Freaking.
Way.
Michael was almost six foot seven, and there was no freaking way someone bigger than him was breathing on his neck.
In his head, he began praying.
Just.
In.
Case.
Oh, he was brave, but he wasn’t fuck around with a dead set of ghosts, brave. That was a whole other set of crazy in his book.
Yeah, that was out of his wheelhouse.
As he picked up the pin, he was ignoring the box that it had been sitting on.
Well, trying to.
That was until it suddenly moved, too, making him focus on it. The box slid closer to him, and he actually jumped all over again.
It flew off the counter and he managed to catch it in his hands before it fell.
What?
The?
Fuck?
Did that box just slide across a counter and to him like something unseen was moving it?
Like the pin?
Oh, this was not his wheelhouse at all. At this point, he was going to be calling Finn to get his ass back here to keep him company, and not because of the man upstairs.
Because of the dead.
As he stood there, Michael’s heart was pounding in his chest, erratically.
And he wanted to make sure it wasn’t whatever was malevolent. He could probably learn to adjust to the two dead men, but some evil spirit?
Nuh-uh.
“Duncan?” he asked, not sure what made him say the man’s name.
Then, he waited.
Nothing.
“Ciarán?” he inquired, giving that ghost the same amount of time to answer.
When he looked around, the place was empty, and that didn’t help the situation out at all.
He still had the willies, and the last thing he wanted was to be freaking out.
But he was.
