Pen Pal(73)



After a moment, Claire says gently, “Kayla, please look at me.”

I lift my head and meet her gaze.

“I want to help you. We both do.”

She glances at Fiona, who nods.

“So if you won’t do another séance, here’s my suggestion for what you should do.”

When she pauses, I say, “I’m listening.”

“Research the history of this house. Find out who lived here before you did. Perhaps you’ll find a clue about the identity of this ghost. If it isn’t someone you know, it’s someone who lived here before.”

“That makes sense. Except you’re forgetting that during the séance, the spirit said it knew me while it was alive.”

She waves a hand dismissively in the air. “I wouldn’t take that as canon. Usually, they’re very confused.”

When I only stare at her, she explains herself.

“Ghosts are a bit like people with psychiatric disorders. They cannot distinguish illusion from reality. When a soul is trapped here, it needs a guide—a spirit guide, if you will—to help lead it to the light.”

“Wait. Now you want me to be a ghost guide?”

She quirks a brow. “Do you prefer to be haunted for the rest of your life?”

I look at Fiona for help.

She only shrugs. “It’s either that or we go back in the office and try again.”

“No way. It touched me.” I shudder in disgust. “God, how am I supposed to sleep here now knowing there’s a freaking ghost floating around?”

“It’s been floating around for quite some time, dear.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She chuckles. “Well, it hasn’t molested you yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Horrified, I gape at her. “Yet?”

“No one is molesting anyone!” interrupts Claire, irritated. “The spirit doesn’t want to fondle you, it wants you to help it get revenge.”

“On who? For what?”

“Do some research and find out.”

I glare at her. She says, “Or we go back in that office right now and put the matter to rest.” She looks at her watch. “Either way, I’m already running behind schedule. What’s it to be?”

“If I can help it, I’m never going in that room again.”

“Well, that’s it, then. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

She stands. Fiona rises with her. I can’t let them leave without thanking them, so I rise and follow Claire into the foyer as Fiona retrieves their coats from the hall closet.

Claire’s duffel bag of séance supplies is already sitting next to the door, packed up and ready to go. They must’ve gathered the things while I was huddled on the kitchen floor in psychic distress.

When Fiona returns, I say, “Thank you for your time, Claire. I appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure, dear.”

“You, too, Fiona.”

“Be well, Kayla. I’ll see you next Monday.”

“Right. Unless I’m murdered by a vengeful spirit before then.”

She smiles at me, which is in no way helpful. I open the door for them. Claire is about to cross the threshold, but she stops short.

Fiona and I follow her confused gaze.

Lying on the doormat is a bright orange neoprene vest with four black straps sewn across the chest. Plastic buckles dangle at the end of the straps. In the porch light, the reflective patches on the shoulders of the vest are dazzling.

Fiona says, “What on earth is that?”

“A life jacket,” I whisper, starting to shake again.

A visibly confused Claire says, “What is it doing on your porch?”

“I asked my pen pal for it.”

They look at me and repeat in unison, “Pen pal?”

“Yeah.” Gripping the door frame for support, I laugh breathlessly.

Fiona asks, “Why is that funny?”

“Because I think I figured out who’s haunting me.”





Ten minutes later, the three of us are back at the kitchen table looking through Dante’s letters that I brought down from my underwear drawer upstairs. Claire called her other two clients to cancel, because my haunting just became too juicy for her to pass up.

Apparently, it’s not every day that a ghost delivers mail and a personal floatation device from beyond the grave.

“Remarkable,” says Claire, bent over the table as she peers closely at one of the first letters I received. Careful not to touch the paper, she points at the lower right corner. “That looks like it could be blood.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But how could a ghost bleed?”

“It can’t.” She glances up at me. “But it could be someone else’s blood.”

“Or something else’s,” chimes in Fiona. “An animal, perhaps.”

I grimace. “That’s sick. Why the hell would he send a letter smeared with animal blood?”

Claire says, “Maybe it’s a clue.”

The three of us look at the rust-colored smudge. Outside, the storm continues to batter the house. It’s raining so hard now, it no longer sounds like hail, but like a constant barrage of gunfire on the roof. The wind howls like a pack of starving wolves.

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