Assuming he’s telling the truth.
I hold a hand out in front of me, my fingertips tingling. “Are you there? I think I can feel something.” I gesture toward the warm patch of air.
“I am.” His voice trembles with emotion, tinged with wonder. “I’m right here.”
The tip of my finger buzzes like I’m pressing into hot jelly, never meeting anything solid. The strange sensation spooks me, and I jerk my hand back. “What do you want?”
I can’t get distracted. This might be a trick, a way to lure me outside the house.
“You woke me up when you smashed my lantern last night. I saw the monster that attacked you. Are you alright?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I bite my upper lip, dangerously close to bursting into a nervous fit of laughter. The ghost wants to know if I’m alright. I pick up the lantern in the middle of the table and turn it over, examining it from all angles. A ghost living in a lamp…
Energy shifts from the lantern, tickling my fingertips, and heat engulfs me in a blast of hot air. The bronze piece rings a bell now that I’m handling it. I recall seeing it among Devi’s antiques, tucked in the back corner of her tea parlor, and my brows raise.
“Are you a genie in a bottle? Should I make a wish?” I joke.
“Maybe. What would you wish for?” he asks.
The warm undertone of the question riles my anxiety up to a hundred, because I’m tempted to answer.
The truth simmers on my tongue. Most days, I wish I’d never been a witch at all. I wish my mother hadn’t been killed by the Reds, that she hadn’t been a witch herself. It sounds harsh, ungrateful even, so I’ve never spoken the words aloud. But if it weren’t for Mabel and Devi, I’d leave this life for good. And after what happened to Aunt Kerri, I’m even more convinced of that today than I was yesterday.
I’d wish to be someone different, someone who didn’t have to hide, to lie, to scheme. Someone worthy of love.
“Erm, let’s see. I’d wish for last night not to have happened, for everyone I love to be safe and alive, and for the monsters beyond the glass to stay the fuck home forever,” I blurt out instead.
“I’m sorry. I can’t grant wishes, but if I were a genie in a lantern, I’d gladly serve you.”
The ghost’s sheepish tone is almost charming. I’m either being cajoled into a trap, or the invisible spirit Mabel has been keeping secret is flirting with me.
I catch a smile before it surfaces and cross my arms over my chest. “Then why did you ask?”
“I was curious.”
I move to the kitchen to boil a simple antibacterial healing poultice, chatting with my new friend as I gather what I need from the cupboards. A block of beeswax, a jar of powdered clay, and the kettle go on the counter. The softened wax and clay will form the base of the ointment.
“Since we’re asking blunt, personal questions, when did you die?”
Silence.
“Is that a painful subject? For a ghost? I’m rambling here. You’re the first dead person I’ve ever met.”
“Not painful, no. In fact, I have absolutely no clue how I died. I can’t remember.”
My brows raise. “Didn’t you ask Mabel?”
“Of course, but she always refused to speak about it.”
Typical Mabs.
“Maybe it’s a trait all ghosts share—maybe forgetting one’s death is better for the soul,” I muse.
“If only it were just that.”
“Mm?”
“I don’t even know my own name.”
