Grumbling, I shoved the postcard into my purse, my knuckles scraping against the zipper of my wallet as I did, and headed toward the porch, digging for my keys.
“Damn it.” I stopped and pulled my purse up higher, trying to see down in it. Why hadn’t I turned on the porch light before I left? Oh yeah, because it’d be a bright and sunny day without a threatening note when I’d gone to the coffee shop. Life changed so dang fast sometimes… or maybe it was just my mood that changed so quickly. Either way it could be exhausting. Sometimes I just wanted to scream at everything to stop for a moment and let me catch my breath.
Frustrated, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and used the flashlight app.
“Bingo!” I finally found them, shoved my phone back into my pocket and looked at my front porch for the first time.
My jaw dropped, along with my keys. Right there on my front porch, next to the door, was a guy completely slumped over. And it didn’t take a doctor to see that he was dead. My gaze went from him back to the street. The way he was propped up, over by the railing and the big potted plants, no one would have seen him from the road. Or if they were able to see some of him, he would probably just look like a blanket or something with just his jacket being visible in the dim light. Yet, it seemed crazy to just have a dead person go unnoticed on a pretty street lined with beach houses.
Mystic Hollow was a strange place.
My heart raced. I knew you weren’t supposed to mess with crime scenes, but what if the person wasn’t dead? What if they were drunk? Yeah, they could be drunk. They could have stumbled home from a bar mid-afternoon in a weird storm, one that I was ninety percent sure was magical in origin, then they wound up at the wrong house, couldn’t get in so decided to nap on the front porch.
Totally reasonable explanation.
Didn’t explain why his chest wasn’t rising and falling, but it was Mystic Hollow. Maybe he was a type of supernatural creature that didn’t need to breathe. They existed, right?
My fingers trembled as I reached ever closer for the man’s exposed neck, and then I carefully put my finger on his ice-cold skin. After a second, goosebumps rose over my flesh.
Yeah, he was dead. I was touching a dead person.
Biting back a scream unsuccessfully, I lunged for the keys that had fallen from my hand before righting myself and trying to shove the key in the lock, missing the first few times. The metal-on-metal scratching sound was enough to fray my already frazzled nerves. I couldn’t stop glancing at the man. My fingers felt strange, icy cold almost like they were remembering what it felt like to touch the man, like touching him had infected me or something. And it was spreading. Of course, that could just be shock as well, the logical side of my brain decided to pipe up when I least wanted to hear it. My heart raced and a scream tried to tear its way from my throat. I was just about to turn and run down the street like a psychopath, when I got my key in the lock, turned it, and threw the door open.
Turning my head for one last look at the body, I screamed for real this time.
Full on bloody murder. In the shower in Psycho kind of scream. Woke up from a nightmare and I lived on Elm Street kind of scream.
There was a ghost on my front porch. I know scary shows have depicted ghosts in a lot of different ways, but this man looked like an entirely grey, slightly glowing, version of any other man. His hair was as dark as his eyes, which was to say, about the color of pitch, and his age was hard to guess, but perhaps he was in his late forties. He drifted just a foot or so off the ground, his pose casual, almost touching the body below him. It was hard to tell much about him since he was slightly blurry, like he had a permanent photo filter on, but it was definitely the guy on the ground. I just had no idea who he was.
I held my breath in an attempt to stop myself from screaming even more. So, ghosts were real too? Perfect. Just perfect.
But could it hurt me? Or was it just going to suddenly vanish into the unknown? Or could it possess me and turn me into a puppet for its own amusement?
“You’re in big trouble,” the ghost said in a singsong voice, shattering the silence.
I screamed again, just as loud, long, and blood curdling as before, and it was like everything hit me at once all over again. The note, the body, the ghost. It was too much. Running inside, I slammed the door, not stopping for a second. I headed straight for my bedroom and slammed that door, too. Ghosts were real. Ghosts could talk. And there was a dead guy on my porch, oh, after receiving the note and almost being scared to death by a teenage shifter. Worst day ever.
None of this was good. Someone should’ve warned me about all of this. There should be a handbook. Not for the recently deceased, but for the recently inducted into the supernatural. Each creature could come with a description and state like a football player or a D&D character.
I heard a creak in the house. Heck, could the ghost just drift inside? Uh, probably. Walls likely didn’t stop spirits. That made sense.
Unfortunately.
I yanked my phone back out, hands shaking. I was fairly sure the neighbors would be calling the police after the sounds I’d just made. Not that I cared really, I needed serious help, and I needed
