Page 55 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
I approach the gazebo with my furry entourage in tow, each step feeling heavier than the last. Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge trot along by my side, but none of them display their usual happy-go-lucky confidence.
Sherlock’s entire body vibrates as if he’s standing in an arctic wind rather than the mild October night, his Dracula cape quivering right along with him. Poor Fudge emits a continuous low whimper, and even Fish, my normally unflappable feline, has her fur standing on end, making her look twice her size.
This is a terrible idea,Fish mewls as we draw closer.Meetingghostly relatives in gazebos after solving murders? This isn’t in the cat handbook. In fact, I’m pretty sure it violates several safety protocols.
I don’t like this one bit,Sherlock says with a soft woof.It smells wrong and feels wrong. Can we go back to where the food is?
As we reach the steps of the gazebo, a cool blue light begins to gather in its center, swirling like mist caught in a gentle breeze. The temperature drops several degrees, and my breath clouds in front of my face despite the relatively mild night.
Then in a sudden whirl, the mist takes shape, solidifying into the translucent figure of a woman in a drop-waist dress typical of the 1920s. Her hair is styled in finger waves, and her face—her face ismine, with subtle differences that speak of a different era rather than a different person. It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror, except the funhouse is actually a time machine and significantly spookier.
It’s my great-aunt Edna.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” she says, her voice somehow both distant and intimately close. “Or do you prefer Bizzy? That is what they call you now, isn’t it?”
“Bizzy,” I confirm, my own voice sounding foreign to my ears. “Great-Aunt Edna, is that really you?”
She nods, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s been a long time since anyone in the family has seen me. Most don’t have the gift.”
“The gift?” I ask, though I already know what she means.
“The ability to see beyond the surface, to hear the thoughts others keep hidden.” She gestures toward Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge with the kind of casual grace that suggests she’s been dead long enough to get comfortable with the whole floating thing. “To understand those who cannot speak in human tongues.”
I think of what I know about her—the family stories shared over holiday dinners, whispered like amusing scandals rather than family history. Aunt Birdie said she was a psychic who worked with the circus, which sounds both glamorous and slightly dangerous. Aunt Ruth corrected that Great-Aunt Edna claimed she could read minds and that her act involved guessing weight, height, birth year, occupations, and even the number and names of people’s children. Basically, she was like a human Wikipedia with supernatural abilities.
Another mind reader, just like me. And possibly my grandmother could have been, too, if Mom’s occasional comments about her having the ability to read anyone like a book were more literal than figurative.
“It runs in the family, doesn’t it?” I ask, because apparently, supernatural abilities are hereditary in the Pahrump line, along with stubbornness and a tendency to find dead bodies in inconvenient places. “This... ability.”
Edna nods, her form shimmering slightly. “In some branches more than others. It skips generations sometimes. But yes, it’s in our blood.”
All three pets draw closer to me, their earlier fear giving way to cautious curiosity, and I can tell they’re still not sure if she’s a friend or foe. Even Fish seems transfixed by the spectral visitor, which is saying something since Fish is usually only impressed by premium cat food and people who understand the proper way to operate a can opener.
“My, aren’t you my twin in every way,” she muses. “Right down to the scar I received by catching my chin on a speakeasy table during a police raid.”
My mouth falls open. She might look like me, but I’m sensing there’s enough of Macy in her, too.
“You helped us catch Hazel,” I say, because giving credit where credit is due seems important, even when talking to dead relatives. “Thank you for that. But I don’t think you appeared just to help solve a murder.”
“No,” Edna confirms, her expression growing serious. “I’ve come with a message, Bizzy. Your new sister needs you.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “She does? Is it Hammie Mae Westoff? Does this have something to do with the farm?”
Edna shimmers like heat rising from summer pavement, her form momentarily destabilizing before resolving again as if there was a supernatural glitch. “All of that is for you to discover. Just know this. She needs you now, more than you will ever know. Be a good sister to her, Bizzy. All is not as it seems.” Her form begins to fade, the blue light growing dimmer. “Happy Halloween.”
And with that, she’s gone. Not with a dramatic flash or deafeningthunderclap, but with the quiet fade of morning mist under sunshine—or moonshine as it were. One moment she’s there; the next she’s simply not.
The gazebo feels suddenly emptier, warmer, and ordinary once again. The pets visibly relax as Sherlock’s shaking subsides, Fudge’s whimpering stops, and Fish’s fur slowly settles back into its usual sleek lines.
That was different,Fish meows while licking a paw as if to reestablish her dignity.Next time you plan a family reunion with the deceased, perhaps choose a location with better seating arrangements.
And treats,Sherlock adds for good measure.
I stand there for a moment longer, my mind spinning with questions. Hammie Mae is indeed my half-sister. And according to Great-Aunt Edna, she needs me, although for what remains a mystery. The wordsall is not as it seemsechoes in my head like a warning bell.
In the distance, I spot Jasper searching the festival grounds once again, his Frankenstein’s monster makeup now mostly smeared every which way, and his worried expression is visible even from here.
Time to return to the land of the living and all its complications where the biggest supernatural challenge is getting Ella to sleep through the night.
