Page 120 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

It had been surprisingly easy to get in. A tired receptionist had asked her who she was there to see, and Augustine had replied easily, the words rehearsed over and over in her head on the journey over.

Dennis Clayton, she’d said. I’m his granddaughter. He’s in the ICU. Room 8.

She’d been able to give all the details they’d needed, her voice smooth, practised, and unhesitating. Everything Mrs Clayton had given her, handed over without question. Birth date. Address. National Insurance number. A lifetime, reduced to nothing more than access.

The woman behind the desk hadn’t even blinked as she’d buzzed Augustine in.

And now, here she was, sitting in a room she had no right to be in, holding the hand of a man who didn’t even know her, while another version of him stood just a few feet away.

Theo lay in the hospital bed, utterly still, his skin pale against the white sheets, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured movements. Wires trailed from him in every direction — monitors, machines, beeping rhythms that filled the space with a constant, artificial heartbeat.

His hand in hers was limp, but warm and alive, and Augustine swallowed, her thumb brushing faintly over his knuckles, like she could coax something out of him with touch alone.

“Theo,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “Look at you.”

But there was no response. Not that she really expected one.

Theo — illusion Theo — hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the hospital.

He stood at the foot of the bed, staring, and Augustine followed his gaze. It was strange, seeing them side by side like this. The man in the bed, still and silent, reduced to wires and numbers, and the man beside her, warm, present, and watching himself like he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Are you okay?” Augustine finally asked, and beside her, Theo nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “It’s odd though. It’s me . . . but he isn’t me either.”

Augustine nodded faintly, her eyes still on the body in the bed. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You’re right.”

A long pause stretched between them, and Augustine watched as Theo took a slow step forward. He stopped at the bedside, looking down at himself — really looking now, taking in the pallor, the stillness, the machines doing what his body couldn’t.

“I look . . . bloody awful.”

Augustine couldn’t help herself. She laughed brokenly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “You do.”

Silence settled again, and Theo reached out, hesitating just before his hand passed through the space above his own arm, the gesture faltering as the reality of everything caught up with him. His hand dropped quickly back to his side.

Augustine tightened her grip slightly around the hand she held. She glanced at him curiously. “Can you, um, touch yourself?”

“There’s a sentence I never expected to hear.”

She gave a small laugh, watching as Theo reached down, still looking at the man in the bed. His fingertips met his own wrist.

But nothing happened.

There was another pause, and then Theo glanced at her. “So,” he said, a strange edge to his voice now — uncertain, but steadying, like he was bracing himself for whatever came next. “What now?”

Augustine looked down at the hand in hers, warm, real, and so completely Theo — while not being him at all. She swallowed, her thumb brushing once more over his knuckles before she answered. “I brought you here,” she said quietly. “And now . . . I’m going to send you back.”

Theo stilled as her words settled between them. Then, after a moment, he gazed at her. “Do you . . . know how to do that? Send me back? To . . . to this?”

Augustine let out a small breath that started as a laugh, before it caught in her throat and turned into a half-sob. “No,” she admitted, her grip tightening slightly on Theo’s hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “Not really. But this . . . this feels right.” She glanced up at him, something fragile but certain flickering in her expression. “I’m running on my instincts here.”

“A witch’s instincts,” Theo acknowledged, and she raised her eyebrows at him.

“You always did trust evidence.”

Theo shook his head faintly, stepping closer to her, urgency creeping back in. “Was there another way?” he asked. “If we could go back, had to do it again, could there have been another way for us?”

Augustine hesitated. “Maybe,” she said at last. “Maddy told me she wanted us to run away together. Disappear. New names. New lives.”