Page 36 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
A collective gasp rises from the crowd, followed by excited murmurs. People lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide with wonder and disbelief like they’re watching the world’s most unsettling magic trick.
Camila and Macy have quieted down, and both of their jaws have rooted to the floor. But it takes approximately less than three seconds for both of them to turn my way and roll their eyes. It’s clear they’re not exactly buying what the ghostbusters in the room are selling. And ironically, what they’re selling is me.
“I present to you what we believe is a Class 4 full-spectral apparition,” Hazel declares with the pride of someone who’s just discovered a new species, using a laser pointer to circle my ghostly face. “Note the clarity of the features, the consistency of the bioelectric aura, and most fascinating of all—the exact resemblance to our gracious host, Bizzy Baker Wilder.”
All eyes turn to me this time, and I resist the urge to check if I’m suddenly transparent or if my reflection is still showing up in mirrors. Macy gives me the finger and so does Camila. It’s nice to see they’re passionate about the ghostly cause, no matter how misguided they might be.
Emmie leans my way. “Maybe you should give a speech or something.”
“A speech?” I squeak before clearing my throat. “Umm, I can confirm I was very much alive and corporeal when this was taken,” I say, attempting a light tone despite the goosebumps racing up my arms.
And I have no deceased twin that I’m aware of, though given how many secrets seem to be floating around my family tree lately, I wouldn’t rule anything out. But I leave all of that out for now.
Hazel smiles as if she knows something the rest of us don’t, which is both annoying and slightly terrifying. “There are numerous theories about doppelgängers in paranormal literature,” she starts. “Some believe they represent parallel versions of ourselves from other dimensions. Others suggest they might be ancestral spirits drawn to genetic similarities.” She pauses for dramatic effect that would make a soap opera actor proud. “Or perhaps, most intriguingly, they are omens—harbingers of events yet to come.”
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” I mutter to Emmie, who squeezes my arm reassuringly as if she’s trying to ground me to reality.
“Does it speak?” asks the Goth teenager, sounding hopeful like she’s expecting my ghost to start giving life advice or stock tips. At this point, I’d take a tip on how to help Ella sleep through the night—and I would take that tip from the living or the dead.
“Not yet,” Hazel admits with the disappointment of someone whose scientific experiment hasn’t reached its full potential. “But we’re conducting EVP sessions nightly. If there are voices to be heard, we will capture them.”
“Could it be some kind of projection or reflection?” asks the skeptical accountant, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe light bouncing off the bay window under specific atmospheric conditions?”
Hazel looks like she’s been asked if Santa Claus shops at the mall during the after-Christmas sales. “We’ve ruled out all conventional explanations,” she says stiffly. “Our equipment is state-of-the-art, and multiple witnesses have now seen the apparition with their naked eyes.”
Including me, last night,comes a thought from the burly construction worker.Saw it clear as day floating past the third-floor corridor. Scared me so bad, I nearly dropped dead myself.
Wait, what? Someone else has seen my ghost twin wandering thehalls like she owns the place? That’s a development I wasn’t prepared for and definitely didn’t put on my haunted bingo card for tonight.
Before I can process this, Buffy speaks up from her corner. “Have you considered the historical angle?” Her voice is soft but surprisingly authoritative. “This inn has stood for over a century. Maybe we’re seeing someone from its past who simply resembles Bizzy.”
“A compelling theory,” Hazel is quick to acknowledge. “We’ve begun researching former residents and guests, though records from before 1920 are spotty at best.”
The discussion devolves into increasingly technical ghost jargon that sounds like physics and theology had a baby that was raised by science fiction writers with too much time on their hands—and maybe some hard liquor on demand.
Terms likeresidual energy imprints,dimensional bleeding, andchronological displacementare tossed around as casually as if they’re discussing the weather forecast or what to have for dinner. Not shocking, Camila and Macy aren’t participating in the dialogue. They’re examining one another’s nails and playing with the pendants on their necklaces by zipping them across their chains.
As much as I’d like to stay present, I can’t help but tune out as my mind circles back to Leo’s revelations about Hammie Mae potentially being my long-lost sister.
I wonder if there’s a connection between my ghostly twin and my mysterious sibling. It seems far-fetched, yet in Spider Cove, coincidences have a funny way of not being coincidental at all—especially at this time of year.
A cold breeze whispers across the back of my neck, despite the library windows being firmly closed against the October chill. Fish’s ears perk up on her bookshelf perch, and Sherlock abandons his food surveillance to stare intently at a spot near the window with the focus of a dog who’s spotted a particularly interesting squirrel—and perhaps a dead one.
Something is here.Sherlock gives a soft woof without wavering from his stare.Something not hooman and not animal.
I follow his gaze just in time to see the library lights flicker once, twice, then steady as if they’re trying to send us a message in Morse code. And in that brief moment of darkness, then light, thendarkness again, I swear I see her—seeme—standing by the window, watching our gathering with an expression of profound sadness that makes my heart clench.
Then as quick as she came, she’s gone, leaving nothing but a cold spot in the air and at least twenty-five people frozen in stunned silence.
Hazel recovers first, nearly knocking over a chair in her rush to set up additional recording equipment. “Active manifestation!” she shouts excitedly. “Everyone remain calm but aware! Document everything!”
Emmie grips my arm so tightly, I’ll probably have finger-shaped bruises tomorrow, but honestly, I’m grateful for the anchor to reality. “Please tell me you saw that, too,” she hisses, “and that I haven’t just experienced some kind of pumpkin spice-induced hallucination brought on by too much seasonal food consumption.”
“If it’s a hallucination, we’re having the same one,” I confirm, my voice steadier than I feel. “Although I’d honestly prefer the pumpkin spice explanation right about now—and by the way, that would probably be your pumpkin-spiced fault.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“What?It’s a compliment. Your food really is that good.”
