I flipped through the pages, skimming the notes from past agents. There were interviews that went nowhere, theories that aged badly, and even a few transcripts from when a medium had been brought in. She'd claimed the ghost was bound to something inside the walls.
Yeah, probably its skeleton, entombed behind all this gaudy wallpaper. A shiver wracked my spine as I imagined a similar fate for eternity. Maybe if I ended up behind the walls, Grant would feel guilty for ignoring me.
Though probably not, judging by his bored look when I’d slapped the case file onto his desk.
That was the first time since our accidental beach nuptials that I truly lost it. I wished I’d seen his face when he opened my card. It was a petty move, but I’d been in the aisle picking out a box of Christmas cards when I saw the wedding section. This wave of sadness just sank my heart, and when it receded, it left behind this gritty feeling as if I’d been cheated out of something special.
And nothing saysyou sucklike a passive-aggressive greeting card.
I stared into the flames, those same restless waves coming again. Unless by some stroke of luck, I saved a malicious spirit in record time, I’d be spending this holiday season alone. The ache of that thought settled deep in my bones, dimming even my recently recharged magic.
Sage had Leo and their ski lodge; the perfect happily-ever-after, thanks in part to me. My aunt was touring the Alps with boyfriend number infinity. She went through partners like a fruit-of-the-month club. But at least she had someone.
Honestly, I’d beenthisclose to asking Tom from Logistics to be my ghost-hunting sidekick. Even Nancy, who’d taken way too much pleasure in our tug-of-war downfall last year, had made the tag-along list. She could’ve taught me how to make her signature spiced Linzer cookies with homemade raspberry jam in the inn’s kitchen during the quiet hours.
The truth was, I was lonely. Moving had been harder than I'd expected, and even months later, I was still finding my footing.
And then there was Grant.
He hadn’t made my list. Okay, I may have doodled his name once while I was stuffing my suitcase with bundles of ghost-repelling incense. But he’d surprised me. He was actually running Snowbelt well. The division was thriving, and so was our new team. Agents listened to him, even if they cringed at his new “boss” persona. It was as if the charismatic prince had turned into a grouchy polar bear.
However, I refused to dwell onwhythat bothered me. I could almost hear his infuriating voice now:See, Spells? Some of us can multitask without glitterexplosions.
In my imagination, he still called me Spells. I used to hate that nickname. Now, I missed it. More than that, I missed that spark between us. Without it, I didn’t feel entirely like myself.
I groaned loudly enough to wake the dead. Or so I thought. Still no ghost. But my tea was cold, and deepening shadows were settling over the property. I wanted to be snug as an elf in fuzzy slippers, inside my room, before night fell.
The fire crackled lower, the embers slowly dying as I pushed out of my chair and stifled a yawn. Tomorrow, I’d start my investigation. I needed to interview the housekeeper, check the banquet hall for cold spots, and try to figure out who this ghost was so I could pinpoint its final wishes. There was a lot to do in two and a half weeks, and I had to do it all while dodging an active haunting.
My boots squeaked faintly over the runner in the hallway, and from deep in the house, an old clock chimed. The gongs reverberated with sinister undertones, making me pick up my steps as I careened into my room and shoved the door closed.
The air inside was colder than the hallway, and if binge-watching paranormal investigation shows had taught me anything, it was that the Presence was lurking close by. I struck a match to burn a stick of incense, hoping it would ward off the spirit long enough to get a few hours’ sleep, then I changed into my coziest pajamas.
“Let’s make a deal,” I said, holding up the candelabra like a heroine in a gothic novel. “I’m going to watch some holiday reruns with my headphones on, and you—” I gestured vaguely toward the air, “—are going to keep your spectral shenanigans to a minimum. No bumps. No rearranging furniture. If you behave, I’ll leave out a plate of Christmas cookies.”
Apparently, I assumed ghosts operated on the same wavelength as Santa. A chilly draft swept through the room, snuffing out one of the candles.
“F-Fine,” I stammered, trying not to dive under the covers. “I’ll throw in a bottle of mulled wine, too.”
The air warmed until I was downright toasty. I let out a shaky breath. It seemed we’d reached a tentative agreement.
I really should've brought more wine.
Relighting the wick, I climbed into bed, queuing up one of my comfort shows. The jingle-bell theme song filled my headphones, muting the creaks of the old house settling around me. My eyelids drooped. I had myself convinced I’d get a solid eight hours, until I heard thethud.
The headphones hadn’t canceled that noise.
Or the next one.
I lowered the headphones around my neck and listened. Heavy footsteps. Unmistakable. They paced back and forth in the next room. Just a thin wall separated me from my nightmares.
Another thud. A long creak. Then a muffled, deep voice.
“We had a deal,” I whispered, wiping my clammy hands on the quilt. “No wine for you.”
Moving so slowly, I barely made a sound, I pressed my ear to the wall. My chest was a vise, the air wheezing in and out in short, shallow gasps.
What was I doing here?
