Page 31 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“Ouch,” he muttered.

“No, it’s a good thing,” Augustine clarified, fingers already moving across the keyboard. “Because you’ll be a news story. Your death must have been reported somewhere.”

Theo’s eyes lit slightly. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “The BBC would’ve covered it. I worked there.” He paused. “Actually, they probably would’ve come to me for the statistics,” he added dryly. “If, you know, I hadn’t been the one who died. Ironic, right?”

Augustine nodded, opening Google. “Full name?”

“Manford. Theodore Manford.”

She paused. Manford. Why did she know that name? Shaking her head, she started to type. Theodore Manford. BBC. Death.

She pressed enter and watched as results flooded the screen while behind her, Theo leaned closer, peering over her shoulder.

Again, that strange sensation washed over her, because he felt so real. She could sense him there. Could hear him breathing, smell the warm scent of his skin.

How can he be dead? How? The only dead people who smell of spices are ones who were mummified in Ancient Egypt.

Then the first headline appeared, and Augustine’s breath caught in her throat.

“That can’t be,” she murmured, clicking on a link, typing again into the search bar. “Something’s wrong here.”

“What is it?” Theo asked. “What?”

She sat back, perplexed. “Umm, look, here’s the thing . . .”

“What? What’s the thing? What have you found?”

“That’s just it.” Augustine turned to face him. “Nothing. I’ve found nothing. So far as the internet is concerned, it’s like you don’t even exist. Like you never existed at all.”

Chapter Twelve

Theo’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t exist?” His voice rose an octave. “What are you talking about?”

Augustine swallowed down a knot of anxiety. “There’s nothing about you on the internet. No obituary. No news articles. Not even a Facebook page.”

“Well, that one’s easy to explain. I never had a Facebook page in the first place.”

“Okay, fair play to you, I’m anti-establishment as well—”

“Really?” Theo asked dryly, gesturing to her shop. “A witch in a witch’s shop? I would never have guessed.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not a witch.” She gave him a look. “And do you want my help or not?”

He swallowed. “Sorry, yeah.”

“There’s just . . . nothing.” She frowned as she pushed the laptop screen towards him. “No Instagram. No TikTok. No LinkedIn. Nothing. Your digital footprint is about as real as your current one. There’s nothing about your work at the BBC either. Or your murder.”

He made a small, frustrated noise, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, I promise you, I existed. My name is Theodore Manford. I am — fuck, I was — a statistician for the BBC. I was murdered recently. And I’m pretty sure I had a girlfriend, who I’m now very worried about.”

Girlfriend. Something small inside of Augustine curled up a little at the word, which was ridiculous. Because Theo was dead. He was the non-living embodiment of a relationship that could literally go nowhere.

“You had a girlfriend?” she asked, and she hated that her voice sounded small.

“I think so,” Theo said, before he nodded firmly. “Yes. I did.”

“You think so?” Once again, Augustine felt a pulse of uncertainty. “How can you know the statistical rate of homicide within the inner London area but not whether or not you had a girlfriend?”

Theo slumped into Augustine’s sofa, and she tried not to blink in surprise at the knowledge that he — an apparition — could sit on actual furniture.