Page 10 of Ghost With the Most
I watched him move, his form flickering ever so slightly, as if the veil between our worlds didn’t quite know what to make of him. Not a violent ghost. Not a vengeful one. Just... there.
“Is there anything else you remember?” I asked.
He paused again. His gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where the light didn’t quite reach.
“I remember the smell,” he said softly. “There was... something buttery. Warm.” He turned back to me, smirk faltering. “Like a croissant.”
“I beg your pardon,” I started, frowning at what I assumed was a joke in very poor taste.
But Beau didn’t give me more. Instead he started to fade again, dissipating like fog under the weight of dawn. No dramatic exit. No swirling mist. Just... gone. Leaving me with more questions and a vague desire to eat flaky French pastries.
Assjacket was getting under my skin. The town had its hooks in me now. The shadows were too long, the smiles too bright, the stories too neat. Everything in this place wore some kind of mask, and the more I tugged at the edges the more I was convinced I’d find teeth lying beneath. If I didn’t find the truth soon, I had a feeling it would do more than just haunt me. It’d swallow me whole.
4
The shop was nestled in the oldest part of town, where the blacktop buckled like a heap date and the buildings crowded against each other like drunks at last call. Roots pushed up through cracks in the sidewalk like the earth itself was trying to retch up the past, and the Southern heat wasn’t letting up any time soon. The lacklustre storefront in question looked less like a business and more like a moldy gingerbread house. White trim was no longer white, and the brown siding was gappy. Its stained-glass windows had probably once looked charming, but now just looked worn, depicting moon phases, a few strategically placed snakes, and a very smug-looking goat. Planters overflowed with aggressively blooming nightshade. Above the crooked door, was a worn wooden sign.
The Crusty Cauldron.
Charming.
“Let me guess,” I muttered, eyeing the pastel pentagrams etched into the cobblestones. “The local kitchen witch–queen of spite and overpriced baguettes?
Zelda snorted beside me, possibly still nursing a grudge against a teething garden gnome. “Her name’s Gigi Foxworth. Not a real witch… just a wannabe.”
“Even worse,” I groaned.
“Hard agree,” Zelda concurred, as she pushed the shop door open. The bell above it gave an ominous jangle, and the scent hit me like a mood swing. Cardamom, clove, scorched cinnamon, and something darker underneath. Old magic gone sour? Maybe the psychic residue of customers with buyer’s remorse. Probably just burnt croissants.
The place was a riot of color and chaos. Shelves sagged beneath bread rolls, heavy-looking pies, and cakes. An entire wall was dedicated to hexed self-help books, and jars labeled things like Confidence in a Dust Cloud and Grudge Butter – Apply Liberally. The place was the spiritual love child of a metaphysical store, a bohemian bakery, and a very enthusiastic thrift store. A taxidermied peacock glared at me from the top of a tall bookcase. I glared right back.
Behind the counter stood Gigi Foxworth, all crimson curls and caftan fury. Her eyeliner winged out like knives, and her bracelets jangled like war bells. She looked like she’d been born in a séance and raised by wolves. As we entered she glanced up from the pie crust she was rolling out and smiled. The kind of smile that suggested she’d enjoy watching me fall into a hole. That she dug. With her bare hands.
“Well, well,” she purred, her voice honeyed and barbed. “Look what the hag dragged in.”
Zelda smirked. “Still selling fake love potions that taste like spare change and glitter glue?”
“I only sell what people need, darling.”
They circled each other in tone and posture like cats in velvet armor, claws sheathed… for now.
“Ladies,” I cut in, voice smooth but tight, smiling just enough to not seem threatening. “Let’s not turn this into a magical slap fight. I have enough trauma without watching two adult witches reenact Mean Girls in technicolor.”
Gigi narrowed her eyes at me, looking me up and down like she was measuring me for an astral coffin. Her mouth tightened at one corner, like she’d just tasted something bitter and was trying to decide if I was the cause or the cure. “You must be the ghost whisperer. You’re taller than I imagined.”
“And you’re louder than I hoped,” I said sweetly, offering her a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Good news really does travel fast. I’m here about Beau Moran.”
Her expression didn’t shift, but the air in the shop did. Just a breath, barely noticeable, but it pressed against my skin like a warning. The kind of shift that told me someone was putting up emotional wards even if they didn’t realize it. Gigi didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but she was suddenly too still. And silence that precise? That was always deliberate.
One of the candles on the shelf beside her guttered violently, flame bowing as if someone had exhaled directly across its wick. My senses prickled in response. Not enough to scream guilty, but just enough to murmur that she knew something. Something she didn’t want unearthed. People underestimate what ghosts leave behind. But I’d spent enough time listening to the dead to know when the living were holding their breath. And Gigi? She was practically turning blue.
“Tragic,” she said finally, going back to rolling out her pie crust. “Such a waste of good cheekbones. He used to buy my Love Hexes by the crate. Could never stick to just one woman. Or man. Or—well, anything that moved, really.”
“Were you two close?” I asked, watching her carefully.
She paused for half a heartbeat too long, then lifted her chin in that particular way practiced liars did. “Not close. Entertained, perhaps. We had... transactions.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Magical or personal?”
