Page 30 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

She blushed. “Hey. I’ve seen, you know, Ghost and, um . . .” Desperately, Augustine tried to think of another paranormal film that didn’t involve a pottery wheel and an amazingly sensual Demi Moore.

“And?” Theo prompted, and from the look in his eyes she knew his mind had gone exactly where hers had, too.

“And, um . . . Poltergeist,” she finished weakly.

Theo hid a smile.

“I don’t need your help passing to the other side,” he said gently. “Whatever that even means. And just to reassure you, I have no intention of vomiting green ectoplasm, possessing your furniture, or dragging you dramatically towards the afterlife either.”

“That’s good,” Augustine replied. “Because I’m pretty sure my shop’s insurance doesn’t cover hauntings.”

He laughed, and Augustine blinked in surprise at the sound.

“Are you definitely sure you’re dead?” she asked, bewildered. “Because you don’t, you know, seem like a dead man. You’re laughing. Breathing. Standing up. Holding my business card. I just . . . I don’t get it. I mean, you carried a pumpkin for me. How are you able to hold things, when people walk right through you?”

“I wish I could explain it,” Theo said quietly. “I really do. I wish I had statistics to help me now. But I don’t, so I did some . . .” he paused, “. . . investigating of my own. Turns out I can touch things, just not living things.”

“Living things? You mean, like animals as well as people?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you figure that out?” she asked curiously.

Theo gave a sheepish shrug. “I practiced on a pigeon.” He paused. “In the park.”

“Did it work?”

“Eventually.”

Well. That was one way to spend your afterlife, Augustine supposed.

“When I was alive, I never imagined what death would be like,” Theo went on. “I suppose I always assumed it would be . . . an end.”

“But it’s not?” Augustine asked.

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s worse than that, because it isn’t an ending at all.” He frowned, evidently searching for the right words. “Food still looks good to me, and I can remember exactly how it tastes. Bread, coffee, oranges. Even lemons, and I hated lemons. I remember the feeling of being hungry too. But I’m not hungry. Not even a little.”

Augustine listened quietly.

“And water,” he went on. “I can watch someone drink a glass of water and remember how good it feels when you’re thirsty. But I’m not thirsty. Not ever.” He hesitated then, colour rising faintly in his cheeks. “And I see you, and I—”

He stopped abruptly.

Augustine tilted her head. “You see me and what?”

Theo took a breath. “I see you,” he said carefully, “a beautiful woman, and I remember what it’s like to . . . touch someone. To kiss them. To—” he reddened further — “you know. Do other things.”

Augustine reddened but nodded. “Other things,” she repeated helpfully.

Theo nodded miserably. “Yes.”

“But you can’t.”

“No.” His voice softened. “I can’t touch anyone. I can’t feel anything. All those things exist only in my memory now.” He let out a silent breath. “And the worst part is that none of my precious statistics can help me. Because I’m nothing more than one of them now. Just a percentage point in Scotland Yard’s crime statistics. Filed, counted, and then forgotten.”

Augustine blinked, before something occurred to her.

“Wait. Just wait a minute.” She moved quickly towards the till, flipping open her laptop. “You’re right. You are just a statistic now.”