Chapter 3

"You could see me the whole time?"

Shamus nodded, yanking off his knit cap and giving his thick thatch of silvery-gray hair a shake. "Yep. I just had to make you visible to everyone else."

Ralph bristled, brushing the sand from her long hair, feeling out of sorts. "And you had to douse me with sand to prove it?"

He chuckled, ignoring her angry tone. "It's not sand. It's fairy dust, and it helps me reveal ghosts to people who can't see or hear them."

If looks could kill, hers would definitely kill him. "Fairy dust? Really? That can't be real. Who has fairy dust just sitting around in their pocket? This is all absurd."

Can't it be real, Ralph? Is it absurd? You're a ghost in a vampire's castle. Why is fairy dust where you draw the crazy line?

"Said the fucking ghost," Nina ever so eloquently confirmed her thoughts.

Shamus held up a bag of colorful dust with a devilishly handsome grin. "Elves have fairy dust just sitting around in their pockets. Elves who can see ghosts, anyway."

Defeated, she let her shoulders sag. "So I really am a ghost?" Ralph said, her voice small even to her own ears.

Shamus nodded, his lean face showing a fleeting glimpse of sympathy before he straightened. "It looks that way." His deep, aged-whiskey voice rumbled, stirring a shivering response from her body.

Instantly, fear took over. He was a ghost hunter. Nowhere in his title was there the mention of the word help. She backed away from him, but he held up a hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

"I won't hurt you. I'm here to help you figure out what's happening to you. It's my job. I do it all the time."

Even in her fear, she couldn't help but notice how incredibly good-looking Shamus was, and that was kind of the last thing she should be thinking about when she couldn't even keep her feet on the dagnab floor.

Floating to the grand stone fireplace to move away from Shamus's charismatic pull, Ralph shook her head in confusion. "Okay, so why am I here? In this castle? With these people? Why didn't I go…"

He pointed at the massive round ceiling. "Up?"

"Up," she confirmed. God, how depressing. Where had she gone so wrong?

Wanda was the first to approach her, tentatively anyway, her tone gentle. "Before we get into the mechanics of where you are, how about we start from the beginning? For instance, what's your name? Where do you…did you live?"

Inhaling, more due to habit than actually being able to perform the act, she answered, "My name is Raphaela Tucci. Er, Ralph. Everyone calls me Ralph. I'm fifty, and I live…lived in Brooklyn."

"You're fifty?" Marty cooed. "Wow. Fifty really is the new thirty. You look amazing, and I love your whole vibe. That boho chic with all the bracelets and the peasant blouse and skirt." She gave a chef's kiss. "Perfection on you."

"I agree with Marty," Wanda said with approval. "Fifty on you does look like the new thirty. You don't even have any gray hair in that luscious mane."

Was fifty the new thirty or was fifty just dead?

"Any idea how you ended up kicking the bucket?" Nina asked, one finely shaped eyebrow rising in question.

Marty nudged her in the ribs. "Nina! She just found out she's passed. Don't be so damn rude."

The vampire flicked her fingers in Marty's face. "She didn't just find out, Ass-Sniffer. She's been ghouling around here for at least a week, watching us and trashing a perfectly good fucking cupcake."

"I didn't mean to do that," Ralph immediately apologized. "I have a horrible sweet tooth, and it looked so beautiful and delicious… I reacted before I thought."

Wanda smiled at her, tucking her hair back to smooth it. "It's fine, Ralph. No harm, no foul."

"So you can eat?" Shamus asked with a cock of his head.

Ralph bit her lip, looking down at her short nails. The first thing she noticed about them was they needed a trim, but they also had something under them—which was odd. She was meticulous about keeping her nails clean ever since she'd watched some show on Discovery about the disgusting germs that lurk under them.

Frowning, she replied, "No. I can't eat. At least, I don't think I can, and I haven't been hungry at all. Which should tell you how fabulous those cupcakes were. Why? Does that matter?"

"Only helps to identify the type of ghost you are."

"Type of ghost? Dead is dead, isn't it?"

Shamus smiled at her. "It is, but how you live your death is contingent upon how you lived your life. Or your eternity."

Ralph twisted a piece of hair around her finger. A nervous habit, but one she was glad she'd been able to retain as a ghost. "Well, I don't know what the heckity-heck I did in life to deserve this. I'm stuck in a castle I can't seem to leave, watching people live their lives, while I float around in the same clothes and the underwear I've been wearing for at least a week."

Marty winced.

Ralph cringed. "Sorry. Too personal?"

Wanda reached out to her, the soothing hand she offered falling right through Ralph's. "It's just shock. It removes your filter."

"Is that what happened to Nina?" she blurted out—instantly regretting her words.

Nina narrowed her eyes and leaned toward her. "Careful there, Casper, or I'll get the gamma ray gun and zap your floaty, boho-vibing ass."

Wanda swatted at Nina. "Leave her be. She's not lying. You really don't have a filter, Vampire. If she's been ghouling around for a week, she knows that as fact. And to answer your question, Ralph, she's never had a filter. But we've dealt with these kinds of circumstances plenty. It happens with everyone. The shock of what's happened to you always brings out the worst in everyone."

"You say that like you've done this before…" Ralph murmured.

Wanda paused for a moment and peered at her, her lashes sweeping her cheek. "We have, and we'll get to that. For now, it's interesting that you should say it's been a week. How do you know for sure you've been here a week?"

Ralph gulped. "The last day I remember was a week ago. I saw it on Nina's calendar. I was in my store, unpacking some inventory and then everything went black. I woke up here."

"Your store? What kind of store do you own?" Marty asked with interest.

"A bookstore. New and used books. Some vintage. I just…" Ralph squared her shoulders. "I only opened it a couple of weeks ago, before…"

Before this. After all that hard work. After all the years of planning, scraping, saving, endless meals of canned ravioli and baloney sandwiches so she could purchase inventory, do renovations, live until the store showed a profit. And she'd ended up dead. Sorrow filled her heart.

Marty clapped her hands in clear glee, but then she appeared to remember the situation, and she gave Ralph a small smile. "I'm sorry, Ralph, but at least you remember that much. Am I right in saying some people are too traumatized to remember things that happened before their death, Shamus?"

Death. She hated that word.

He clicked his teeth. "You're absolutely correct. So we can check off little to no trauma. Except…"

Her ears perked up. "Except?"

"Except, do you remember how you died, Ralph?"

She scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. "I don't remember anything after going to the store. It was nighttime, and I was looking forward to kicking off my shoes, having some dinner and watching some Netflix with my cat, Blanche— Blanche! My cat! She's all alone. We have to help her!"

But Shamus held up his hands. "All in good time. First, let's get you categorized so I know what I'm dealing with and, most importantly, how to help you get to where you need to be."

Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to block out all the colors of Nina's great room. They were giving her a headache.

Which, by the by, shouldn't she at least be pain free for all her trouble? How could she have a headache if she was dead? Trying to focus, she wondered what he meant. "Categorized? There are ghost categories?"

"The type of ghost you are has a category, and when I know your category, I can better help you," he informed her, his tone all business. "There are lots of different types of ghosts. The traumatized, the bitter and looking for revenge, the lost, the floaters, the undecided, the stage-five clingers, and…you."

"Stage-five clinger?" Ralph quite suddenly felt dizzy.

"The ghosts clinging to this plane."

Maybe that's what she was doing? Clinging to this plane? But if she was clinging, why was she clinging to this particular spot on this plane?

Wanda clearly saw her confusion. "Why don't we all sit down and discuss this. We're here to help. Er, can you sit down, Ralph?" she asked.

Ralph blinked. "I can. I mean, I have. I sat in one of the zillion guest beds here in Castle Dracula just the other night."

"Aren't you a fucking gas?" Nina snarked with a scowl to her pretty face.

She needed to shut up right now. There was nothing like insulting the people trying to help you, but words seemed to fly from her lips before she could stop them.

Finding a place on the matching red velvet love seat, Ralph sat, apologizing to Nina. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not so forward. I don't know what's happening, but my brain no longer feels like it's in charge of my mouth." Then she looked to Wanda. "Anyway, I definitely want to discuss…my situation."

Wanda smiled and gave her a thumbs up. "Good. First, I feel like you know an awful lot about us because you've been here for a week?—"

"Lurking like some fucking psycho invisible stalker," Nina interjected.

Marty put a finger on Nina's lips and pressed. "Quiet."

"Let us explain what we do as a group so maybe you'll feel more comfortable with us helping you," Wanda continued.

"Why…why would you help me? You don't even know me. I mean, I can't pick anything up, so I doubt a trip to the ATM is in my near future. I can't pay you."

"Much like Shamus, we help people in paranormal pickles and we don't charge any money. We offer our services to people who've been accidentally turned into one species of the supernatural or the other."

She'd heard them talking one night about something called OOPS, and a mermaid named Esther who they'd helped. Maybe that had to do with whatever Wanda was talking about.

Ralph frowned, twisting her fingers together, repositioning the rings on them. "Accidents? Obviously, this was an accident. Aren't most deaths at my age an accident unless there's something medical? I'm healthy as a horse. I just had a physical four months ago."

Wanda leaned toward her with a gentle smile. "Let me explain."

And she did—explain.

Wow, did she ever.

When Wanda was done, Ralph remained quiet while she digested all her talk of accidental bitings, blood spills and other assorted tragedies.

"It's a lot. We know how you feel," Marty said, her voice dripping with sympathy.

"But even if my death was an accident, no one turned me into a ghost by mistake the way you were turned into a werewolf, Marty. Did they?"

"Let's just call you accident adjacent for now," Wanda said with a cheerful smile. "We can still help. Isn't that all that matters?"

Nina scoffed, dropping her long limbs into a freestanding chair and crossing her ankles. "We don't know what the fuck happened to you, but we do know how to help you adjust to being a paranormal. If that's what you are. Maybe you're always gonna be floating around, spying on people. Who knows? And then the ghostbuster here can help find out what fucking breed of ghost you are, where the fuck you're supposed to be, and you can go on your merry way."

A breed of ghost. Like she was some kind of animal.

Gulp.

Shamus stirred, holding up his phone. "This won't help figure out the kind of ghost you are, but it does explain what happened to you, Raphaela."

Ooo, when he said her name, it sent shivers along her spine.

Not the time, Ralph. You're dead. He's not. One can't even classify that under long-distance romance. Knock it off and focus.

"Ralph?" Shamus repeated.

The thought of finding out what happened to her suddenly became very real. Did she want to know?

As though he read her mind, Shamus asked, "Do you want to know?"

She closed her eyes and fought her tendency for flight rather than fight. "If it helps to get me wherever I'm supposed to be, I don't have a choice. So, yes. I want to know."

Sort of…

Shamus's lips thinned as he blew out a breath. "This online article says you were found in your store yesterday in Brooklyn with a bullet wound to the chest. No suspects as of yet and no witness to the crime. However, the two men who own the sandwich shop next door, Break Bread, said there was an awful smell coming from your store and when they couldn't find you, they alerted the police."

Someone had murdered her?

Yet somehow, what truly horrified her was the fact that her body was just left to rot.

She'd stunk up the joint.

How embarrassing.