PROLOGUE

It was going to happen. Finally, after so long waiting and planning and hurting, the travesty would be avenged.

How did the saying go? Revenge is a dish best served cold? Maybe the plan was cold, in a patient sort of way, but the anger festered and grew roots.

Some people just don’t know how to treat other people like living, breathing, feeling human beings. Some people don’t appreciate what they have and assume in their bones the world owes them more. Those selfish, demanding people who think of no one but themselves, who barely have any concept of what real work or hardship looks like, who will literally use you up and leave you to rot . . . Well, those people needed to be taught a lesson. One particular person had it coming, even if it ended up being the last thing they’d ever learn.

Not everything was going to plan. That probably should have been expected. But it was proceeding smoothly enough that the end result was inevitable. The reign of terror would be put to rest. The pain and suffering might linger on, but the cause would have been put into the ground. Permanently. No one else would ever have to get hurt. Nothing mattered beyond that. Revenge would be satisfied, though the injustice could never be undone. Whatever happened after didn’t make any difference, so what was the point of thinking too far ahead?

It was going to happen tonight.

CHAPTER ONE

O h, my gosh! This is so exciting! Audrey practically bounced on her toes as she stood next to me in the first-floor foyer of the mayor’s new office building. The old mortuary house had sat vacant for years before the Grady town council decided it was time to relocate the mayor’s office from a cramped side building off Main Street. That the Wayland House was supposedly haunted didn’t cause anyone to bat an eye, but the place gave me the creeps.

It was past dark in early April and getting chilly. Light rain pattered against the century-old glass in the windows as we watched the ghost hunters set up their equipment.

That’s right. The Ghost Patrol had come to our little coastal town to investigate the hauntings in and around Naghatune Bay. That’s what we’d been told, anyway. The rumor had circulated for months, and Mayor Phil Lindquist was none too happy when he confirmed the news at a town council meeting with a solemn face and a careful, measured tone. But his wife, Janice, had been practically beside herself with glee. Emmaline Kapul squealed a little at the announcement.

As for my reaction . . . Well, it’s kind of an uneasy thing. Greater Naghatune Bay has a reputation for otherworldly weirdness, and more recently for an unfortunate rash of untimely ends. While spooky tourism brought significant money to our little hamlet, especially to businesses like my teahouse and bookshop on Main Street, I wasn’t keen on this particular form of promotion—and not just because I’m a medium plagued by chronic migraines. The last thing I wanted was for even more paranormal seekers to descend on our tiny town after The Ghost Patrol cemented Grady’s spot on the supernatural map. That would be an entirely different kind of headache.

Naghatune Bay already got enough attention from metaphysical-seekers thanks to the new-age Meridian Retreat across the bay. With summer just around the corner, the center was ramping up its residential workshops. The latest flier posted on the Tea Reader community board advertised a week-long course on aligning your wardrobe with your aura. I’d discreetly pulled down the announcement and slipped it in with the recycling.

Real paranormal investigators here in Grady, Suri! Audrey tried to keep her voice to an excited whisper, but she was in a losing battle against her own enthusiasm. Barely six months earlier, she’d been a new and nervous barista in my teahouse. She was a kitchen witch, too, and had expanded the Tea Reader menu of signature beverages and both sweet and savory baked goods. Now she was the assistant manager—no, strike that. She was an invested partner, and I was trying to get used to the arrangement. Audrey was also the nearest thing I had to a best friend in this town—if you didn’t count the ghost of an arrogant Wall Street bro who’d decided to move into my cottage.

"I mean, look! That’s Mo Hoover! And Anya Dawson!" Audrey gave a running commentary as a handful of young people in jeans, Doc Martens, and black long-sleeved Ghost Patrol t-shirts carried equipment bags into the old mortuary house, stopping to secure thick cables with electrical tape on the floors and walls, or to adjust the placement of a tripod.

I heard muffled thumping upstairs and decided it was simply the crew setting up. No ghost sightings yet, and that suited me fine. I was still waiting to find out why Mayor Phil had asked me to stop by.

"It’s just like they do it on the show. And, oh. Audrey pressed close and grabbed my elbow. I imagined that she was trying not to point at the older man dressed up like Indiana Jones, but in darker colors and wearing a tweed Tilly hat instead of a tawny fedora. That’s JP Howarth."

I watched him change the angle of a tiny camera on a pole. Seconds later, one of his crew came behind him to tilt it back again. And who is JP Howarth?

Audrey looked at me with an expression of mixed astonishment and alarm. "The JP Howarth? The producer and host of The Ghost Patrol? Plus he did those other cryptozoology shows before."

I had to ask for a brief explainer on cryptozoology, and what kind of show someone might create around it. According to Audrey, Howarth’s past productions included investigations into the Bear Lake Monster in Utah, the Mothman in West Virginia, the chupacabra in Mexico, and Bigfoot in Central Oregon.

You’d think they’d do something on the Bandage Man here at the Oregon Coast, Audrey said. But they’re right here in Grady instead! And you can find all those old episodes on YouTube.

I don’t go online much, unless I’m down another rabbit hole after a new headache treatment. I wasn’t trying to be grumpy. I’d lost track of how long I’d been having the migraines. I could go nearly a week without one, or have head pain lasting days on end. I’d tried so many treatments—from the latest pharmaceuticals to generations-old home remedies. I should probably have started a log to keep it all straight. Every new remedy was another experiment, and I’d burned out trying to manage the inevitable side effects. But the pain never truly went away.

Audrey looked at me with concern. So, none of the teas I made . . . ?

I hated to disappoint her yet again. She was trying everything she could think of to tackle my headaches from an herbal and magickal perspective. But I wasn’t going to lie to her. I shook my head.

Well, butts, Audrey said.

Mr. Howarth! Janice Lindquist glided down the main staircase into the foyer. She sparkled in the dim lighting. Whenever I saw Janice in the Tea Reader or really anywhere else around town, she was often frowning—not necessarily in a sour mood, but unhappy or frustrated, even when wearing brightly colored garments from her store, the Chichi Boutique. If anyone knew what troubled Janice, it would be her husband or her best friend, Emmaline Kapul. But tonight she was radiant, like one of those shiny vampires, and I didn’t think it was because of her casual coral pantsuit.

Janice made a grand show of waving at Howarth, though he stood a scant three meters away. Her smile was broad, and she tittered and made a fuss over him as she asked if his team needed anything for their ghost hunt.

Audrey bounced in place at the mention—again—of ghost hunting, whereas I wanted to slink away to my cottage for hot tea, warm soup, and maybe a Madam Secretary marathon. But the mayor had practically begged for my help tonight, and that was rattling.

As someone who can see and hear ghosts, I’d avoided the Wayland House for good reason. I’d heard the stories. The old place was said to be full of lingering spirits, and not the restful or welcoming kind. Whenever I had to pass by the house on Lemon Lane, I crossed to the other side of the street.

You read the material we sent to your assistant, right? Janice asked Howarth. Amy? Annabelle?

It’s Anya, a young woman with a blond ponytail answered as she passed. Anya gave Howarth a sharp look and adjusted the heavy bag on her shoulder before she slid past Janice and continued up the stairs.

Anya, of course, Janice said with forced cheer. So you’ll know, Mr. Howarth, that the Wayland House is more than a hundred years old!

JP, please, Howarth replied.

JP! Janice stepped closer to squeeze his shoulder. So this place was originally a single-family home, but was converted rather clumsily to house both the residence and business of the local mortician, Jesse Wayland.

That’s where the ghosts come in, Howarth replied with a patronizing smirk.

He seems smarmy to me, I whispered to Audrey. I wish Phil would just tell me what he needs me for.

I backed into a corner, out of the way of the ghost hunting crew while Janice continued her flirty spiel, telling Howarth how Jesse Wayland left the business to his son, who had little interest in running a mortuary and instead departed for Hollywood to become a character actor playing werewolves and swamp monsters on the silver screen. She hit all the high notes of the building’s history, just as Bobby Jackson had done in the local weekly paper, The Naghatune Reader, in his series of articles about the coming visit from The Ghost Patrol. Janice also alluded to Jackson’s critical comments about her husband’s policies as mayor.

It’s like she’s a different person, Phil said.

I jumped. When had Mayor Phil appeared at my side? Audrey had wandered over to one of the ghost hunters—Mo, maybe?—to smile and chitchat and basically be her authentic fangirl self. With all the chatter about EMF detectors, infrared cameras, and digital thermometers, I hadn’t noticed Phil’s approach.

I followed his gaze. Janice stood on the bottom step of the staircase, putting her at eye-level with Howarth. The aging adventurer made an easy show of directing ghost hunter traffic as he and Janice continued their exchange of enthusiastic pleasantries.

Maybe she’s just being polite? I offered, though it was plain that Janice and Howarth were friendlier than necessary. Given the pained look on Phil’s face, I shifted gears. Why did you agree to let them in here?

It’s a popular show? Phil sounded bewildered. Janice wanted them to come.

I just wish she’d asked around first, I said.

Phil sighed. You’re not wrong, Suri. She made the decision for the whole town, then made all the arrangements, too. He shrugged, and the corners of his mouth ticked upward. What can I say? She’s my wife. Maybe this thing will work out.

So why am I here? I asked. You made it sound urgent.

Phil lifted his eyebrows and smiled. Because this is your area, right?

Listen, Phil, these guys are going to be in here all night, I said. It’s not like I have any kind of authority over them. This is a government building. You have more standing here.

Phil gave a thoughtful nod. Except where it comes to ghosts.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Anya paused to look me up and down on her way back outside to the Ghost Patrol branded van.

I make a point of not going looking for ghosts, I replied, keeping my voice low. Not unless someone’s getting hurt. Unless there’s real harm.

A few meters away, Janice and Howarth erupted in laughter. Phil leaned close. That’s why I need you here, to make sure the production crew doesn’t stir up trouble. They can tromp around for a few hours with their fancy gear, and then leave. I want you here to see that none of the energies or whatever get too upset. I have to work in this building, you know.

I crossed my arms. Phil, you’re prevailing upon my better nature, and taking advantage.

He bumped his elbow against mine. You’re a good person at heart, Surly. Everybody knows that.

Ah, that crusty monicker. Surly. It’s hard to be cheerful when you’re in pain and distracted by ghosts most of the time, so I’d earned the nickname. From Phil, it had become a friendly term of endearment. Just leave the back door unlocked, so Audrey can bring me a sandwich or something? I asked.

No problem. Josephine should stop in with refreshments for Janice, since she wants to stay and watch. Phil started toward Janice and Howarth.

Janice will be here, too? My head pain rose with my voice. It was an unfortunate combination. Please tell me you didn’t just rope me into babysitting your wife.

Not all night, Phil called over his shoulder. They should wrap up around 2 or 3 a.m.

Before I could object, Phil offered to escort Howarth upstairs to his office to see the antique Winchester rifle Phil’s grandfather had carried during the Spanish Civil War.

I was looking around for somewhere out of the way to sit when Anya came back through the front door and stopped in front of me.

Her, Anya announced to the ghost hunting crew as she nodded at me. I want her on camera. You’re Suri Mudge, the local psychic, right? Mo! she called out.

Yo! The ghost hunter Audrey had identified as Mo Hoover stepped into the hallway. He was adjusting the settings on a digital recorder.

We’ll need footage of her trying to contact the ghosts. Anya marched toward the back of the house without waiting for an answer. Mo gave me a quick nod, then returned to the reception room off the main foyer.

Kill me now, I muttered and wondered how disappointed Phil would be if I slipped out and went home.

HOODY BOODY! Trey shouted in my ear, waving his not entirely opaque arms in my face as he materialized in front of me. Dressed for eternity in the polo shirt, khakis, and boat shoes he’d died in, my ghostly side-kick had uncanny timing. But my grumbling response was not what he expected. He looked confused and disappointed. What? No good? Let me try again. He vanished before my eyes.

I checked the time on my phone: 8:43 p.m. I was in for a long night.

As the members of The Ghost Patrol brought in even more equipment, I was running out of options to keep out of the way. Cables snaked across the floor, secured with tape to prevent tripping. Night-vision cameras were mounted on tripods and poles in the corners of the rooms, while EMF detectors, digital audio recorders, and thermal cameras were propped on small platforms, taped to the walls, or hanging out of light fixtures. I imagined someone had an intricate spreadsheet to track all the monitoring equipment they put into place.

After getting tangled in some electrical cords that hadn’t yet been taped down, I started up the staircase to see if I could find an unoccupied corner on the second floor. I remained tempted to go home, but I could tell Phil was uneasy with the ghost hunters’ setup, and I had kind of made him a promise. I also worried that Anya would send one of her production assistants after me if I attempted to leave the premises.

Howarth tipped his hat as he passed me coming down the stairs. He looked like he was in a hurry.

Don’t let her out of your sight! Anya demanded as I reached the top of the staircase. Hey, Suri? It’s Suri, right?

I turned and stared down at her.

There’s an empty room upstairs across from the mayor’s office. Why don’t you hang out in there until we’re ready for you. Again, she wasn’t asking a question, nor did she wait for an answer. JP Howarth might have been the face of The Ghost Patrol, but it was clear who was running the show behind the scenes.

The door to Phil’s office was closed as I passed. I stepped into the room directly across the hall. It was empty save for a single chair and tall stacks of boxes pushed against the walls. I guessed this had been a bedroom during the building’s mortuary days—or, judging by the faded green-and-pink candy-striped wallpaper, maybe the nursery? At least I had a place to sit down, and the vintage arm chair looked like it had been recently upholstered. Just as I was making myself comfortable, I heard Anya call, Okay! Lights out! and I was plunged into darkness.

Something knocked and shuffled in the far corner of the room. I had spotted no cameras or other ghost hunting equipment when I entered, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t being monitored. I didn’t want to appear on camera for an interview, and I especially didn’t want to give the show any footage of me interacting with ghosts. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my text messages. Audrey had left the building a few minutes earlier and was asking what sandwiches she should bring to fortify me for my forced vigil. Eddie, the new man in my life, had sent a few messages from Reno, where he was visiting his family. His texts were sweet and full of caring curiosity.

I wasn’t in a good headspace to reply in kind. Though I hadn’t yet seen any of the Wayland House’s infamous ghosts, I could feel them around me. In the dark, the air was heavy with their presence. Outside the room where I sat, the stairs creaked. Wooden floorboards groaned. Muffled voices sounded like they were coming from Phil’s office across the hall.

GOZER AND ZUUL! Trey leaped out from behind me, and I gasped in alarm. Ha! Got you! He danced back and forth like a pretend spectral menace as he gloated. What’s the fun of hanging out in a haunted house if I don’t get to scare anyone?

Maybe give the ghost hunters a show instead of jumping out at me? I whispered.

They’re a bunch of nerds, he replied. Not worth the effort.

That’s not what I said, and you know that full well! Phil yelled behind his closed office door.

But you promised me! Janice’s voice was unmistakable as she bickered with her husband. I was supposed to be on the lookout for unhappy spirits stirred up by the paranormal investigators. I hadn’t counted on unrest from the living.

That doesn’t sound good, Trey said. Before I could shush him, he got distracted by something I couldn’t see, and he faded from view.

What happened to that? Janice shouted as the argument continued. I fished through my little backpack purse for my wired earbuds, which I found at the bottom of the bag in a knotted tangle. "You said when your term was over, then we’d pack up everything and⁠—"

Don’t you think I know what I said, after you manipulated me into agreeing to it? Phil sounded angry and almost violent, something I hadn’t witnessed before. I started feeling anxious just overhearing the argument. But things are different now. You can’t deny that. And you can’t honestly expect me to just pack up and leave.

The urge to eavesdrop was strong. Phil wasn’t a close friend, but he was a good mayor, and I didn’t like the idea of him leaving Grady. But I had no context for what was happening on the other side of that closed door, and no business listening in on a private conversation. I untangled my earbuds, stuck them in my ears, and pulled up my Afropop playlist. I hated jazz, but I loved Manu Dibango. My earbuds weren’t the noise-canceling type. I could still hear Phil and Janice’s shouting, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying over the groovy saxophone.

Phil flung open the door and stepped into the hallway. I can’t believe you’d stoop so low, Janice, he said, then abruptly shut his mouth when he noticed me in the upholstered chair with my phone illuminating my face.

I did what I had to do. Janice appeared in the doorway behind him. Gone was the playful laughter on display earlier, though the wattage of her scowl approximated that of the smile she’d had for Howarth. She gave me a brief nod and seemed unconcerned about being observed.

I pointed at my earbuds to offer reassurance, but Phil made a sour face as he turned back to Janice. Don’t let anyone in my office, he said just before he turned toward the staircase and stomped down the stairs.

Janice watched him go and gave a smirking shrug before she stepped back into the office. On my phone, I pulled up Curtis Chen’s Waypoint Kangaroo, a sci-fi thriller about a sarcastic spy with an extra-dimensional storage pocket. It made for an interesting pairing with Dibango’s Soul Makossa. Seconds later, I heard Anya calling from the foyer below. Let’s try this again, people! I want silence in 3, 2, 1!

"BOO!" Trey leaped out at me as I tried to make my way down the stairs in the dark. Or maybe it was more like he materialized next to me out of nothing. He’d make an excellent spectral ninja, if there was such a thing.

Trey! I cursed under my breath, because I was far from alone in the Wayland House. The whole place was wired for video and sound, and