Page 1 of Gone for the Ghost
Chapter 1
Lily
MyHondacoughsitslast defiant wheeze before falling silent in front of 422 Maple Street, and I can’t help but smile at the poetry of its timely demise.Here we are—both of us running on fumes and stubborn optimism, somehow managing to limp across the finish line of what feels like the most important journey of my life.
The Victorian building rises before me like something pulled straight from the pages of a romance novel, all weathered brick and intricate gingerbread trim that catches the late afternoon light with the kind of golden warmth that makes photographers weep.Three stories of pure possibility, complete with bay windows that seem to wink at me with promises of inspiration and a fresh start.
I sit for a moment, my hands still gripping the steering wheel, as I let reality wash over me.Six months ago, I was Sara Mitchell’s assistant at a soul-crushing marketing firm, spending my lunch breaks crying in bathroom stalls.Now I’m Lily Hart, soon-to-be-published author, about to start her new life in a town so picturesque, it probably has its own Instagram filter.
Well, soon-to-be-published if I can actuallyfinish the damn book.
The apartment listing had used phrases like “vintage charm” and “abundant character,” which in rental speak usually translates to “the plumbing predates indoor electricity and the heating system runs on hope and a prayer.”But the photos showed crown molding that belonged in a museum, hardwood floors with the kind of patina that only comes from decades of stories, and rent so affordable, I actually called three times to make sure it wasn’t a typo.
“This is it,” I whisper to my reflection in the rearview mirror, taking in the wild tangle of brown curls that refused to cooperate during the six-hour drive and the chocolate eyes that my dad always said held too much hope for their own good.“New chapter, Lily.Literally.”
The moving process proves less graceful than the romantic montages in my head suggested.My belongings seem to have multiplied during the drive, spilling out of boxes and trash bags with the enthusiasm of a magician’s infinite scarf trick.I haul my first load up two flights of narrow stairs, already questioning my decision to pack my entire life into containers that seemed reasonable in my cramped studio but now feel like they’re lined with concrete.
The key the landlord left under an actual honest-to-God welcome mat is a skeleton key—ornate brass that fits my palm like it’s been waiting decades for exactly this moment.When it turns in the lock with a satisfying click that echoes through the hallway, something settles in my chest that feels suspiciously like coming home.
The apartment doesn’t just live up to the photos.It transcends them entirely.Afternoon sunlight pours through tall windows, illuminating honey-colored hardwood floors that creak a musical welcome beneath my feet.The living room stretches before me with the kind of generous proportions modern apartments never attempt, complete with built-in bookcases that seem to whisper promises about all the stories they’ll hold.The kitchen is compact but efficient, with enough counter space for my coffee maker and the stack of writing craft books I optimistically believe will unlock the secrets of bestseller success.
But the light steals my breath completely—the way it moves through the space like it’s dancing, casting everything in that golden hour glow that makes even dust motes look like they’re performing ballet.This kind of light could make anyone believe in magic, in second chances, in the possibility that sometimes the universe conspires to give you exactly what you need right when you need it most.
I’m setting up my laptop at the antique desk positioned near the largest window when I hear it—a male voice, muffled but distinctly irritated, drifting from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
“—absolutely no consideration for proper acoustics, and don’t get me started on what passes for music these days.Noise pollution, that’s what it is.Complete and utter noise pollution.”
I pause, my fingers hovering over my keyboard.The voice carries a crisp, cultured quality that makes me think of old Hollywood movies and formal dinner parties—definitely not what I’d expect from the small-town demographic of Maplewood Grove.Maybe the walls are thinner than they appear, or maybe my upstairs neighbor is having a very passionate phone conversation about the decline of modern entertainment.
The complaints continue, growing more animated.“And these so-called modern conveniences—if you can call them convenient.Nothing but flashing lights and electronic beeping.Whatever happened to the quiet dignity of proper craftsmanship?”
Despite the obvious irritation in the tone, something’s almost charming about the formal way the words are structured.This person talks like they stepped out of a Jane Austen novel, all careful enunciation and elaborate phrasing.I find myself smiling as I try to pinpoint the source.
The voice seems to be coming from the direction of the bedroom, which would make sense if we share a wall with the adjacent apartment.These old buildings have character, which usually includes paper-thin walls and neighbors who become involuntary participants in each other’s daily dramas.
I venture toward the bedroom, drawn by curiosity and the writer’s instinct that interesting characters deserve investigation.It’s a gorgeous space with more of those perfect windows and a walk-in closet that’s probably larger than my entire previous apartment.The voice is definitely clearer here, though still muffled, like someone speaking through several layers of cotton.
“—simply no respect for tradition anymore.No sense of propriety or proper standards.Everything must be loud and flashy and completely devoid of elegance.”
“Hello?”I call out cheerfully, pressing my ear to the wall near the closet.“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m your new neighbor!Just moved in today.I’m Lily!”
The silence that follows is so complete it feels like the building itself is holding its breath.I wait, counting heartbeats while listening for any sign of life, but nothing comes.Maybe he’s embarrassed about being overheard ranting, or maybe I’ve interrupted a phone call and thoroughly confused whoever was on the other end.
“I hope we’ll be great neighbors,” I add because optimism has always been my default setting, even when faced with potentially awkward social situations.“I’m a writer, so I’ll be pretty quiet most of the time.Just me and my laptop, living the dream!”
Still nothing.I shrug and head back to my writing, chalking it up to the peculiarities of old building acoustics and neighbors who might need time to warm up to unexpected friendliness.Not everyone appreciates enthusiasm from strangers, and that’s okay.I have enough excitement for both of us.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of organizational decisions and small victories.My clothes find homes in the spacious closet, my books begin filling the built-in shelves with the satisfying weight of accumulated stories, and my laptop sits ready on the desk like a patient friend waiting for me to remember what I was supposed to be doing with my life.
Which is writing.That’s why I’m here, after all.To finish the book that’s been half-done for two years, taunting me with its potential every time I open the document and stare at the blinking cursor.My heroine, Ava, deserves better than the meandering plot I’ve subjected her to so far.She deserves a love story worthy of the courage it took to chase her dreams.
By evening, I’ve managed to create something resembling a home.The air mattress will have to do until my actual bed arrives tomorrow, but I’ve arranged everything else with the kind of careful attention that speaks to new beginnings and fresh possibilities.
I’m reheating my lunchtime leftover Chinese takeout in the microwave when the temperature drops like I’ve stepped into a walk-in freezer.Not gradually—suddenly, dramatically, like someone opened a portal to the Arctic in my kitchen.I glance around, looking for an open window or rogue air conditioning vent, but everything seems perfectly closed.
That’s when I notice my keys.
I have a very specific routine about keys—a necessary paranoia developed after too many frantic searches through purses and coat pockets.Kitchen counter, always the kitchen counter, right beside whatever stack of mail or takeout menus happens to be living there.I can clearly remember the soft clink of metal against laminate as I set them down not fifteen minutes ago.
