The Spirits Collection

By Jean Marie Bauhaus

Veronica “Ron” Wilson is a dearly departed paranormal investigator, and her sister, Christine Wilson, is a psychic medium who can talk to the dead. That's fortunate considering she's still among the land of the living.

Together, the two sisters battle evil spirits, solve mysteries, and find unique versions of happily ever after in this three-book bundle that contains Restless Spirits, Kindred Spirits, and Restless Spirits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: vinspirepublishing
• Release date: Jun 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463353400

Jean Marie Bauhaus

Jean Marie Bauhaus is a traditionally-published and indie author of five novels and counting, as well as a number of novellas and short stories. She also writes freelance articles about dogs for a living.Born and raised in Oklahoma, she currently makes her home in the middle of the woods deep in the Ozark mountains with her own dog, a fierce and mighty Chihuahua named Pete, her husband of 13 years, and a gaggle of other four-legged dependents. When she’s not writing about ghosts, zombies, vampires and other things that go bump in the night, she can usually be found hiking the side of the mountain or trading her keyboard for knitting needles and curling up with a mug of tea and a horror podcast.Or at the microwave, re-heating her tea because she forgot to drink it before it got cold. #writerproblemsJean has a Bachelor of Science in Social Science, Psych/Soc emphasis, which means she’s smart enough to finish college but not smart enough to choose a major that’s actually useful. But it comes in handy for building psychological character profiles and developing post-apocalyptic societies.Easily spooked by ghost stories as a child, teen Jean faced her fears by forcing herself to watch horror movies and read Stephen King until she fell in love with the genre. As a grown-up (more or less, depending on who you ask), her tastes expanded to include a broader range of speculative fiction and romance, but she keeps coming back to the supernatural and paranormal. She has a strong affection for all things zombie-related, which is a good thing considering she’s currently writing a trilogy in that genre. Watch for Desolation of the Damned, the third book in her Walking Dead/ True Blood mashup Trilogy of the Damned, to come out in the summer of 2020.Sign up for Jean’s mailing list at jeanmariebauhaus.com so you never miss a new release, and come chat with her on Twitter @jmbauhaus or follow her at fb.com/JeanMarieBauhaus.

Book preview

Praise for The Restless Spirits Collection

Restless Spirits

If you like ghost stories and/or paranormal romance, you will love this book; it brings the two together brilliantly.

The characters are immediately likeable and I was sucked straight into the story from page one. When there are quite a few different characters in a story I find that there are usually one or two that I don’t particularly care about, not so in this book. I found them all well rounded and believable and would happily read more about all of them.

Overall this was a very enjoyable read that I found hard to put down, and I will definitely be reading more from this author.

~Alana Mander

Masquerade Crew

The writer is an amazing storyteller, and I felt like I was reading a story normally told around a campfire to scare everyone before they go to sleep. I am eternally grateful that I read this while the sun was still out.

~Lady With a Quill

I did not want to put this book down once I started reading it and was sad to see it come to a close, even though the ending was quite a satisfying one. It does have a clear-cut resolution of the action presented in the narrative, but there is a lot of room for future story lines and potential sequels should the author have more stories to share about the main characters.

~So Few Books

I just want to say that this book combines so many things—ghosts, romance, suspense and mystery—something for just about everyone. The writing was great, and I found myself right there with the characters. I could hardly put the book down to go do mundane things like cook supper for my husband! I would be thinking about the story the whole time I was away from it and could not wait to get back to it.

~Sheila, Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

The writer is an amazing storyteller, and I felt like I was reading a story normally told around a campfire to scare everyone before they go to sleep. I am eternally grateful that I read this while the sun was still out.

~Meghan, www.ladywithaquill.com

Kindred Spirits

This was a totally delightful tale, replete with some returning characters as well as a slew of new ones, both living and dead...

~Jen, Sofewbooks.blogspot.com

Love Letter—a Restless Spirits novella

…a touching story of a man who left this life without letting his wife know that he really did love her.

~Sheila, Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

THE SPIRITS COLLECTION

Books 1-3 of the Restless Spirit Series

Jean Marie Bauhaus

Vinspire Publishing

www.vinspirepublishing.com

Restless Spirits Copyright ©2016 Jean Marie Bauhaus

Kindrid Spirits Copyright ©2017 Jean Marie Bauhaus

Bound Spirits Copyright ©2018 Jean Marie Bauhaus

Cover illustration copyright © 2016 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs

Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.WovenRed.ca

First Edition

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

All charactersin this work are purely fictional andhave no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

ISBN: 978-0-9971732-7-7

Published by Vinspire Publishing, LLC

Book I

RESTLESS SPIRITS

For Matt, who taught me that love really can happen fast and soul mates are an actual thing

Chapter One

You know, you just don’t expect to wake up one day and find that you’ve died.

Well, maybe the elderly do. And terminal patients, maybe. But when you’re healthy and in the prime of your life, it definitely comes as a shock. I know because it just happened to me, and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it.

I’m not even sure when it happened, or how. All I know is that the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was myself, lying at the foot of the staircase in the old Baird house, face down in a pool of blood. The rest of me was lying on my back. That had to hurt, and it made me grateful that I didn’t remember.

It took a while for my mind to catch up with what I saw. My first thought was that I’d never get all of that blood out of my clothes, and there goes my favorite pair of capris. My second thought was that my sister would be so full of herself at having been right that I’d never hear the end of it.

The third thought was where it caught up to me—it would be a neat trick to hear anything, from her or anyone else, ever again. I was dead.

What are the stages of grief again? There’s denial, anger, bargaining... I wasn’t sure about the last two, but I seemed to have the first three stuck on a loop. I mean, dead? Seriously? But I was only twenty-nine! Really twenty-nine, too, not thirty-something claiming to be twenty-nine, which was a privilege I was actually kind of looking forward to once I hit the big three-oh. I had a fully-loaded DVR at home and a novel to finish, and a business with my sister that was just getting into the black. How would this hurt the business? How would this hurt Chris?

From my vantage point on the second landing, I could see a plastic rock upended on the porch railing outside with its hidey-hole exposed, so it wasn’t that hard to piece together how I’d gotten in here. Apparently, I’d had time to set up my laptop before things went south, because I could see it sitting open on a dusty table in the parlor. At least it hadn’t gotten smashed when I fell.

I half-laughed, half-moaned at the absurdity of my relief. Fat lot of good it did me, not having my laptop damaged.

Or did it?

It had a built-in web cam. Did I turn it on before I went to explore? It would have been a dumb not to. At the angle I’d set it at, it might have recorded the whole sordid tragedy. Without thinking, I went to it. I mean, really without thinking. I didn’t even remember walking over there. I just suddenly stood in front of the computer, its black screen in power-save mode. I swallowed—or at least went through the motions of swallowing—and reached my hand out toward the infrared mouse.

And watched my hand pass right through it.

I stared for a long moment at my hand sticking through the mouse and the table beneath it. Oh, come on! I finally bellowed in frustrated disbelief. Seriously?

I was answered by oppressive, depressing, lonely silence. That felt pretty serious.

Then I heard someone laugh.

Hello? I called, praying I hadn’t imagined the laughter. At that moment, I felt so lonely I couldn’t feel anything but hope at the prospect of having some company. Maybe even a guide, some kind of guru who could help me navigate this here afterlife. Or, heck, even just a ghostly witness who could tell me what had happened.

Hello! I called again, moving in the direction I thought the laugh had come from. I heard it again, distinctly this time. It sounded like a small child, maybe a little girl. I racked my brain, remembering what I knew about the house, and couldn’t recall any child deaths occurring here. I moved into the dining room through a set of French doors with cracked panes. Nothing filled the shelves of the built-in China cabinet but dust and shadows. I don’t want to hurt you, I promised. It’s okay. I just want to ask you some questions.

More childish laughter came from the room I’d just left. I swore and turned around. As I approached the threshold separating the dining room from the parlor, the French doors slammed shut, hard enough for the cracks in the glass to grow.

With a startled scream, I reached for the handle, only to see my hand pass right through it. I bit back another scream, muttering instead, Okay! Getting a little creeped out, here. Then I remembered I could walk right through the doors. Rolling my eyes at myself, I stepped through them.

Look, I said, little girl—kid—whatever, Aunt Ronnie needs some help here, okay? We can play hide and seek later.

More laughter drifted down the stairs. Kids, I muttered, heading that way.

Don’t go, a voice whispered.

It might surprise you to learn that dead people can feel fear. I could, at least. Suddenly, I was petrified. Ooookay…ghosts, I said, realizing that not being the only ghost in the house might not be such a great thing after all. I’m one of you guys. I mean, apparently. So can’t we all be pals?

Behind me, the French doors swung open in a silent invitation. I stood there a moment, torn between following the laughter—which I had to admit was beginning to feel a little creepy—and taking up Whisper’s invitation. I didn’t feel that easy about either prospect, really, but either way, what did I have to lose? I was already dead. The only other alternative—doing nothing, and staying alone—was depressing enough to overpower my fear.

But not only was I not alone, I also had my choice of company. And like I said, the little kid was beginning to freak me out. If somebody was trying to warn me not to follow her, it was probably a good idea to listen. At least the other voice was trying to be helpful. I headed back into the dining room but paused at the threshold.

There was also a chance that this was a single entity, getting its afterlife jollies by screwing with me.

But even that seemed better than hanging out with my own corpse.

Okay! I didn’t go! I said, crossing the threshold. So… what now?

A light came on in the kitchen. That got my attention, especially seeing as how the house had no electricity. I moved toward it, then stopped. What was I doing? I mean, moving toward the light? Wasn’t that the way to move on? I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Not before talking to Chris. Not without knowing what had caused my head to do half a Linda Blair.

Then again...a kitchen light? Nah. The entrance to the Great Beyond had to be more dramatic than that. I edged closer to the kitchen. Without stepping in, just in case, I peeked inside. A man with sandy brown hair sat slumped in a chair in the middle of the kitchen. He was dressed in old fashioned trousers held up by suspenders, the sleeves of his blue work shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked haggard, like he’d just been through some kind of ordeal.

Hello? I said. He didn’t turn around. Was that you back there with the door? Were those theatrics really necessary? No response. I tried one more time. So, you want to tell me what’s up with that kid? Is it yours? Nothing. Maybe he couldn’t hear me. Maybe he was only an apparition, an environmental memory of the living, unable to interact with me. He could only go through the motions.

Or maybe he wasn’t a ghost at all. A sinking feeling came over me as I realized I might be looking at my murderer. I started to back away.

Best stay here, he said, and I stopped. He didn’t look up, but he said, softly, You’re safer in here.

I opened my mouth to ask him why, but I was cut off by the sound of screaming.

Oh, no.

Chris.

***

Chris was my baby sister. She was also my business partner and best friend. More than that, I was the closest thing she had to a mother, having practically raised her after our mom passed away. This would devastate her. But it could be worse. At least I’d still be able to talk to her. Tell her goodbye, leave her with instructions on getting my house in order, and some hopefully stellar sisterly wisdom that she could think back on and smile about after she helped me cross over.

Chris could see dead people. See them, hear them, talk to them, help them with their unfinished business, that sort of thing. It gave us a pretty great edge in our business.

We’re professional ghost hunters. Well, I supposed now I could scratch hunter from the title on my business cards. Veronica Wilson, Professional Ghost, that’s me. I still couldn’t believe it. The job was what had brought me here to the old Baird house. The stupid, creepy, super-haunted Baird house, a.k.a. Chris’s obsession.

The house had a long, disturbing history. Its reputation started back in the 1930s with Ruth Baird, a wealthy matron who killed her husband with an ax and then locked her daughter in the basement to starve before hanging herself from the banister. That had only been the first of a long series of grizzly murder-suicides and freak accidents that had happened in the house’s nearly eighty-year history. The handful of residents who had made it out alive told stories about voices coming from the drains, moving shadows, and feelings of being watched. Chris had been trying to gain access to investigate it for years, so of course, when we finally got it, we didn’t hesitate to haul ourselves over here.

I didn’t, anyway. Idiot.

But I mean, come on. How was I supposed to know I’d turn out to be the latest in a long string of tragic deaths to happen here?

I could remember arguing with Chris over the phone. She didn’t want me coming over here alone. But she was two hours away, working on one of her special missions. I was anxious to get a look inside the house and not about to be bossed around by my baby sister.

Well, Ron, here you are, inside the house. Like what you see?

For all of the paranormal activity rumored to happen here, the house sure felt awfully empty. I didn’t hear any voices or see any mysterious shadows, and I didn’t feel like I was being watched. I just felt alone. And scared. Would my memories ever come back? Or was my death just the beginning of what I would forget? If my memories were all that were left of me, what would happen if they all went away? Was this all there was? I never really had any solid beliefs about the afterlife when I was alive. But now that I was here, I couldn’t believe this was all there was to it.

Great. Now I wanted to cry, and I didn’t even know if that was physically possible.

I should have listened to Chris.

Chapter Two

Haunted houses have held a weird fascination for Chris and me ever since we were kids, when our dad sent us to stay with our aunt the summer after Mom died. Aunt Judy lived back east in a colonial farmhouse that predated the Revolutionary War. That was where Chris had her first encounter. It happened the first night we were there. She woke me up in the middle of the night, swearing she could feel someone sitting next to her in her bed. I yelled at her for making up stories, and she yelled at me for not believing her, and we both went on yelling until Aunt Judy came in and yelled at us both to go to sleep. We did, but only after I’d convinced Chris to sleep in my bed. So I could protect her, I said, but the truth was that I was scared out of my mind.

Chris wasn’t scared, though. She said the presence made her feel safe. She’s never admitted it, but I think she thought it was Mom.

I think all these years she’s been chasing Mom.

It was that same summer that she helped out her first ghost. Aunt Judy’s neighborhood offered up all kinds of haunted spots and mysteries, and we spent the entire summer exploring and daring each other into spooky places. We were playing hide and seek in a local graveyard when Chris told me a man in a red coat kept asking her if he could go home. When she begged me to help her help him, I went along, figuring it was all pretend. Either that, or she had lost her mind. I wanted to believe either of those things more than I wanted to think he was real.

But then she got our Uncle Bob involved, and he was more than happy to humor her. He took us to the library, where we learned that the part of the cemetery in which we’d been playing was full of the unmarked graves of British soldiers from the Revolutionary War. A visit to the historical society turned up a list of names of some of the men supposed to be buried there. One of the historians listened to Chris’s description of her new friend with complete credulity, and called in her friend from the Paranormal Society. Several days and phone calls later, Ensign William Creek was disinterred and shipped back to his native Wales. Chris never saw the man in the red coat again.

Even after that, I remained a skeptic, but I still helped out on all of her adventures. Her missions, she called them. Then Dad brought us back home, and it didn’t take me long to move on to other interests—namely, Joey Peters. Chris, though...she stuck with it, finding a whole new creepy world to explore close to home. By the time she was a teenager, she had already become an expert on ghosts. After I went away to college, she joined a local ghost hunting club and learned all the tools and tricks of the trade.

And I didn’t totally give it up. I enjoyed the thrill of the hunt whenever she managed to drag me along. I like a good scare as much as anybody. Ghost stories tended to depress me, though. They were always so tragic. I preferred stories with happy endings. Chris escaped her reality by delving into the past, doing what she could to help those who had no more future. I escaped mine by withdrawing into my own imagination. I made up stories for myself, ones with happy endings. I got good at it, too, and enjoyed modest success on the Romance charts. So, I was more than a little surprised when Chris came to me a couple of years ago with a business proposal.

Let me get this straight, I said after she laid out her master plan. You want to hunt ghosts—professionally—and you want me to finance it?

It’s a booming business, she assured me, and with your backing, we can afford some decent equipment that’ll help us knock out the competition.

This sort of thing has competition?

You’d be surprised.

Evidently.

But around here, it’s mostly non-profits on shoestring budgets. There are also a lot of con artists in the mix, doing a lot of damage to the industry. We could legitimize it, though. Take a scientific, skeptical approach—

Don’t you have to actually be a skeptic to do that? You’re about the biggest believer I know.

But you’re not. You’ll give us legitimacy. She went into detail about how the business would work and how she would promote it, but I wasn’t really listening. My wheels were too busy spinning, imagining myself as a paranormal P.I. Truth was, I was getting bored with writing romance. The constant happily ever after didn’t hold the same appeal for me that it once had. I was ready to sink my teeth into something meatier, something with an edge.

Maybe ghost stories were just the thing for me, after all. And what better way to do research and jump-start my muse than to hunt down the real thing?

I’m in, I interrupted, on one condition. I want to be your partner.

Right, said Chris, that’s kinda what I’m saying. You’d be my silent partner.

Not silent, I corrected her. I want to be your ghost-hunting partner. Full-time.

Chris blinked at me. You…I mean… Huh?

If I do this, I’m doing it all the way. I mean, why should you get to have all the fun?

But, Ron, this can get dangerous. It’s pretty scary sometimes.

Again I ask: why should you get all the fun?

But you don’t have any training—

You can train me. I can’t imagine there’s anybody who knows more about this stuff than you do.

I guess…

Then it’s settled. I stood up from my chair and held out my hand so we could shake on it. So, do I need to, like, sign something?

Thus, we became Wilson Investigations: Ghosts, Goblins, Imps & Nasty Spirits. That’s WIGGINS for short. Hey, she shouldn’t have made me senior partner if she didn’t want me to name it.

I suppose she could name it whatever she wanted now.

It wasn’t like Chris didn’t warn me. She and Gus, the techno-geek who made up the entirety of our crew, were more than two hours away, wrapping up one of her missions, when she called me with the news: after more than a year of untangling red tape, we finally got clearance to investigate the Baird place.

You can’t just barge into an allegedly haunted house and start poking around for spooks. Well, you could, but that’d be one sure way to land yourself down in county lock-up for B and E. The Baird place might not have had any tenants—at least, not living ones—in over a decade, but it still had owners, and before we could go in, we needed their permission.

But first, we had to find the owners. Turns out they weren’t too proud of their connections to the place, nor of their inability to unload it. There was also something about suspicion of a thwarted attempt at arson a few years ago that led to the owners’ records getting buried pretty deep. Just tracking them down took the better part of six months. Once we found them, the actual ownership was tied up in arbitration between a pair of siblings. Turns out they weren’t fighting over who got to keep it, but over who had to take it.

Gee, Ron, what was your first clue that this house was bad news?

Is it locked? I asked when Chris gave me the news. I can head on over there, get the lay of the land, figure out our equipment set-up, all that fun stuff.

There’s supposed to be a key in one of those fake roc—wait, forget I said that. You’re not going over there alone.

Why not?

Because that house is freaky, Ron. Even by my standards. I think it’s cursed.

Cursed? You don’t really believe that.

I do when it comes to the Baird place. Look, we do this as a group. It’s too dangerous to go alone. In fact, I was thinking about calling the Paranormal Society, see if they want to partner up—

Wait, what? The biggest paranormal challenge in the state, and you want to team up with the competition?

She sighed. They’re my old non-profit club. They’re hobbyists. They’re hardly competition.

Sounds pretty useless to me. Why do we want them?

Safety in numbers, you goofus. Plus, this house is their Holy Grail. It would just be mean not to include them.

Do we have to pay them?

Another sigh. No.

Fine. But that makes it even more important for me to get over there first.

How so?

Because... I hesitated. I knew my reasons perfectly well, but I didn’t want to share them. Truth was, I’d been bitten by the Baird bug myself a while back. Something in its twisted history had sparked my imagination more than any other haunting, and I started my own research, the notes of which kind of turned into an outline, which kind of turned into the first draft of a novel that my agent was on pins and needles about.

I hadn’t told any of this to Chris—I didn’t like to talk about my novels with anyone not involved in the creation or eventual sale of them until they’d passed through at least three drafts. Call it superstition, but somehow, talking about them always made me lose interest in writing them.

I dug deep for an excuse. Because we want to stake our claim, I said. You might trust these folks to respect our boundaries, but I have no reason to.

Don’t be a jerk, said Chris. I’ve been thinking about hiring so—

What? Hiring who? Hello?

—ink I’m cutting ou—

It was my turn to sigh as her cell lost reception. Hello? Can you hear me? Who are you hiring? You can’t hire anyone without me!

—alk about this now. Prom—ang it. You—romise you won’t go—

What’s that? I can’t understand you, I lied, but it was unnecessary. The line was dead.

So I grabbed my laptop, defied my sister’s wisdom, and hurried over here. That’s the last thing I remember.

Chapter Three

Suddenly I was back in the parlor, standing next to my own head. My sister knelt beside my body, her fists knotted in her hair as she opened her mouth in a silent wail. I tried to reach for her, but of course, I couldn’t touch her. This was beyond horrible. Oh, sweetie. I’m right here. I am so, so sorry. I braced for her reaction, fully expecting her to unleash her grief on me. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I listen to her? What were we going to do now?

But it didn’t come. She just went right on crying over my body, as if I’d never spoken. Chris? Hello?

She can’t hear you.

I spun to see the guy from the kitchen standing behind me. Yes, she can. It’s what she does. I dismissed him and turned back to my sister. Come on, Chris, don’t do this. I need you right now. You’ve gotta help me figure this out.

I’m telling you, said Kitchen Guy, she can’t hear you. Nobody can.

Because I’m dead. Right. Thanks, but I’ve got this. I crouched down and snapped my fingers in front of her face. Hey! Sweetie! Talk to me!

Still sobbing, Chris reached for my messed-up head. Gus, who had been hanging back by the front door this whole time, ran over to her. He leaned down and reached right through me to grab her hands. Don’t!

But I can’t leave her like this, she cried.

Softly, Gus moved her hands away. We have to. We shouldn’t disturb the body. Not until after the police get here.

I backed up a few steps, trying not to freak out. For one thing, having Gus’s arms going through my torso was the most disturbing thing I’d seen all day, and that was really saying something. For another, something was wrong. Why couldn’t she hear me?

Looks like she fell, said Gus, looking up at the staircase. I rolled my eyes. Glad to see Encyclopedia Brown was on the case.

His stating the obvious seemed to snap Chris out of her crying fit, though, because she choked it back and followed his gaze. Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she shook her head. I don’t see how a simple fall could have done that to her neck.

Oh. Well that...that probably wasn’t good news. My hand went protectively to my throat as I cast a suspicious glance over at Kitchen Guy. He didn’t look like my idea of a murderer. Didn’t people say that about Ted Bundy?

With Gus’s help, Chris struggled to her feet and started up the stairs. Just like Mom, she whimpered. I winced. I supposed there was some poetic justice in that. Except Mom had at least survived long enough to make it to the hospital and into surgery.

Honey, I called, but she still showed no sign of hearing my voice.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped. Someone’s here.

Finally! I went to meet her on the stairs. You don’t really think I’d leave without telling you goodbye, do you? I stopped short as she backed up and almost stepped right through me.

Something angry, she said, and ran back to my body. Help me, she told Gus as she grabbed hold of my ankles.

What are you doing? I told you, the police said not to move her!

We have to get out of here, now. There was a note of panic in her voice. I’m not leaving her, though, and we can’t let the police come in here. It’s too dangerous.

No sooner did she say that than the lights—the ones without any power—began to flicker on and off. Again, I looked over at the stranger. What are you doing?

It’s not me, he said.

"Well, someone’s scaring her and it’s sure not me! I watched helplessly as she and Gus picked up my body at each end and carried me toward the door. Wait! Don’t leave me here! The house began to shake. Windows rattled. The chandelier above us swung dangerously on its chain. A couple of panes on the already damaged French doors shattered, raining glass all over the floor. Hey! Kitchen Guy! Knock it off!"

It’s not me! Wow, voice inflection. That was the first sign of emotion I’d seen from that guy.

Light bulbs exploded on the chandelier. I let out a sharp scream, then swore at my own fright as Chris and Gus picked up the pace. I stayed close, following my only ticket out of this nightmare house. Ghosts are tied to their former bodies as much as they are to their places of death. We saw a lot of cases where spirits haunted their graves. As long as they had my corpse, I could go with them. Then maybe, I could get through to Chris after she’d had a chance to calm down. I stood back as they carried me out, then followed right behind…until I reached the threshold and slammed into nothing.

I stumbled back a few steps and stared out the door. I couldn’t see my sister. I couldn’t see anything. It was like the entire world outside the house had been erased. I glanced at the front window, and its view looked the same. Gus’s arm and torso reappeared briefly as he reached back in to close the door. Then they were gone.

What the . . .? I grabbed for the door, but of course, my hand slipped right through the knob. Trying to walk through the closed door netted about the same result as it would have if I was still living. "Oh, come on!"

Can’t go with them.

I spun around to face Kitchen Guy. Why not? What did you do that for? That was my sister! She could have helped me. She could’ve helped us both!

No, she couldn’t have, he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. Not in this house.

What are you talking about? I know how these things work. I should be able to go with my body. I should be able to haunt my own body! I was growing frantic, and I couldn’t rein it in. I didn’t want to. I wanted to bust some heads. Why did you scare them away?

I already told you, it wasn’t me!

Oh, God. Why…why is this happening?

I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop her.

Stop who? Why can’t I leave?

She won’t let you. He looked at the stairs. As he did, a little red ball bounced down the steps. I heard that giggle again, floating down from the second floor. Any other time, all of this would have given me a thorough wiggins, but I was too furious to even think about being scared. I charged toward the stairs, kicking the ball out of my way as I went.

Don’t! Kitchen Guy shouted. Come with me back to the kitchen. We’ll be safe there.

Not till I get some answers, I said, and kept going.

Chapter Four

The stairs took a left turn at the top and let out into a long, empty hallway. I paused to calm myself down. I didn’t know who this kid was, but if it was me, I wouldn’t be too eager to show myself to a righteously angry ghost determined to get some answers.

Hey, kiddo, I called, forcing as much sweetness as I could muster into my tone, why don’t you come on out? Aunt Veronica just wants to ask you some questions. I pushed my head through the first door into an empty bedroom, the hardwood floor of which was covered in undisturbed dust. Just like the rest of the house, save the foyer and living room. I don’t want to hurt you, I said, continuing down the hall. Maybe we can play a game!

As I spoke, I peeked through another door and found a bathroom, also vacant. I stood there a moment, admiring the tile—okay, fine, I’m shallow, but the period tile was gorgeous, and I have a notorious habit of being distracted by shiny things—before moving to the last door in the hall. I braced myself, ready for a confrontation with some kind of bad seed who could pop me out to the middle of a cornfield.

I pushed my head through the door and relaxed. Another empty room. She could be hiding in a closet, or maybe the attic, if I could figure out how to get up there. Now that I had calmed down, I decided it best to go back to the kitchen and ask my sandy-haired friend where else she could be hiding.

I made my way back down the dark hallway. As I reached the stairs, a giggle came from behind me. I turned around.

I fully expected her to be dressed all in white, with long, dark hair cascading over her evil, evil little face. Clearly, I’ve watched too many Asian horror movies. What I saw instead was a cherub in copper pigtails and overalls. She was holding her red ball.

I thought of the Waverly Sanatorium in Kentucky, one of the most haunted places in the world, where Chris had dragged me for an expedition after I signed on to the ghost-hunting biz. A rite of passage, she’d called it. One of the stories she’d told me about the place had been of a child’s ball that appears at random all over the old hospital. Hearing the story had given me the willies, but not as much as almost tripping over the ball in a dark hallway. At the time, I’d believed Chris was just messing with me. But the sight of this little girl with her little red ball made me uneasy.

I shook it off and smiled. Well, hi there, cutie, I said, relaxing. I’m Ron. What’s your name?

Ron’s a boy’s name, she said, in full-on brat mode. Hey, at least we were engaging.

My dad had issues, I told her, but I like Ron anyway. It’s short for Veronica.

She shrugged and held up her ball. Want to play catch?

Sure, we can play catch. But first let’s talk a—

Before I could finish, she threw her ball. To say she threw it hard would be like saying a tornado is a bit breezy. It hit the side of my face hard enough to snap it clean around. I fell down the stairs, bouncing off the corner as I went. My head flopped around sickeningly as I tumbled, not stopping until I hit the bottom.

***

I lay there for a long while, in the same position I’d died in. Then I turned my head around the right way, straightened my limbs, and sat up. The ball came bouncing down the stairs again. This time, I was scared. I scuttled out of its way before it could touch me again, then got to my feet and hauled myself to the kitchen.

I warned you, said Kitchen Guy. He was sitting at a table across from an older lady who hummed softly to herself.

Yeah, well, you can get in line behind my sister at the ‘I told you so’ window.

I—uh, what window? He looked confused.

Never mind. An empty chair sat next to Kitchen Guy’s, already pulled out from the table. I swore a blue streak under my breath as I sank into it.

The woman’s head snapped up. Language! I am not running a brothel here, young lady.

Uh…sorry. I took a moment to study the woman. She looked to be in her fifties, her red hair threaded with silver and pulled into a severe bun. Her buttoned-up blouse and long, straight skirt were old-fashioned, even for the 1930s, which was when she’d died. I recognized her from old newspaper clippings. I was getting chastised by none other than Ruth Baird herself. Sorry, I said again for good measure, not wanting to be on the ax murderer’s bad side. She nodded, apparently mollified, and went back to humming an old hymn.

Are you in pain? asked Kitchen Guy.

No, I realized. While I was falling, it hurt like a son of a bi—uh, a biscuit— I glanced over at Mrs. Baird as I censored myself. But now, I feel fine. Actually, I kinda don’t feel anything.

That’s because you’re dead, dear, said Mrs. Baird, then tsked as she shook her head. Such a shame. So young, and so pretty. She cast a knowing glance across the table at Kitchen Guy, but he shifted in his chair and made a show of ignoring her.

Um, thanks, I said, then turned back to Kitchen Guy. So that’s how I died?

Like I said. He locked eyes on his own two hands, seemingly to keep from looking at me. I couldn’t stop it.

I sat still for a long time, letting it all sink in. She was the one keeping us here, he’d said. How? Why? What did I ever do to her, except be nice? That little… I muttered, then stood up.

So did he. Where are you going now?

No little brat is going to get away with killing me like that, I said as I headed back out to the parlor. Somebody needs to get spanked.

She’s too strong! he called.

We’ll see about that. I marched back up the stairs. Kids were like dogs, at least in my experience. If you showed them any signs of fear, they’d dominate you. Listen, kid, I called as I rounded the corner and took the last few steps. The ball hit me as I reached the landing.

Chapter Five

I fell and remembered.

After I got off the phone with Chris earlier that afternoon, I packed up some equipment and came straight over here. The house was about a twenty-minute drive from our office in east Tulsa. Once I arrived, it took a few more minutes rooting through the overgrown weeds in what was once the flower bed to find the plastic rock that held the key. The weeds probably did more to hide the key than the rock did, as fake and obvious as it looked.

I always expected to feel something whenever I stepped inside a house we were investigating. It just seemed that they should all feel different somehow. I was always disappointed, and this house was no exception. I let myself in, pausing at the threshold, waiting for that elusive feeling to hit me. Looking back, it seems even more likely that I should have felt something, some atmospheric sense of foreboding, considering what I was walking into. But, as usual, it felt no different.

I sighed, swallowing any latent jealousy over Chris’s ability to sense these things, and brought in the equipment. It wasn’t much—just a tape recorder for electronic voice projection, a few wireless webcams, and an electromagnetic field detector. Gus would bring in all of the high-tech stuff when he and Chris arrived. I set the rest of my stuff on the floor and turned on the EMF reader. It read normal.

Man. For a local legend, this house was pretty disappointing so far.

I also brought my laptop, of course. I found an abandoned side table to set it on and booted it up, then spent about ten minutes hooking up the cameras to make sure they worked. I positioned a few around the living room, saving the rest for other parts of the house. Lastly, I put a blank tape in the recorder and turned it on. Testing. This is the Baird house, Tuesday, March sixteenth, four-twenty-three p.m. Ron Wilson speaking. I’m in the living room at the front of the house. I held up the microphone. Is anyone here with me? I asked the empty room, then paused for an answer. This part always felt silly, but it got some interesting results sometimes. If you are here, can you tell me your name? I waited another moment before rounding out my list of routine questions with, Can you do anything to make your presence known?

That last question made me a little nervous, especially since I was by myself. But nothing happened. I shrugged and went to set the tape recorder on the fireplace mantle, then opened my camp chair and took a seat at the computer. I found the file with my research notes and began writing my impressions of the place. I had expected some spooky atmosphere to provide some inspiration, but other than being a little run-down and neglected, it wasn’t very atmospheric.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face, trying to think of what to type next. I had at least another hour before Chris would arrive. I might as well make the most of it. When I opened my eyes, a new word appeared on my screen—one I hadn’t written:

Lilly

I jumped up from my chair fast enough to knock it over. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, and I was tempted to freak out. Instead, I reminded myself that I was supposed to be a professional and swallowed my fear. Lilly? That’s a pretty name. Can you tell me something else? As I spoke, I reached for the EMF. Its meter was all over the place. I looked back at my notebook as new words appeared on the screen.

help us

Somewhere, a child cried. It sounded like it came from upstairs. I glanced at the ceiling as chills stood every hair on my body at attention, then looked back at the screen.

GET OUT

The phrase repeated itself, again and again, scrolling across the screen in an unbroken chain:

getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout

I licked my lips. Believe me, I would like nothing better right now. Chris was right, as much as I hated to admit it. I shouldn’t have come here by myself. But I couldn’t leave until I’d checked out the source of the crying.

The first rule of a ghost hunt is to make sure there’s no natural explanation for alleged supernatural phenomena. That includes making sure no one living is hanging around the site. I hadn’t done that. I had stupidly assumed that, since the house was locked up and all the windows were intact, it would be empty. If I’d given it more than two seconds’ worth of thought, I would have remembered from my own childhood how kids had a way of getting into places they didn’t belong. Especially spooky places like this that cried out for a good old double-dog dare. So, for all I knew, there could be a living, breathing child upstairs who needed a hug and a cookie, followed by a stern talking-to.

DO NOT GO UPSTAIRS

The computer was yelling at me now. I really wanted to listen. I’m not too proud to admit that I was spooked. It took some effort to put on my skeptic’s hat, but once I did, it occurred to me that I could be getting pranked. Someone with a Wi-Fi could be hacking into my computer and typing that stuff. I didn’t know how—that was Gus’s department. I didn’t know why, either, but I could think of plenty of reasons. Gus and Chris could already be here, screwing around with me to teach me a lesson. Or maybe they just thought it would be funny to set this up with the Paranormal Society. Who knew? One thing was for sure, though: I was a lot more paranoid about the living than I was about the dead.

So I went upstairs.

I saw her at the other end of the hall, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up and her face buried against them. Are you Lilly? I asked.

She looked up at me and sniffed, the tear tracks on her little freckled face doing me right in. I don’t have anyone to play with, she said, exposing a gap where her front baby teeth had fallen out and making my neglected ovaries ping. They all ran away.

You shouldn’t be here, sweetie. Come downstairs and we’ll call your parents to come get you.

I want to play. There was steel in her voice.

I sighed, and my ovaries settled down. This isn’t a safe place to play. Now come on. Do you have any friends in the house?

She lowered her head, pouting. I don’t have any friends. They all run away. She pulled a red ball out of her overalls. I just want to play catch.

Remembering the Waverly, I shivered at the sight of the ball but put on a brave face for the kid’s sake. I’ll play catch with you. Just come outside with me first. She stood up. I stood by the stairs with my hand outstretched, waiting for her to come over and take it.

Instead, she threw the ball.

You already know the rest.

Chapter Six

Am I in Hell? The question came out muffled, what with my mouth kissing the floor.

No, it just seems that way. Kitchen Guy’s voice sounded really close. I turned my head back around the right way and saw his face hovering above mine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Yeah, yeah. Waving him out of my face as I would a fly, I sat up, only then realizing there were others standing around me in a half-circle. Um, hi? They gave me room as I got to my feet. Not that they needed to, since as far as I could tell, we were all pretty intangible. Ghost etiquette, I guessed. Or because, as Gus demonstrated earlier, having another person pass through you just felt plain ooky. I’m Ron, I said, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Mrs. Baird stared at me disapprovingly. Nothing new there. An overweight, balding man in an old-fashioned double-breasted suit stood beside her. He nudged her and said, See, Ruth? I told you he was a man.

My hand flew up to my hair. I kept my curls short, but not that short. I looked down at the plain blue tee-shirt and checkered capris I’d been wearing when I died. Great. I’d get to spend eternity dressed like a GAP ad. At least it was a cute GAP ad, and definitely a feminine-looking one.

Papa, hush! said a pretty young girl standing over to the side. That’s just the fashion nowadays.

Yeah! And Ron is short for Veronica, I said, pushing my chest out a little further.

Won’t see me making that mistake, said Kitchen Guy. I turned in time to catch him hide his smirk behind an expression of innocence. Name’s Joe, he added. I gave him an appraising look, now that I knew he had neither killed me nor terrorized my sister. He was okay looking, I guess. I mean, if you go for that whole broad-shouldered, square-jawed, ruggedly handsome type.

Fashion. Ruth spat the word like she’d spit out a bug in her coffee. I don’t approve of the way these modern girls parade themselves around, putting themselves on display and dressing like men. Again with the man thing! Playfully tomboyish, I could grant them, but I’m anything but manly. Anyway, I got the feeling there wasn’t much that Ruth Baird did approve of. As for you, young lady, she said to the girl, you will not speak to your father in such a rude manner.

Leave the girl alone, Ruth, said the balding guy. Doesn’t she suffer enough because of you?

Okay, harsh. And also awkward. But he had a point. Giving him a look that said he might as well have just slapped her in the face, she faded into nothing.

Papa! said the girl. You know it wasn’t her fault.

He sighed a gruff, irritated sigh, tugged on his suit jacket, and then he also disappeared.

How’d they do that? I asked.

Instead of answering my question, the girl just looked abashed as she stepped forward. I apologize for my parents. They’re from a different time.

I shrugged it off. Don’t worry about it.

My name is Lilly, by the way.

Lilly? The Lilly who hijacked my laptop Lilly?

Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.

No, it’s cool. Can you show me how to do that?

I...I suppose I could try...

Don’t you think you ought to take some time to get settled first? Get your bearings? asked Kitchen Guy. Excuse me, I mean Joe.

I looked at him. You say that like you think I’m staying here.

He laughed, and I scowled at him. "You are staying here, he said. Just like the rest of us. Got no choice."

It’s true, said Lilly. She keeps us here. Everyone who died in this house in the last century is here. We’re all trapped.

She who? You mean that brat upstairs?

She ain’t no child, said Joe. Make no mistake about that. He was no longer laughing.

She’s a monster, whispered Lilly.

She’s three feet tall!

And she killed you, said Joe. Killed all of us. She keeps us around so she can do it over and over again.

Keep your voice low! said Lilly. She’ll hear us!

Okay, wait. I pointed at Lilly. You, I know about. Your mom locked you up and let you starve to death after she hacked up your dad and did herself in. Only after I blurted that out did I realize I could’ve used a little more sensitivity.

Lilly shook her head. It wasn’t her fault. She was driven to do it. All of it. That...thing got into her mind. It whispered in her ear night and day until she couldn’t take it anymore.

So, you’re saying this pint-sized cutie is basically Damien in pigtails?

I don’t know what that means, said Lilly.

She’s evil, said Joe. She’s powerful, and she’s bored. That’s a mix don’t bode well for anybody. That’s all we need to know.

What about you? I asked him. I don’t remember you in any of my research on this place. How’d she get you?

His jaw twitched. Never mind that. Let’s get you back in the kitchen where it’s safe.

What makes the kitchen so safe?

He looked at me like it was the first time he’d ever been asked, and he hadn’t prepared an answer. It just is, he said. Now come on!

No. I went to my laptop, where it still sat on the table in energy save mode. You might be fine with letting some kid dictate your afterlife, but I’m not. Now, we’ve got all this stuff here that can detect us, and my sister will come back for it eventually. I just have to figure out how to be, you know, detectable. I tried to switch the computer back on, but of course, my hand went right through it. It beeped wildly and then shut off completely. The acrid smell of electrical smoke drifted up from it. Oh, crud. I think I just killed it.

That happens, sometimes, to electronics, said Lilly. It took me forever to get the hang of turning things on and off without frying them.

But you could type. Can you show me how?

I...I’m not sure. I’m the only one of us who’s been able to do that sort of thing. I’ve tried to show the others, but they’ve never gotten it.

I sighed. That wasn’t good news. How many others are there?

‘Bout a dozen of us, said Joe, give or take. Most of ‘em stay hidden, out of the way.

Why don’t you guys?

He shrugged. Been here as long as we have, boredom’ll drive you insane. Getting killed on occasion breaks up the monotony.

That was possibly the most upsetting sentence I’d ever heard. I imagined a near-century of either re-enacting that fall again and again or letting the fear and boredom drive me out of my mind. I couldn’t take that. I couldn’t even take a week of that. I have to get out of here. I went to the EVP recorder on the mantle. Lilly, can you turn this on?

Okay. She headed over while Joe shook his head.

It’s a fool’s mission. You can’t get through, even if you get that thing going. She’s got us cut off.

Lilly got through to me.

She’s a special case.

Then she can get through to my sister.

I looked at Lilly, and she nodded. How does this work?

I pointed out the record button. Push that, and speak into the microphone, here.

And it’ll capture what I say?

It should. Just tell my sister that I’m still here, and I need her help. Better repeat it until the tape runs out, to be sure she gets it. It usually only captures snatches of speech.

All right. She did as I instructed, while Joe stood by, his arms folded.

Are you always this pig-headed? he asked me.

I gave him a wry smile. My last boyfriend sure thought so.

What happens now? asked Lilly. Before I could answer, her mother came barging into the room.

Chapter Seven

Lilly Catherine Baird! bellowed Ruth. She held a leather belt.

Oh, God, Lilly whispered, backing up into the wall. Not again! She disappeared into the wall completely, but Ruth reached in and grabbed hold of her. She pulled her out kicking and screaming.

No, mama! Please! I’m sorry! Oh, God, I’m so sorry! Please, mama, don’t! All of this she screamed while her mother whipped her and dragged her away.

I ran after them. Hey! What is your problem, lady? Leave her alone! I grabbed for the belt, but of course, my hand went right through it. I was getting really tired of that. Ruth seemed oblivious to my presence, too intent on beating her daughter into submission. For some reason, the belt didn’t go through her. It landed every time, with a slapping sound that increased Lilly’s screaming and made me sick. Stop it! I shouted.

She can’t, said Joe, coming over to block me.

Why are you just standing there? Do something!

There’s nothing to be done. This is what she gets for helping you.

But I...what?

That ain’t even Ruth. It’s a phantom, a puppet having its strings pulled. This is how Lilly died. Now she gets to go through it again. Thanks to you.

I stared at him in open mouthed shock. But... why?

We try to escape, we try to get through to anybody on the other side, get help somehow, she knows. And then she lets us have it. Either that, or she kills somebody new.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Not real tears, anyway. Why her, then? I looked up toward the second floor and shouted. Why don’t you take it out on me, you little bitch?!

She already did, when Lilly tried to warn you. That’s why you’re here now. I stared at him as the implication of his words sunk in. His expression softened a tiny bit. Guess maybe you shouldn’t feel too badly for Lilly after all.

I sniffed non-existent snot and turned to look in the direction Ruth had taken Lilly. I could still hear her screaming. Ruth was eerily silent. So she gets locked in the basement? For how long?

Long as it took the first time.

I shuddered. We can’t leave her in there.

Got no choice. Do you see now? This is why I wanted us to go in the kitchen! He looked angry. I couldn’t blame him. He turned toward said kitchen and stormed off in a huff. This time, I followed him sheepishly.

There are not enough words for how much this sucks, I grumped as we reached the kitchen. This can’t be my life.

It’s not. Your life is over and done with.

Afterlife, then. I mean, I knew about ghosts. Or at least, I knew everything that it was possible to know while you’re still among the living. I was a little iffy on the whole Heaven and Hell thing, but I still expected something...other than this.

Didn’t we all. But I do believe in Heaven and Hell.

Really?

Yup. Figure come Judgment Day, we’ll all get sorted properly. Sarah right along with us. She won’t have a say in the matter. All we gotta do is wait it out.

Sarah? That the kid’s name?

Yup.

I looked around the kitchen. The light in the middle of the room emitted a soft, yellow glow. The table was a beaten old metal job straight out of the fifties that would probably go for hundreds of dollars in a vintage shop if someone restored it just right. Same with the chairs, one of which was propped under the light fixture. Joe sat down in it. I didn’t try too hard to wrap my brain around being able to sit and climb stairs and not fall through the floor and right through the earth when we could pass through walls and other corporeal objects. Maybe I’d take up studying ghost physics someday. Seemed I’d have the time for it. What makes the kitchen so safe? I asked.

It’s the one room I mustered some control over, he said, leaning back and folding his arms across his broad chest. I caught myself taking note of the toned lines of his forearms and felt a rush of guilt. She don’t come in here, he finished.

I forced my gaze up to the brightly burning light to keep myself from staring and thinking any more inappropriate—not to mention utterly useless—thoughts. So that’s you doing that?

He smiled. Took me a decade to manage that trick.

Nice. I returned his smile. Why the kitchen? I mean, if she’s so powerful, how come you’re able to keep her out?

I noticed a subtle repeat of the twitch in his jaw that I’d seen earlier when I asked him how he died. Don’t know. Just do.

I didn’t believe him for a second, but I decided to let it go. I could still hear Lilly’s muffled screams and sobs. I closed my eyes. Where did her parents go? Can’t they help her?

He shook his head. "They can’t get close to her. Not till it’s over. That takes a couple of days, and a few days after