his carrier and headed upstairs. "Hope our resident ghost isn't a voyeur, Gil, because I really can't go another day without a proper shower."