Page 23 of Ghost With the Most
We didn’t say anything else for a while. The silence settled, not awkward, but expectant, like the kitchen itself was holding its breath. The cat in the mixing bowl let out a single sigh and rolled over dramatically, as if bored of our emotional moment. The windchimes on the porch murmured in agreement.
It hit me then. This strange, ridiculous little house, with its clashing walls and sentient sourdough starter and mischief in every drawer… I didn’t hate it. I just hadn’t realized how much I liked it. Not just the charm or the magic or the garlic knots, but the person who lived in it. Somewhere between the gnome incident and the spectral showdown, Zelda had gone from headache to friend. Or something very closely adjacent.
“Thanks Zelda,” I said quietly, because I didn’t trust my voice to say more.
She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Try not to set it on fire. Or do. Either way, it’s yours now.”
I got back into my rental car just before midnight, the pouch clutched gently in one hand. The streets were hushed and velvet-dark, bathed in the kind of moonlight that made everything feel older than it was. The town slept like a creature with one eye open. Half-watchful, half-dreaming.
There were still ghosts in the world. Still doors creaking open in the middle of the night, and attic stairs that groaned without being stepped on. Still people who didn’t want to let go. But this ghost? This story? It was finished. Beau had crossed. I had stayed. And something between those two truths had shifted inside me.
In helping him let go, I’d let go of something, too. The constant leaving. The insistence that I didn’t belong in this world of sigils and spirit-speak. The lie I kept telling myself… that I was only ever just passing through. I wasn’t just passing through. I wasn’t quite ready to plant roots, but I was getting real tired of running.
Outside, the wind shook the treetops like the town itself was settling into sleep. Or maybe it was whispering something else.
Not goodbye. Just see you soon.
10
The road out of Assjacket was narrower than I remembered. Maybe it always felt that way when you were leaving a place that had tried, however chaotically, enchantingly, and occasionally illegally—to keep you. The trees leaned in close on either side of the cracked two-lane strip, branches twisted like gossiping old crones on crooked porches, whispering their mossy secrets to one another as my car threaded through the curves like it was trying to sneak out before the town noticed. The air smelled like damp earth and woodsmoke, like a spell half-cast and still hanging in the morning fog.
Dawn unfurled across the sky in lazy strokes of lavender and soft peach, brushing the mist in a wash of watercolour pastels. It was the kind of rare morning that didn’t feel borrowed or rushed, just quiet. Whole. Honest. Like the world was taking a long, slow breath before asking me what I wanted next. I didn’t have an answer. Not yet. But for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I was running. Just moving. And that was enough.
As I crested the final hill and caught one last glimpse of the town. Rooftops peeked through the trees like stubborn weeds, chimney smoke curling upward like the ghosts hadn’t gotten the memo. I let my gaze flick to the rearview mirror. The weather-beaten wooden sign stood just off the road, proud and unrepentant.
THANK YOU FOR VISITING ASSJACKET – COME BACK SOON (OR DON’T, WE’RE NOT YOUR MOM).
I smirked. Even the damn sign had an attitude. No emotional farewells, no aching goodbyes. Just one last sarcastic jab on the way out. Fitting, really.
And just when I thought the moment might manage to stay quiet, peaceful even…
“ROAD TRIP, BITCHES!”
Phyllis erupted from the back seat like a 80s glam-drenched banshee, arms thrown wide and translucent as ever. I yelped, nearly swerving into a ditch, and she cackled with delight, lounging across the upholstery like the world's least helpful cat. “I packed snacks,” she announced proudly, lifting a ghostly tote bag that was somehow brimming with ethereal Pringles and what looked suspiciously like a bottle of stolen limoncello. “Let’s hit Miami. Or Atlantic City. I hear the haunted slot machines give better odds if you flirt with them.”
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face as the first signs of spectral static began to tickle the radio dial. “Phyllis. You moved on. I helped you cross. There was closure. There were tears. You had a light!”
She shrugged, unbothered. “Eh. Felt premature. Besides, I left my favourite earrings in your glove box and Henry promised me one of those fried pickle funnel cakes next time we’re at the boardwalk. You can’t expect a woman to ascend on an empty stomach.”
I sighed, already resigned, and nudged the velvet pouch Zelda had left for me farther onto the passenger seat. Maybe peace wasn’t meant for everyone. Maybe some spirits didn’t need moving on, they just needed a really good playlist, a bottle of something strong, and someone stubborn enough to drive them through whatever came next.
I glanced at the velvet pouch again, annoyed at myself for waiting this long. Not because I wasn’t curious… of course I was. But opening a gift from Zelda was a bit like pulling the pin on a glitter bomb and hoping it ruined only your shoes.
Still, as the trees thinned and the road widened into something that hinted at possibility, I felt a shift. Like something in my ribs had finally exhaled. A tension I hadn’t noticed, easing from the inside out. Years of ghost gigs and bad coffee. Of hopping from job to job, always pretending the next one might be home if I didn’t look it directly in the eye.
Savannah had started to feel like an obligation I’d buried beneath incense and protective wards. But now?
Now I didn’t know where I was heading. But for the first time in a long while, I knew why I was running. There was a darkness buried deep inside me. Dormant, and immense. I didn’t know when it would raise its ugly head, but I did know one thing for sure.
No matter where I ran to, it would follow me.
When the sun finally breached the horizon, bright and gold and unapologetic, I reached over and untied the pouch with a sigh. A faint shimmer of magic bloomed over my fingertips, warm and sparkly in that distinct Zelda way. Subtle as a marching band in sequins. Inside was a card, thick vellum, hand-lettered in violet ink with the kind of dramatic curls that could only belong to her.
“One fully-catered magical disaster. Redeemable at any time. Preferably during a full moon. No refunds.”
—Z
I laughed, the sound pulling something loose and light from my chest. Of course she’d gift me a personalized catastrophe. Love, in Zelda's language, came wrapped in chaos and unpredictable spells. Beneath the card, folded in thirds, was a first-class plane ticket to Scotland. Edinburgh. Round trip. Open ended dates. No other notes. No instructions. Just the gauntlet, silently thrown.
