Page 4 of My Blind Date is a Ghost

"Good afternooon, detective," Beverly says. "What brings you in?" "Umm..." Beckett looks around the shop, a little confused as he runs his hand through his hair to wipe the light dusting of snow away. His eyes land on my picture, as they always do when he enters the shop. But then again, the picutre is in a glaringly obvious place. Most people glance at the painting when they walk in. But Beckett does more than glance. His eyes always seem to...linger, just a bit. Of course, I'm surely imagining it.

"I thought it was you who asked me to come in today," Beckett says to Beverly.

"Oh, right, of course," she says, coming around the counter. "Now, let me just see if I can remember why."

Beckett sighs and rolls his eyes, more amused than annoyed. Beckett moved to Mystic Cove only two years ago, but he was quickly accepted by the locals and was introduced to the town's many secrets. He had to be. A person couldn't work for the police force in a town full of supernatural creatures--zombies, werewolves, witches, vampires, and more--and not be aware of them. I didn't know exactly why Beckett had been selected and trusted to come to Mystic Cove, but Beverly seemed to show particular interest in him. It was Beverly who had been largely entrusted to educate Beckett about the town's history, so he had come to know her well and he stopped by the shop often. I certainly didn't mind. Becket had dark hair, a five o'clock shadow, a strong jawline, and whisky-colored eyes. He kept himself in good shape, from what I could tell, and he was about six-feet tall. He seemed kind and smart too. He was a detective, but he helped with smaller petty crimes as well when he had time, and he read anything that Beverly gave him. Othern than political pamplets, my now-late husband had not been much of a reader, which I'd always been a bit disappointed about. How I'd longed for a partner I could discuss books with. Books were my passion. Though, now, all wanted was to be able to discuss books with literally anyone. The thought saddened me, and the lights flickered again.

I shook my head and made my way to the back of the shop to wait until closing time. I didn't want to dampen everyone's moon with my own pity and self-loathing. I simply didn't understand it. What was my purpose? Was I doomed to spend the rest of eternity here, alone? I didn't know how I would be able to survive it. It would almost be better if I simply ceased to exist altogether.

CHAPTER 3

It is night in Mystic Cove. My dead Beverly has turned off the lights and locked the doors. There are a few security lights on throughout the shop, along with security cameras. Even though many people in the town are supernaturals, and the regular mundane humans who live here know about them, there are some troublemakers. Mostly brave--or stupid--impetuous youths who occasionally vandalize local stores and homes, either to torment those who live and work here, or just to test their own mettle. I think that might be a reason why I am always called back to The Book Coven, to serve as a sort of protector. Of course, I don't know that for certain, as I have never met another ghost to be able and ask them about their experiences. But it is a small thing to give me some sense of purpose as I glide through my unlife, day to day. While it is very rare that vandals make an appearance, I can do some things, such as lock doors or set off alarms.

But tonight, I do not expect any trouble. It is a cold night. I can tell as I see the breath from on the living who pass by the shop, their coats pulled about their ears as they rush to be back indoors as soon as possible. I exhale, and while my breath does not appear, it crystalizes on the window. I reach up and write my name on the glass. This small act, this tiny bit of proof that I do, indeed, exist, brings me great pleasure. But a mere moment later, it is gone, while I remain.

I sigh and make my way to the electric kettle by the counter. I tap the switch, and the kettle's red light switches on. How marvelous that one no longer needs to light a fire to boil water. I open Beverly's tea caddy and use a silver spoon to scoop some loose-leaf tea into a tea strainer. It is a banana bread-inspired blend, warm and comforting. When the hot water has boiled, I pour it into the cup and allow the tea to steep to perfection. While I wait, I go to the shelves and decide on a book to read for the night. I decide on The Once and Future Witches by Alix Harrow, a blend of history and fantasy about Salem witches. I'm always fascinated by stories set in Salem, both real and fictional. I suppose it is because without Salem, there would never have been Mystic Cove. Many of Mystic Cove's first residents were people who had fled the persecution in Salem and other towns around New England, both supernatural and mundane. It is truly heartbreaking that of the people in Salem who were accused of witchcraft and murdered, not a single one was an actual witch. But then, I suppose that is why they didn't flee. They were innocent. Not that the actual witches had ever done anything wrong. Their powers were innate. If anything, they were blessed by God, for do not all things originate with Him? Or so the founders of Salem claimed. Though after two hundred years of time to think, of seeing the world change, of witnessing the true horrors of what one human can do to another, I'm not sure I even believe in God anymore. At least not in the way I was raised. I know some people, such as the werewolves, believe their powers originated with a goddess. I'm not sure what to believe anymore, and I'm not sure it matters. If I am doomed to spend the rest of eternity here, and not move on to something else, I don't suppose I'll ever find out either.

I pick up my book and my tea and light a candle by a comfortable wingback chair in a reading area in the middle of the store. I know the cameras will pick up the movements of the teacup and the book and such because I have heard Beverly talk about seeing things move around whenever she bothers to check the security tapes. So even though there is a reading area with better lighting near the front of the store, I don't sit there where passersby could see. No need to draw excessive attention to myself.

I have just settled into my chair and had that first delectable sip of tea when I hear a commotion toward the front of the store. I jump up and rush over just to see a bunch of teenagers running around in the parking lot, throwing pitiful wet snow clumps at one another. There isn't enough snow right now to make full snowballs. The children are laughing, rolling around, trying to make snow angels. I step through the door to watch them.

Even though I can't feel the cold, I instinctively wrap my arms around myself. It was summer when I died, so I was wearing a simple, light-blue frock. I have seen fashions change dramatically over the centuries, but I still look the same as I did in the painting over the counter--a long skirt, a fitted bodice with lacy two-third sleeves, an apron, black leather boots with small heels. I did not have my hat on when I died though, so that is long gone.

Suddenly, I hear a grunt and look over to see one boy fall to the ground, hard. I wince, afraid he may have seriously hurt himself.

"Hey, what did you do that for?" he yells at another boy.

"I didn't do nothing," the other boy says.

"You tripped me!" the first one yells, getting to his feet and stalking over.

"I did not!" the second one says.

"I'm gonna break your face!" the first boy says.

"Stay away from my brother!" a girl yells, stepping between the boys. The first boy shoves the girl aside, and she loses her balance on the slick ground, falling and banging her knee. She cries out in pain.

"Get your hands off my sister!" the second boy yells. Before I know it. the fun game of snowy tag and turned into a brawl.

"Children!" I call out. It's pointless, I know. They can't hear me. But it's just the mother in me, a natural reaction whether I'm dead or alive. I clap my hands together. "That's enough!"

There is a gust of wind, strong enough to cause some of the children to wobble. They all stop and look at me. Well, through me, to The Book Coven.

"What was that?" a girl asks.

"Probably that old witch, Beverly," a boy says.

"Nah," another boy says, "the shop is closed. Sign says so."

"Maybe it was the ghost," a boy says. "That old ship is haunted, you know."

"What do you mean?" another kid asks.

"Haven't you heard? The shop's original owner was a powerful witch."

I wasn't, but it's kind of nice that the kids think I was. Sadly, I was just a normal, boring, human woman.

"One day, she died, right here in her own shop."

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