PROLOGUE

Everything was in place. The circle on the tile floor. The weird symbols he’d found in his research. The special salt he’d stolen from a kooky shop a few towns away. Four stories up inside the family house, he’d chosen the perfect spot for laying out the candles in overlapping infinity and pentagram patterns. He was sure he’d gotten the cardinal directions exactly right. The timing was a guess, but he was good at guessing.

He was alone, but he wouldn’t be for long.

He’d worked so hard for this, given his young life to it. But it hadn’t been much of a life, not really, until recently. Not until he first read about the mystical secrets that can be unlocked only by blood. Ever since, he’d dreamed of how a spree of calculated terror could reveal all. It was dark, delicious stuff, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

And very soon he would become one with ultimate genius. He would take on that mantle with reverential glee. He just needed a little more information first, some additional gory details to whet his appetite and spur him onward.

He lit the candles in a haphazard sequence, because that’s what felt right to him. He cultivated a balance of careful planning and feeling his way through intuition. That was the mark of true brilliance. He prepared, made his intentions known, and then let fate decide that he was worthy.

He stepped into the center of his circle and arranged the old bones around him. A few fingers and maybe a rib or a forearm. He couldn’t be sure. It was hard to tell because they were so small. He hadn’t been able to find a skull. But he’d be an expert before he knew it. There wasn’t much space to maneuver in the tiny bathroom. This is where it had to happen, though. He was sure of it. Right here in the servants’ quarters at the top of the house.

Dirt darkened his fingernails and hands from digging around in the dark, night after night, until he found what he was after. Just in time, too. His hero had been diligent in hiding his early work, but he knew him so well now. His thoughts were his master’s thoughts. His hands were his tutor’s hands, clawing through the muck until the earth gave up its prize.

He nudged a short bone with the toe of his leather boot. This was it. This was the moment when his destiny would finally come calling. He would take up the great work and see it through to the finish.

Music and thumping drifted up from the floors below. So many voices. Some stupid holiday party being thrown for no good reason, when the house was supposed to be his. Was his. It was an annoyance, but as long as everyone stayed out of his way, they would never know the difference.

Until it was too late.

I call on the restless, undeserving dead. He grimaced at the crack in his voice. It made him sound weak and afraid, and he was neither of those things. He cleared his throat so hard that it hurt. He scrunched his face into the meanest, angriest scowl he could manage, and he tried again.

I call on the restless, undeserving dead! His voice bounced off the sharp, sloping walls. He squinted at the bones at his feet and willed himself to embody the cunning, cold rage that had been inflicted on the living. He opened the door of his soul and commanded any last shred of conscience to fly out while his destiny swooped in.

You dirty, insignificant things. He laughed and pretended he felt stronger and more in control. You should be grateful that you were chosen. Your pathetic lives were granted meaning and purpose, and you . . . He sniffed back tears, embarrassed. He streaked dirt across his cheeks as he wiped them away. No ghost would see him cry.

You opened a gateway of brilliance and blood! His fingers tingled, his hands itching for rope or a knife. It was happening! Exhilaration and fear sparked over his skin, and he spread his hands wide over the bones on the antique tile as if he could command them to speak. Tell me your secrets! Tell me of your last moments of miserable life. Tell me!

He exhaled nervous fury and waited. The only sound in the cramped bathroom was his own breathing, plus the party noise. It was a nuisance and a challenge, but it would make his triumph all the sweeter—that he would succeed in this early mission right in the middle of this same ignorant community. The unwitting revelers below would bear witness.

A quiet shuffling and cough sounded behind him. Startled, he spun on his heel and nearly cried out at the pair of specters standing flat against the wooden door, their little heads barely higher than the doorknob. There was a moment’s panic when a more sensible part of his brain rebelled against the existence of ghosts, and it cautioned him again against this foolish and reckless path. But he clamped down hard and fast and threw away all reason, out through his mind’s open window, before he locked it up tight. After all, what was he himself, if not a phantom in waiting?

He stood firm and beckoned the little spirits closer. He felt his power and resolve surge as they cowered and tried to shrink away. But he had them trapped. He’d called them here. They would tell him what he needed to know.

And then an old woman opened the door, pushing through his baby ghosts and interrupting his work. She screamed and staggered backward. That was fine with him. More blood to feed the flames.

CHAPTER ONE

I’ve never liked big parties, yet here I was at a fundraiser in a supposedly haunted house with the rest of the townspeople of Grady in all their costumed finery. Naturally, I’d just spilled a specialty cocktail down the front of my 1920s vintage dress, probably ruining the century-old satin. The drink had been tasty, too, something called a scofflaw with rye whiskey, grenadine, vermouth, and lime juice. It sounded horrid when the bartender described it to me, but the combination worked. At least this gave me an excuse to leave the excited small talk and jazzy instrumental Christmas carols to find a bathroom.

Because I’m an antisocial stumblebum who always has a headache and talks to ghosts.

Even before I was plagued by migraines, and occasionally by ghosts, I preferred my own company or socializing in small groups to an all-out fancy fête. You’d think I’d be safe from grand galas in a coastal hamlet like Grady, but attendance at this flashy fundraiser for the town’s first and only modern library was pretty much mandatory.

I dodged a tuxedoed waiter with another silver serving tray of more Roaring ‘20s themed hors d'oeuvres and made it into the foyer without further incident. I held the damp black and gold diaphanous fabric away from my body and muttered under my breath, willing the pink and peach embroidered flowers not to stain. I groaned when I saw the long line for the downstairs bathroom.

You have to serve the shrimp right away! Eleanor Mayfield called over her shoulder as she emerged from the back kitchen wearing a cream-colored flapper dress that was festooned with silver and turquoise beads and bangles. Her lavender blue silk duster robe was embellished with silver thread accents, and long loops of pearls swayed with every step. As the head of the Friends of Grady Library Committee, she’d earned the rhinestone tiara she wore over her gray curls. She sighed in exasperated delight when she saw me. Suri, dear, don’t you look lovely! But whatever have you done to your dress?

Before I could respond, she ordered a passing waiter to fetch me a damp rag and then complained to anyone within earshot about the musical playlist. Despite my burgeoning headache throbbing in time to a brassy version of Jingle Bell Rock, I mumbled a vague compliment about the fundraiser’s success, and Eleanor patted my satin-gloved wrist.

Can you believe it? Fully funded already. Now we can go after our stretch goals, like restoring the terraced gardens! Her smile matched her sparkling tiara. You get yourself cleaned up, and enjoy yourself, eh? The Oysters Rockefeller and artichoke and salmon canapés are going fast! She elbowed me and gave a quick wink, then pushed into the crowded drawing room to give someone a passing talking to about the depleted cheese and olive platters before she headed for the bottom of the grand staircase.

I grabbed a napkin from a passing tray and dabbed at the wet spot on my dress. It was a loaner from Mindy Barr’s Classic Rags, and I feared what the cost might be for dry cleaning vintage fabric. Worse, the damp was starting to bleed into my satin gloves.

Audrey might have had a special incantation to protect the fancy dress, but my witch-friend was visiting her new beau down in Lincoln City for the weekend. I was on my own.

My would-be escort, Deputy Sheriff Jim Vandenhauter, was also inconveniently unavailable for this fancy dress soiree. My ex was in his office alone, on duty, in case a malicious crime should be committed in our sleepy little town. Half a year ago, I would have put good odds on the evening passing without incident. But there’d been a few unexplained bodies a couple of months earlier—plus a violent beach bum, a poltergeist tearing through my teahouse and bookshop business, and the busting of a cryptocurrency bot farm in our local taffy factory.

So Jim was at his office, and I was put out. He was short-handed with his assistant deputy—Audrey’s beau—away on training, but he was the boss in his two-person law enforcement office, and he could have given himself the night off.

Made a mess already? Bobby Jackson chuckled as he handed me a damp bar towel. Someone said you needed this. The editor and primary contributor of the weekly Naghatune Reader pulled a phone from the pocket of his scarlet and black smoking jacket as soon as the towel was out of his hands. His thumb hovered over a red button in an audio recording app. Care to comment on the party for our readers? Seen any apparitions or spooky shadows? They say the place is haunted, but it’s been a bust so far. Nobody’s seen anything.

Off the record, I muttered by rote. He put his phone away while I held the damp towel against my wet dress and felt the remnants of my cocktail soak through to my skin. Don’t you have anybody else to interview about the party? What about Murray Overhill? I’m sure he’s not happy about any of this. I gestured toward the bottom of the ornate staircase where the man in question looked to be angrily debating Eleanor Mayfield, again, about the merits of a public library.

Not really, no. Bobby said. He still thinks the library project is a ‘fool’s errand’ and ‘destined to fail.’ Bobby made air quotes to accompany a sour expression that was a decent imitation. Still going on about how a paid library-by-mail scheme is the wave of the future, as if the internet and ebooks don’t exist. Or whatever. Bobby stretched his frown into a wry smile. So, got a quote for me? I was saving the best for last.

Nice try. I glanced down to see if the damp towel was doing any good, but the lighting was so dim and the foyer so crowded that I could barely make out the black and peach colors of the worn Oriental carpet beneath the ankle-strap heels I’d found on eBay. Unfortunately, that reminded me how much my feet were hurting, in addition to my head. The weight of my costume jewelry earrings—which I swear looked exactly like miniatures of the Chrysler Building—wasn’t helping, either. I was all in favor of a community library, and I’d made a painful donation to the cause. But the 1920s-themed fundraiser was not my idea of a good time.

Why couldn’t Eleanor have chosen a lumberjack theme for her fundraiser? Jeans and fleece were more my style.

Bobby was on to his next victim by the time I looked up.

Bypassing the line for the first-floor bathroom, I wandered down a narrow corridor of red Douglas fir wood and dim lights. Ornate peacock feathers were outlined in silver against the dark teal paper on the walls. If I hadn’t been so worried about the fate of my vintage dress, I might have stopped to wonder how the wallpaper had held up so well in the decades that the old Queen Anne house had stood unoccupied.

Above the voices raised in carol singing in the drawing room, I heard Mindy Barr’s distinctive laugh up ahead. She looked positively regal in a champagne pink gown trimmed in white fur. I didn’t want to her to see the spill on the dress I’d rented from her. I turned around and smacked into Phil Lindquist, Grady’s mayor, looking resplendent in a jade-green velvet tuxedo with a fire-engine red feather boa draped around his neck.

Surly Suri! I’m glad you made it out. He gave the boa a quick flourish in the air. Not authentic to the period, I know, but holiday colors! How are you feeling?

A chorus of FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! erupted from the front of the house, followed by whooping cheers and tipsy laughter. I tapped the side of my head and gave a quick shrug, which set my Art Deco earrings swinging.

Ah, well. He leaned closer as Eleanor squeezed past him with an air of administrative fury. I guess she didn’t like the carol singing, or maybe the shrimp was being served out of rotation. Listen, do you have any toys in your bookshop? Janice’s sister’s kid is coming to visit, and we’re kind of scrambling on how to entertain him.

I don’t keep an inventory of the Tea Reader bookshop in the computer or in my head. I did recall the squeaky rubber chicken that reappeared on a display table every time I tried to put it out with the garbage. Maybe? Why don’t you come by⁠—

Mayor Lindquist! Murray Overhill came barreling out of the house’s formal dining room, his gaze fixed on Phil. I have a bone to pick with you!

I’ll stop by, Suri. Enjoy the party. Phil rested a hand on my shoulder, then affected a patient smile and faced Murray. How can I help?

Wouldn’t you agree that community works shouldn’t be allowed to impinge upon the commercial rights and enterprises of individual citizens? Murray was red in the face from bluster and maybe a few too many sherries. He half-slurred, half-spat his words as he poked Phil in the chest with his pointer finger. A for-profit library would bring much needed tax revenue to the county, rather than being a drain on our town’s resources.

Phil looked thoughtful. Yes, I see. Yet here you are at the library fundraiser anyway. He gestured toward the dining room. Why don’t we rejoin the festivities and save this matter for a visit to my office? Phil glanced over his shoulder at me and rolled his eyes as he led Murray away.

I again eyed the line for the bathroom and cursed under my breath. It was even longer than before. Of course the first-floor bathroom would be in demand. There were at least two hundred people on the official guest list for the party—basically anyone from Grady, Standish Beach, or anywhere within fifty miles of Naghatune Bay who might be prevailed upon to make a donation—which was why the old house’s second-floor bathrooms had also been readied for public use.

One thing about old houses, though, is a decided lack of access for anyone who’s not keen on taking the stairs. Going up was generally okay, but my chronic migraines sometimes gave me unpleasant vertigo when it was time to come back down. But the grenadine wasn’t going to rinse itself out. I braved the wide wooden steps of the central staircase and imagined clutching the polished banister for dear life on the way back down.

The staircase wall was decorated with old photos of the house, each accompanied by a hand-written index card describing the scene. Probably Eleanor’s attempt to emphasize the history of the town while also embracing the family’s troubled past. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I reached the single family portrait on display. Behind his seated parents and younger sister, according to Eleanor’s fine script, Teddy Grazzini stood alone. Grady’s infamous—and only—serial killer wore a dark suit and a deep, jagged scar on one side of his face. One hundred years later, his creepy, crooked smile gave me the chills, and his dark eyes stared out at me with malicious intensity.

Or maybe that was just the vermouth.

Naturally, all three of the second-floor bathrooms were occupied as well. Judging from the breathless tittering coming from behind one of the closed doors, some of the guests were taking liberties with the old house—which made zero sense given the nearby ornate and recently de-cobwebbed bedrooms. But those rooms were occupied, too, mainly by prospective patrons in search of a little quiet for their hushed conversations or unsanctioned private tours of the Grazzini mansion.

I wondered how much money the county was spending on this event—with having to clean up the old house and beat the dust out of the upholstered furniture to make the space suitable for guests, not to mention the catering.

But Eleanor had penned a convincing editorial in The Naghatune Reader assuring the town that it would all be worth it in the end. And Bobby Jackson had spent the last two weeks writing editorials about the house’s dark history, to the delight of the town gossips.

I circled through the second-floor hall and kept climbing.

The pair of third-floor bathrooms looked like they were still being rebuilt after a contained demolition. I opened another narrow door to find the top of a back staircase that probably led down to the kitchen.

Eleanor and her committee had to know people would go exploring, so I wasn’t surprised to hear voices from the fourth floor above. I climbed another flight of stairs, this section less elegant as it led to the old servants’ quarters beneath the sharply angled roof at the top of the house.

Which is where I found Eleanor Mayfield wandering the narrow hallway. She looked rather lost. There wasn’t much in the way of lighting, just a few bare bulbs jutting out from the wall, and half of them were burnt out. The air was noticeably musty up here, and footprints were visible in the dust on the bare wood floors.

I took a breath to congratulate Eleanor again on the success of the evening, but her worried eyes and bewildered expression stopped me. She blinked hard, trying to focus on the dim and dirty surroundings. I hoped she wasn’t drunk. I didn’t relish the idea of battling vertigo while assisting an inebriated woman at least half again my size down multiple flights of stairs, no matter how beautiful the railings were.

Eleanor? What’s wrong? I asked. Are you okay? Has something happened?

She didn’t register my presence as she glided past me and stopped outside a door that stood ajar. She was practically wringing her hands, and she was as pale as a ghost.

Eleanor?

Two small figures materialized next to her. I started to feel dizzy. I steadied myself against the wall and sat on the top step. So here was the haunted part of the haunted house, far from the revelry below. An ice pick headache shot through my left orbital bone.

Eleanor, maybe we should head back downstairs, I suggested. I didn’t have the patience for ghosts just then.

Eleanor turned to face me, and my stomach dropped. No, she didn’t just look as pale as a ghost. With the headache and the loud party, I’d missed her blurred edges and flickering transparency. Eleanor had joined the realm of the recently departed, and it had happened at her own party.

CHAPTER TWO

E leanor Mayfield? I used her full name. Maybe I hoped it would hold her attention long enough to ask a few questions before she crossed over to whatever might be waiting for her. I still don’t know much about the afterlife, only that spirits have a habit of disappearing for good after any unfinished business gets wrapped up.

The ghost of Eleanor Mayfield stared at the spectral children who wavered beside her. They were small and largely transparent in shades of gray and smoke, while Eleanor was a full color apparition and looked nearly solid. She hovered in the hallway, blinking at the children and looking genuinely perplexed.

Eleanor Mayfield! I pushed myself to my feet and leaned against the dusty wall of peeling yellow paint. My long gloves were streaked with dirt. I yanked them off my hands and tucked them into the neckline of my dress. Eleanor turned to me with a glimmer of recognition, and that was something I could work with.

Yes, Eleanor. It’s me, Suri Mudge. I own the Tea Reader bookshop and teahouse on Main Street? I attempted a smile and saw it mirrored on Eleanor’s face. We were making headway. But her image flickered, and I worried that I’d soon lose her. If I wanted to get any information before she faded away, I’d need to be quick and direct. Eleanor, you’re dead?

Her smile soured into confusion and then sadness. She didn’t speak but nodded her head.

And I am genuinely sorry about that, Eleanor. Natural causes? I tried to imagine where in the house her body might be waiting to be discovered. Was it a heart attack? Eleanor wasn’t a young woman and she didn’t look particularly fit, but I had no reason to believe her health had been anything but robust. Or maybe she’d had an accident. I glanced at the closed doors set in the sloping walls of the fourth floor. Was Eleanor’s body nearby?

I heard footsteps in the hallway below—other guests exploring the house and catering staff retrieving discarded