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“I still wouldn’t go around begging people to slap me,” he remarked. “Though I must say, watching Celeste smack you across the face was quite entertaining. Cordelia would have enjoyed it immensely.”

“Damn Cordelia and her sense of humor!” the ghost growled. “She was always meddling in things that were none of her concern! And damn you too, you overgrown furball!”

“See what I mean?” Bartleby asked me, sounding completely unconcerned by the ghost's bad temper. “He's been like this for years. It's a wonder Cordelia kept coming back to try and help him.”

Oh boy—this dream was getting weirder and weirder. First I had gone into the house and seen the ghost drifting around, making noises to scare me off and now he was admitting he was touch-starved. How did my subconscious come up with these weird details? I must have a better imagination than I thought—probably from reading all that paranormal and monster romance. Though most of the heroes in the books I liked weren't quite this bad-tempered. Or if they were, they generally had a good reason for it. I supposed being trapped in a haunted house for a hundred years was a pretty good reason, now that I thought about it.

“I could just touch you,” I offered the ghost. “You know, instead of slapping you again. I mean, I don't generally go around hitting people unless they jump out at me and try to scare the crap out of me.”

“I wasn't trying to ‘scare the crap out of you,’ as you so delicately put it!” he snapped. “I was trying to frighten you away from a dangerous place where you had no business being! Which is my duty, in case you've forgotten.”

“Okay, okay—don't get your suspenders in a twist,” I said, holding up my hands. “Do you want me to touch you or not?”

He looked at me for a moment, his stern expression softening just a little.

“You would do that?” he asked, his maybe-blue eyes hopeful. “You would touch me willingly?”

“Sure. Why not?” I wouldn't have made any such offer if I hadn't been sure I was dreaming, but since I clearly was, what did I have to lose? I held out my hand to him, and he took it tentatively in his own, much larger one.

The moment we touched, I felt a shiver go through me—starting in between my shoulder blades and traveling through my whole body. I was tempted to pull away, but what I was watching was too fascinating. Because when I held hands with the ghost, his hand turned from transparent to solid and went from cool to warm at the same time.

He was watching too, his eyes wide with amazement. My touch only seemed to apply to his hand—that was the only part that looked fully solid—but it seemed to be enough for him. His big fingers curled around mine, and he gave a little shudder, as though he'd just stepped into a warm bath after being out in the freezing cold.

“So long,” he said hoarsely. “For so long I have waited to feel the touch of a woman again.” Then he looked up at me, and his eyes were so intense I felt a little strange. “And a beautiful woman at that,” he added in a low voice.

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Nobody had called me beautiful in a long time—certainly not my ex-husband, Jason, who had spent the last few years of our marriage making it very clear that he found younger women much more attractive. But I wasn't about to let some big, grumpy ghost get to me just because he knew how to pay a compliment.

“Don't get too excited, big guy,” I said, feeling slightly uneasy at the intensity of his gaze when he looked into my eyes. “Your hand is my limit—I'm not interested in touching any other body parts.”

“Good heavens, woman! Do you think me some kind of libertine?” he demanded, his eyes flashing. “I'll have you know that I am a gentleman! And despite your bizarre mode of clothing, I can tell that you are a lady through and through.”

“My bizarre mode of clothing?” I looked down at my black yoga pants and oversized orange T-shirt. “I mean, I know I'm not dressed for a ball or anything but⁠—”

“Never mind—your clothing matters not at all,” he declared impatiently. “Though I cannot imagine why a woman would choose to go about dressed in her undergarments. Is that considered fashionable in the modern world?”

“These aren't undergarments—they're yoga pants!” I exclaimed. “And this is a T-shirt. People wear them all the time!”

“Well, I suppose standards have fallen considerably since my day,” he said with a sniff. “But that is neither here nor there. What matters is your magical power to break the filthy curse which lies upon me. If you can touch my spectral form, then perhaps you truly do have the ability to restore me to my body.”

“Oh, um…about that…” I cleared my throat. “I might have, uh, oversold my ‘magical power’ just a little bit.”

He frowned, his black brows drawing together ominously.

“What does that mean?” he demanded. “Can you break the curse on me or not? Have you no magical powers?”

“Well, I don't exactly know,” I admitted. “I mean, up until about an hour ago, I didn't even know I was supposed to be a witch! So, I haven't exactly had time to practice.”

“You haven't had time to practice?” he repeated, his deep voice rising. “You mean to tell me that Cordelia sent me a witch who hasn't the faintest idea how to use her own magic?”

“Hey! Don't yell at me!” I exclaimed, pulling my hand away from his. The moment our skin lost contact, his hand became transparent again. “I didn't ask to come here, remember? And I certainly didn't ask to get dragged into breaking some kind of curse on a bad-tempered ghost!”

“Bad-tempered?” he demanded indignantly. “Madam, I have been trapped in this accursed house for over a century! I have been deprived of everything that makes life worth living and now I discover that my only hope of freedom rests in the hands of a woman who doesn't even know how to cast a simple spell! I think I have every right to be a trifle upset!”

“Well, being upset is one thing, but taking it out on me is another!” I snapped. “I was perfectly happy back at Natalie's house having Halloween snacks and watching Practical Magic until her dead grandmother showed up and decided I needed a change of scenery. None of this is my fault!”

Thankfully, Bartleby jumped in before we could start arguing any more.

“She does have magic but it's just emerging,” he told the ghost. “She's going through the change of life—the time in a witch's lifespan when the blood stops flowing and the magic that has been draining away with the blood begins to build up and take shape.”