Page 10 of Ghostly
“I can make it do that,” she said. “Look like I’m sitting. I’m not really, but it looks less spooky, right? Better than this.” She sunk through the sofa until only her head was visible, then quickly rose back up.
Gabriel looked away, gritted his teeth, and looked back. No way this was real. No way.
But if he had to choose between his mind going, and there being actual ghosts—something that had a basis in myths and legends, even if he never bothered to care—which one would he rather have?
“So you are… a ghost.” He squinted at her. She didn’t look dead. No discernible injuries, no rotting flesh. In fact, she didn’t lookbad.
“Now we’re talking!” She patted her knee. “You must be wondering about a lot of things. Ask away. I’m prepared for all the possible questions you may have.”
“I…” He frowned. “I don’t know what to ask.” Witness interrogations—that, he could do. Ghost interrogations? Not so much.
“Oh.” A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. “I hadn’t prepared for that.”
“Listen, uh—”
“Ida.”
“Gabriel.” He extended his hand automatically.
Ida looked down at it and back at him. “Let’s pretend I shook that.”
“Were you the source of the noises at night? The knocking?”
“Yes. Sorry for that. I had to straighten the sculptures and I thought it
was better to do it then, rather than during the day when it may freak you out.”
“And the screeching on the facade?”
She waved her hand. “That’s just the old tree outside.”
A-ha! He knew it!
“And you’re here to… haunt me?” That was what ghosts did, wasn’t it?Damn.Now he wished it was the hallucination-inducing fungi.
“Of course not. I’d never do that.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I take it there are some nasty rumors going around about ghosts. But I wish you no harm.”
“Yeah, that’s great, but…” He crept forward until he reached the laptop, and dragged it toward himself. “I think I’ll be going now.” He tucked the laptop under his arm and strode to the hallway. Ghosts or fungi, didn’t matter—he was getting out of here. Was there a hotel in town? “And I just got into this house,” he muttered under his breath.
“No!” A swish of cold air breezed by, and Ida stopped on the stairs. “Please don’t go. I…” Her sunlit expression had vanished, replaced by a downturned mouth and drawn eyebrows. “I have no one else.”
“And I can’t deal with this.” He wanted to brush past her, but hesitated. Not because she could jump forward to obstruct him again, but because of how low and close to tears her voice had gotten.
“You won’t have anything to deal with, I promise,” she said. “I only want some company. I hadn’t had one in a long time.”
“How long?”
“I died in 1888.”
Holy shit.
“How?”
She hesitated, and he wondered if he’d breached some sort of ghost etiquette—was it insensitive to ask ghosts how they died?—when she said, “I was ill.”
