Well, aside from the one picture on the wall, across from my office door, that is. It was a heavily stylized painting of a pretty dish with a short black bob (like mine!) who was dancing the Charleston. The brilliant scarlet of her short dress stood out like a drop of blood on snow.

  Marty seemed to be real fascinated with that picture because he just stood there, sayin’ nothing but obviously lookin at it real interested like. I tried not to be flattered. I mean, I’d chosen the picture because the dame reminded me of myself, back when I was alive anyhoo.

  Well, alive for the first time.

  Okay, lemme back up a second.

  Once upon a time, there’d been a gal, young and vibrant, who’d gone to Hollywood to make it as a big star on the silver screen. She had a real good shot at it, too. Went to all the right parties, met all the right people, even landed a few good parts. She’d been right on the cusp of being the next Greta Garbo, or Lillian Gish. Unfortunately, along with her talent, the gal had bogus taste in fellas and hooked up with a bum that went by the name of Frank.

  Among his other terrible qualities, Frank was a jealous stooge. He didn’t like it none that his sweetie was going to parties with producers and directors and drinking champagne and dancing ‘til the sun rose and her gams were ‘bout ready to fall off. Even though she explained time an’ time again, that this was just what it took to land them big parts, that dunderheaded Frank decided it meant she was stepping out on him.

  So, late one night, after another party, Frank shot his sweetheart in the head before turning his piece on himself.

  Now, by all rights, the story should have ended there. Curtains down, roll the credits. But the gal wouldn’t accept that her young life had been cut so tragically short, so she stuck around that house in Silverlake, unable to move on.

  Too bad for her, that no account Frank also refused to move on, and instead he went off the track, becoming a right violent type of spook called a poltergeist.

  And so things rolled on for a century. People would move in to the house, restoring life and laughter inside its walls, but that no-good Frank would just scare ‘em off again, and the house would sit empty for a while until the cycle started over again, and the gal despaired.

  But one day, a real special broad moved in to the house with her young son. Frank took an immediate interest in the boy, doing everything in his power to terrify the poor kid, and, boy, did he have a lotta power. The spook-girl did what she could to protect the little boy, but it wasn’t a lot. She didn’t have the power to stop Frank, not in life, and definitely not in death. What made it worse was that the boy had him some special abilities and he could actually see Frank, in all his terrible, blood-soaked glory.

  His mama though, she wasn’t just any dumb Dora. She had Frank’s number, knew exactly what he was, and what was better, she knew exactly how to give him the bum’s rush right outtta the door. As it turned out, the broad was a Gypsy, one of them Scottish Travelers (I think they’re called), and she whipped up a magic potion to send Frank kicking into the hereafter.

  And when that doll packed up her kid and blew the popsicle stand in Silverlake to move north to a little town in the middle of nowhere, Oregon, well, the pretty ghost dame might have just hitched a ride with them. There wasn’t nothing keeping her at the house with Frank gone, and outta all the residents that had lived in the house, the Gypsy mama and her little son were the spook-gal’s favorites.

  And that’s how I ended up in Haven Hollow, living with Poppy and her son, Finn. She wasn’t none too happy about it at first; Finn had some understandable hang-ups when it came to ghosties and living in haunted houses. But I like to think I grew on them. And since Haven Hollow was a safe place for those of the supernatural persuasion, it meant my world opened right up. People could see me again! They could even talk to me! Knew my name and came to visit. I could have gotten zozzled off the attention after so long with no attention at all.

  Then something wicked that way came, and Wanda Depraysie blew into town. Well-dressed, sharp as a blade, and a Blood Witch to boot, Wanda flipped my world on its head yet again. She’d been struggling with her magic after one hotsy-totsy vampire managed to half turn her, and she misfired a hex that ended up blasting me from spook back to gal. It had never been done before, and as far as the official record went, it hadn’t been done at all. See, the covens didn’t take a very indulgent view of witches that went against the natural order of things.

  And that’s where Wanda’s fangy sweetie, Lorcan Rowe, set me up with a new name and all the paperwork I needed to be a real-true dame in this modern world. Officially, I was his cousin, Darla Rowe, a gal who’d never been dead, not even once.

  There’d been a ticklish bit when my body had tried to age up those hundred years I’d been pushing up daisies, and since that woulda put me at quarter past dead again, Poppy managed to whip me up a potion that slowed down the process. I was aging at a human rate these days, though I’d still managed to skip the rest of my twenties and all of my thirties, so that no account Frank did still manage to steal some life from me.

  Still, I had friends now and a job I loved at Spook Society. Apparently, being a ghostie makes you pretty sensitive to other spirits, even if you spring back to life. Or that was the case with me. I was now known as a ‘medium’, which meant I was able to sense and channel spooks. It made me pretty useful to Spook Society, whether or not the big cheese was happy about it (and my boss wasn’t a fella I’d describe as ‘happy’). Anyhow, I specialized in convincing earth-bound spirits, otherwise known as ghosts, to let go and head off into the great beyond. It might have been hypocritical of me, but I liked to think of it as giving back.

  Now that you’re all caught up, we can get back to the part where Marty was finally finishing his examination of the artwork on my walls and now he turned back to face me with a sheepish look.

  “You’ve done a great job with your office, Darla.”

  I nodded real enthusiastic like ‘cause I knew how great a job I’d done. “Poppy said you were a fella with a good eye.”

  That actually got a flush rising up his cheeks, and my smile grew a few degrees warmer. I’d realized there were two things I could count on in Haven Hollow—that there wouldn’t be three days in a row without rain (even in summer) and that Marty Zach was stuck on Poppy Morton from the first second he met her. I thought it was all for the good ‘cause I liked Marty just fine. I also liked Poppy’s other flame, Roy, well enough. And I had to admit I was real interested to find out what a sasquatch looked like in the buff (and whether or not his dilly was five times the size of a regular human’s ‘cause I figured it had to be, owing to the mathematicals of it all). Sadly, I never did discover the truth about a sasquatch and his dilly, because Poppy wasn’t one to kiss and tell.

  But back to Marty—he was easy enough on the peepers, I had to say. Sandy brown hair just graying at the temples, only a few lines round his eyes and the corners of his kisser, like every smile he’d ever given had left an echo behind. He was fairly tall too (though he looked real short when compared to Roy but that’s them sasquatch mathematicals again for ya), and Marty’s shoulders were probably twice as wide as my own which was a good thing ‘cause no man wants gal shoulders. Mostly, he looked more like someone who gave good hugs, than someone who juggled barbells.

  “So, what brings you here today, Mr. Zach?” I folded my hands and tried imitating my boss’s hoity toity tone that made him sound real important like. “What can we here at Spook Society do for you?”

  That was enough to get a laugh outta him, which was what I’d been aiming for. Marty had looked a bit jittery as soon as he’d walked through my door, and for the second life of me, I had no notion why.

  Also, I was curious. As much as I liked Marty, he and I tended to work at cross purposes. I did my best to convince ghosties to move on, to let go of the things that bound them to the earthly plane. I helped grieving loved ones find some peace. Marty was more of a wham bam exorcism kinda fella. He gave ghosties the bum’s rush right outta their houses, dusted his hands and called it a day.

  I didn’t hold it against him. Most spooks were just, well, sad. But occasionally you got the angry ones. The ones who banged on walls, refusing to let people sleep, or screamed in the night, driving people outta their homes. And every once in a while, you got the real bad ones.

  The ones like Frank. And that was where Marty and his ghosthunting gig actually came in handy. No one should have to live with a spook like Frank.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got all kinds of sympathy for the dearly departed. And not just because I’ve been one myself, though granted that is a large part of it. But the fact is, passed is passed. You can be sad about it; you can even be angry about it. I was for a long time. But once you start taking your issues out on everyone else? Once you start hurting people just because they’re alive and you’re jealous? Well, then it’s time for someone to show you the door.

  So, when Marty finally stopped pacing my office (which was really too small to pace) and settled into one of my cozy client chairs, I gave him a reassuring smile and I could see his shoulders relax a little. More relaxed or not, the silence stretched out like warm taffy while Marty struggled to find his words.

  “Well…” And then he lost them again.

  “It’s not that I ain’t happy to see you, Marty.” I resisted the urge to pick up a pen, or play with the lamp on my desk. It’d taken me years to train myself out of the fidgets, an’ I wasn’t about to relapse on my second turn around the block. “But what brings you here?”

  Marty sucked in a breath until his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “I think something in Haven Hollow is… well, killing ghosts.”

  I laughed, so hard the sound came outta my sniffer as a little snort that had me clapping a hand over my mouth. When I caught the expression on Marty’s face, the laugh curled up into a ball and kicked its legs in the air like a dead spider. “Oh, you’re serious.”

  Marty nodded, his kisser pressed into a thin line.

  I smoothed my hand down the front of my peaches and cream-colored blouse, and folded my hands together on top of my desk. Being professional didn’t exactly come easy to me (neither did sittin’ still for long periods of time—Wanda said I had something called ADD which I wasn’t none too familiar with) but I straightened my shoulders and pulled maturity around me like a fancy fur coat.

  “Spirits can’t be killed, Marty. They’re just energy. Now, that energy can be shifted around, even on or off the mortal plane. But,” I said, trying to look real smart like. “They just aren’t capable of dying ‘cause they’re already dead. At worst, they might get… dispersed.”

  At the thought of gettin’ dispersed, it took an effort to suppress the shudder that climbed up my spine. The idea of just being scattered apart, of having to piece yourself back together mote by mote—well, it wasn’t a pleasant one. It had never happened to me, and it didn’t seem likely it ever would, but still. It gave me the jitters.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Marty said.

  I nodded, and he stood up and started his pacing which was more like walking three steps one way, then three steps back. Then he paused when he reached my desk and leaned forward, all earnest peepers and strong hands splayed on the top.

  “See, that’s what I thought too,” he continued. “But here’s the thing, Darla. Lately, every single one of the haunted houses the crew and I have toured has come up empty. No spooks. Not so much as residual energy. Nothing.”

  “Hmm,” I started, bobbing the end of my pen against my kisser.

  He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up in sandy brown spikes. “And these are houses whose readings we’d taken before, Darla.”

  “Oh.” I liked it how he kept using my name, it made me feel right important. And it’s good for a gal to feel important—we don’t get to feel like that enough.

  “We’d investigated each house in the past—and at the time, the equipment indicated that there was definitely something inside. But when we turned up again? Zilch. Nothing. Nadda.”

  Now, normally I woulda asked how recently they’d calibrated their science doohickeys, and maybe their readings had just been off. But Marty’s tech guy on the crew was Henner Tayir, and not only was Henner brilliant and sweet and a real swell fella, but he was also the grandson of a witch, Betanya Tayir. That meant he’d inherited certain abilities (not witchly ones, mind you), and his abilities professed themselves as a magical knack with electronics. If Henner’s readings said those houses had been haunted, then dollars to doughnuts those houses had been haunted.

  “So, part of the reason I’m here,” Marty continued, scratching the back of his neck. “Is I wanted to ask if you’d been helping the ghosts in each of these houses move on? And maybe it’s just a coincidence that we’ve been working the same locations?”

  “That would be one whopper of a coincidence.” I leaned down to dig around in one of my desk drawers for my date book. Most people used their computers to keep track of their jobs and appointments, but I just liked writing things down. And, my leather-bound, bronze capped agenda just made me feel extra fancy. “I doubt we’ve been working all the same cases, but if you wanna give me the addresses, I can check.”

  Marty must have been a boy scout when he was younger, because he was already prepared with a little handwritten note of addresses.

  It wasn’t difficult, cross-referencing Marty’s list with my book. No, what had a chill slowly creeping up my spine like someone was dragging an ice cube over each little bumpy part was the fact that not one of them houses was familiar. I hadn’t even known they were haunted, much less helped any ghosties move on.

  Just what the heck was going on?

  Marty read the unease right outta my peepers like he’d just picked up a newspaper an’ was readin’ all about it. His forehead furrowed like he was real concerned.

  “You haven’t helped those ghosts move on, have you?”

  I shook my head, the dark strands of my chin-length hairdo sliding over my cheeks. “No, siree Bob. But I also ain’t the only medium at Spook Society.”

  Marty shifted, looking a little guilty. “I already asked Bailey,” he admitted. “Off the record. She said she hadn’t moved any of the ghosts on either, and she mentioned that you usually handle the problem ghosts, these days.”

  I coulda slapped my own forehead. I’d totally forgotten that Marty and Bailey had been besties practically right outta the cradle. After years of living in big town Hollywood, and then a century of isolation, it sometimes slipped my mind just how interconnected towns like Haven Hollow could be, even without the supernatural thrown into the mix.

  He was right, though. I did handle most the punk ghosties that had a beef with the living. Not because Bailey wasn’t good at it, nothing like that. It was just, there’d never been a spook-turned-medium before. I was unique, and bein’ this one-of-a-kind was a whole lot more stressful than you’d imagine. It also meant I was sensitive to ghosties and their energy. And I mean really sensitive. Like, maybe the most powerful psychic in the western hemisphere, sensitive.

  Plus, Bailey was just better at comforting people. I was still brushing up on my social skills after a hundred years of no one being able to see or hear me other than that rat Frank. When it came to emotions, I mostly faked the things I didn’t know by playing them like a role, but even that only took me so far.

  “Alright, here’s what I’m gonna do.” I took a deep breath, letting it out real slow like. “I’ll talk to the boss-man, and with a little luck, I’ll get my sniffer on the case this week and see what I can find out for you.”

  A little luck might not be enough—the head honcho was far from my biggest fan, but I was hoping I could wheedle a permission outta him. If the price was right, then so was the wheedling. But that was the stickin’ point—‘cause I didn’t figure Marty had a budget.

  “Thanks, Darla.” Marty’s smile was downright sweet, almost boyish.

  “You got it.”

  Facing down ghosties and serial killers was easy-peasy. Now came the hard part.

  Asking my boss, Blaise Howard, for a favor.

  Chapter Two

  After taking the next twenty minutes to talk myself outta the cave my courage was currently shacked up in, and armed with a cup o’ joe, I squared my shoulders and walked headlong into the dragon’s den.

  Not literally, of course.

  Blaise Howard was a lot of things, but he wasn’t no dragon. I’m pretty sure if he coulda breathed fire, I woulda been barbecued during my interview. No, Mr. Howard wasn’t my biggest fan by any stretch—he’d only hired me to keep his peepers on me, and to make sure my powers didn’t go haywire.

  Mr. Howard had been a monster hunter, once upon a time. He’d been responsible for protecting humans and huntin’ all the creatures that weren’t keeping their bumping in the night to themselves. After a run-in with some awful thing called a gryphon, Mr. Howard had been forced into a kind of retirement, and now he headed up Spook Society. Seemed kind of an odd choice to me, for a fella who regarded anything even slightly supernatural with a suspicious glare.

  Which brings me to the root of his problem with me, in particular. He didn’t like me none because I was about as supernatural as they came. And I understood it, I did. If I’d been the big cheese like Mr. Howard, I woulda been real hesitant about someone like me running around town. Back from the dead by a Blood Witch, which involved using some of the darkest magic in existence. I could do things no one else could, and even I didn’t know the extent of my abilities. It was a damned shame I’d never starred in any o’ them science movies like Frankenstein or the like ‘cause then I thought my understanding about all this stuff would be lots better than it was. As it stood, the only thing I did know was that Wanda hadn’t brought me back to life through lightning an’ she definitely didn’t have a hunched over assistant named Igor.

  Regardless, Mr. Howard didn’t like me none. And my being what I was (a born again spook) was the reason why I couldn’t hate Mr. Howard for hating me. Because a little part of me worried that maybe he was right to fear me—maybe I was something unholy and dark.