Page 3 of Ghost With the Most
I dropped my bag onto the creaking floor with a satisfying thud and crouched down to unzip it. My tools clinked together softly. Salt, obsidian, chalk, candles, a silver pendant that had been blessed under a full moon in the Georgia swamps by my dear friend Francois, back in Savannah. Each item was familiar, comforting. A ritual in itself. I selected a stick of mugwort sage and struck a match with a slow drag, letting the smoke curl up around my fingers like a whispered prayer.
I dropped my bag onto the creaking floor with a satisfying thud, the kind of sound that echoed in rooms where the dead paid attention. I crouched down, fingers already moving with muscle memory, and unzipped it with the calm of someone who'd done this too many times to count. The familiar clink of tools settled around me like a warding hum. Not flashy, not theatrical, but sacred. Salt. Obsidian. Chalk. Candles. A silver pendant that had once soaked under a blood moon in the Georgia swamps, blessed by Francois with fingers stained with mugwort and competence. Nothing in this kit was for show. These weren’t props. They were weapons. Anchors. Promises.
Each piece had weight, not just in grams but also in intention. The obsidian still held the hum of an exorcism I’d done in Baton Rouge, and the chalk bore the faint pink tint of rose ash I’d used to calm a spirit that wouldn’t stop screaming. The salt was hand-collected from Deadman’s Bayou and warded by a swamp priestess who charged extra if you asked too many questions. Every item had a story, a scar, a reason. And I didn’t carry them because I was superstitious. I carried them because they worked. Because when the veil got thin and the dead started clawing for attention, you didn’t want pretty crystals and Pinterest spells. You wanted steel nerves and salt lines that never broke.
I selected a stick of mugwort sage and struck a match with a slow, deliberate drag. Fire flared, then settled, and the smoke curled up around my fingers like a whispered invocation. It didn’t just smell like something burning, it smelled like memory. Like thresholds crossed. The energy in the room shifted, subtle but immediate, like the walls had leaned in to listen. This wasn’t for theatrics. This was the warning bell. The call before the storm. I wasn’t here to play games. I was here to work. And if something lingered in this house that didn’t want to move on, it was about to learn I wasn’t the one to test.
The shift in the room wasn’t subtle. It hit like the drop before a storm. The temperature plunged, sharp and sudden, making the hairs on my arms rise beneath my sleeves. The air thickened, heavy with expectation, like the whole damn house had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. I knew that feeling. That breathless pause. It was the quiet you got right before a ghost made itself known… not loud, not violent, but deliberate. The kind of silence that curled under your ribs and made your instincts itch. Something was here.
It wasn’t angry. Not yet. But it wasn’t passive, either. The energy rolled through the room in slow, probing coils that brushed against my shoulders, pressing at the edges of my aura like it was tasting me. Assessing. Deciding if I was a threat, plaything, or priestess. I didn’t flinch, though every nerve in my body sang with tension. No whispers. No footsteps. Just that electric awareness crawling over my skin like static from a world I couldn’t see but knew all too well. This ghost had presence. Purpose. And it was very much awake.
Zelda stood and brushed herself off with more flair than necessary. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Holler if he starts throwing things. Or if you need a blood sacrifice. I’ve still got a spare honeybadger in the freezer.”
Still haunted by the raccoon incident that landed me with Phyllis, I froze. “Wait—what?”
But Zelda was already sashaying out of the room, glitter trailing in her wake like fairy dust with a superiority complex.
And now, I waited.
I closed my eyes and let my breath slow, drawing it deep into my belly until the edges of the world began to fray. The Between crept up like tidewater, cold and silvery, pulling at my ankles first, then my ribs, then my skull, until the room’s creaks and smells blurred into a low, underwater hum. My pulse echoed in my ears like a distant drumbeat. Breath became mist and thought became sound, but it felt stubborn and slick, like trying to grip oil with bare hands. Threads of something brushed against my consciousness, quick and shy, slipping away each time I reached for it. A whisper too faint to catch. A presence just out of focus. He was here. I could feel the weight of him like a thumb pressing lightly on my sternum. But he wasn’t speaking yet. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening closely enough.
The room was still, aside from the occasional flicker of weak light from the chandeliers and the persistently fading high note from the mystery organ. Typical. It was the kind of quiet that wasn't actually quiet, just taunting. The air hummed, thick with static and potential, as if the funeral home itself wanted to see what I’d do next. I exhaled slowly, letting my bones settle. My heartbeat slowed, falling into time with the flickering light and matching its soft sway. The veil in here was thin. Delicate, like chantilly lace stretched over flame. I didn’t need to push hard. Just a whisper. Just a word.
But I wasn’t about to be reverent. Not respectful. Not for a spirit who was pitching the spectral equivalent of a toddler tantrum to the point where I’d been brought away from my regularly-scheduled-program to deal with its crap. He, Zelda had said. So I went with it. I lifted my hand, fingers brushing the edge of the Between that shimmered just beyond the veil, and spoke with soft determination. “Okay, Casper. Let’s talk.”
At first, nothing happened. The echo of my voice dissolved into the gloom and the familiar ache of old grief pressed back in against me from all sides. Ghosts didn’t always come on command. Some liked to play hard to get. Others had a flair for the dramatic. I raised a brow, my mind ticking over into what I might try for my next trick. I’d brought my squirty bottle full of Florida water. That tended to get a rise out of?—
“Casper? Really?”
The voice came from behind me, smooth as honey drizzled over a knife’s edge, male and lightly amused with a smoky rasp that curled along my spine like a sour mash whiskey with afternotes of molasses and regret.
I turned.
The ghost stood just beneath the chandelier like he was waiting for a debutante to take his arm. Really tall. Taller than Francois (my friend in Savannah), and that was saying something. Pale in that spectral way that suggested moonlight and long-forgotten memories. Sharp cheekbones and a square jaw that cut his face like sculpture, and dark but warm eyes that glinted with something dangerous. Like he was drinking me in.
He was the kind of vision women invented after three glasses of wine and a heartbreak too fresh to name. All swagger and tragedy, with the kind of charm that could get a man buried in a velvet-lined coffin and still have mourners arguing over who had loved him most. His dark hair curled just enough to suggest sin, artfully disheveled, and his presence radiated a magnetic pull that made my pulse skip despite the obvious red flags. Like being drawn toward a song you knew would break you, but still wanting to hear how it ended.
He had died in a black suit that was so well-tailored it could have been stitched to his soul. It clung to him with a casual kind of elegance, the jacket sharp at the shoulders. The collar of the crisp white shirt he wore beneath it was loose enough to suggest he’d once known how to charm his way out of trouble and into hearts. He looked like he’d been buried in it. Probably had been. But he wore it like a second skin. And when he smiled, it came slow and crooked, like a dare.
“Well now,” he drawled, his Southern lilt rich enough to bottle. His gaze swept over me in a way that made my spine stiffen and my fingers twitch toward the salt in my coat pocket. “Aren’t you just a vision? I was starting to think the afterlife had forgotten how to send me something pretty.”
I arched a brow, unimpressed but not entirely unaffected. He oozed trouble in the worst, and most intriguing, way.
“I’ve been called worse,” I said, shifting my weight and folding my arms over my chest. The mugwort was still smoldering in the dish beside me, its smoke curling between us like the boundary line it was. “Nice introduction,” I added.
He smiled again, a little wider this time. “Keeps things interesting.”
I gestured to the floating coffin, the melodramatic organ music still leaking from some shadowed corner, and the lingering scent of roses that clung to the air like perfume worn for a lover who never showed. “Mission accomplished.”
“Thank you.” He bowed, shallow and mocking, with the air of a man used to being applauded whether he deserved it or not. “And you are…?”
“Ivy Hearst. Ghost whisperer. Temporary visitor. Here to help you move on.”
The ghost tilted his head like a curious raven, eyes gleaming beneath that half-lidded stare. “Move on?”
I nodded, careful to keep my posture open but firm, like I was used to convincing restless spirits to do something they didn’t want to do. Because I was. Most of the time. “That’s the idea. Unless you want to be stuck for all eternity in a haunted funeral home with a fashion-forward witch and a fridge full of sacrificial wildlife.”
His lips curved into a wider smile, like I’d just complimented him. “I’m not ready to go.”
