Page 43 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

My sister sighs dramatically, clearly giving up. “Fine,” she says. “Be like that. Don’t talk to him. Don’t marry him or have cute iKittens for me to cuddle. Keep being miserable and lonely and—”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash from somewhere near the kitchen, and we both turn to see the punch bowl — ornate, enormous, and genuine crystal — lying on its side on the table, red liquid cascading dramatically onto the floor like a low-budget scene from a bad horror movie.

My sister winces. “Fuck,” she exhales slowly. “What a mess. Do you know how much vodka is in that thing?”

The punch continues pouring onto the floor.

“Was in that thing, you mean,” I correct her, and she sighs.

“I better deal with it.” She kisses me on the head. “Get yourself some more wine while I’m gone.”

Before I can protest, she’s up and has slipped into the crowd, angel wings bobbing as she disappears towards the disaster.

“And talk to Steve Jobs!” she calls over her shoulder. I watch her go, shaking my head.

Then I turn back towards the doorway.

Towards Steve Jobs.

Except he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

I blink, scanning the room again, but the doorway is empty now. Just a guy in a vampire cape arguing with someone dressed as a hot dog.

I sit up a little straighter, looking over the heads of the crowd, but there’s nothing. No black turtleneck. No confused expression. No ridiculously good-looking man who looks like he accidentally wandered into the wrong decade.

“Huh,” I mutter, and for a strange moment, disappointment settles in my chest, which is ridiculous, because I didn’t even talk to him. I only saw him for, what? Maybe thirty seconds?

Still. I take another sip of wine, leaning back into the couch, and try very hard not to keep looking for him as the party carries on around me like nothing happened.

Music thumps through the walls, someone turns the volume up even louder, and the smell of cheap vodka and fake fog fluid hangs thick in the air. My ears continually flicker, the flash of lights reflecting on my glass. Across the room, I spot my sister again, but she’s got a mop now. It’s a downgrade from the angel wings, but hey, this is her office party, and her job is on the line if someone slips, cracks open their head and then sues the company for all they’ve got.

She’s standing near the kitchen doorway, aggressively swiping at the floor while arguing with a man in a devil mask and costume, who clearly knocked the punch over in the first place. He’s got plastic horns, a red tail, and the deeply offended posture of someone who believes mopping is beneath him. I watch as my sister gestures furiously at the spreading lake of punch on the floor and the devil gestures furiously back. They’re clearly in the throes of a pretty satisfying argument, and I’m not going to interrupt, so for a moment I just sit there, watching an angel mop up a river of red alcohol while arguing with the devil.

Suddenly, I realize I’m tired, and not just party-tired. The music feels louder now, the room feels hotter, my costume feels itchier, and someone in a skeleton costume trips over the coffee table and collapses onto the couch beside me with a dramatic groan.

For me, that’s the final straw. Me, my sanity and my glowing ears have all had enough.

Yeah. I’m done here.

I pick my way carefully across the room, weaving between a pirate, a zombie bride, and someone dressed as a sexy nun. I grab my coat from the back of a chair and turn to get my sister’s attention.

My sister. The angel. Who is now very enthusiastically making out with the devil across the room, both her mop and her wings lying abandoned on the floor.

It’s Paradise Lost, but make it drunk and twenty-something.

I watch for another second, just to confirm that yes, that is absolutely what’s happening. It doesn’t take me long to decide I’ll just text her when I get home. Better that than interrupt her while she’s tongue deep in poor life choices.

I glance around the room one more time, just in case Steve Jobs is still here. He’s not though, and a small, irritating wave of disappointment rises in my chest as I press the lift button. The doors slide open almost immediately and I step inside, leaning back against the wall as the doors close.

It’s probably for the best, I tell myself, shrugging my coat onto my shoulders and readjusting my crooked cat ears in the mirrored panel. We probably wouldn’t have had anything in common anyway. I mean, he looks like the kind of man who owns multiple spreadsheets, while I once made gingerbread and forgot to add the ginger.

The lift hums softly as it descends and my ears flash pink again when the music upstairs thumps through the ceiling. When the doors finally slide open, I push myself upright and step forward—

—and immediately catch the heel of my shoe on the edge of the lift.

My ankle twists and for a dangerous moment, everything drops. Instead of gracefully exiting the lift like a functional adult, I stumble forward and straight into someone solid. Two hands catch my arms before I can hit the floor.

Strong hands. Warm hands. For a moment I’m half pressed against a black turtleneck.