Page 11 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“What stories?” I asked, then soothed my rough voice with another sip of tea. “Why do people think it’s haunted and not just drafty, like you said?”

She really couldn’t blame the rumors. There was definitely a pissed-off ghost in that room who loved to scare whoever was unfortunate enough to be placed there. Too bad for him, his tactics didn’t work on me. But slamming windows, moving furniture, and temperature drops? In this old house? In this old town laced with magic that humans were probably unaware of but still a casualty of? The story practically wrote itself.

“Every generation has their own version,” she explained, waving her hand and sending streusel across the tablecloth. “I was a kid myself when it happened, so I know the truth.”

“When what happened?”

I leaned closer, inviting her to tell me. Even Fenn hopped out of the bag to hear better. I casually dropped a few pieces of muffin under the table for him. There was still no sign of the ghost, thank the Goddess, but he could appear at any minute, and I was worried I wouldn’t get my answers. Something told me the stories were true, and I’d have a better idea of how to deal with my ornery roommate if I knew what they were.

She sighed. “My great-grandmother used to host séances in the attic, back when this was our family home and not an inn. She thought herself a witch.” Mrs. Haverly cut me a sideways look, but when I didn’t laugh at her confession, she continued, “There was a local boy, Wes Hale, who was always outspoken about these…meetings. One night, he snuck up there with his little notebook and camera to prove my great-grandmother was a fake. She never liked to talk about what happened. There was an explosion that nearly took out the entire attic. Poor Wes was caught right in it, and now people claim his spirit still haunts the room.”

That...made a lot of sense, actually, and explained his aversion to witches and all things magical; even his almost protective attitude over the attic and this town. I’d spend my entire afterlife pissed off, too, if something I never believed in took me out. Part of me sympathized with him, being a victim of the horrible side of magic myself. And now I also had a name: Wes.

“It’s a bunch of hogwash, of course,” Mrs. Haverly rushed to add. “And look at you proving them all wrong! I had a feeling you wouldn’t be so easily scared off.”

I finished the last bite of muffin with a smile. She was right about that, and it was time to let Wes know it, too. I wasn’t going anywhere, not until it was safe for me to do so. He was just going to have to suck it up and have a witch as a roommate for a little while longer.

The attic was arctic when I returned, complete with frost on the window and over the entire bathroom mirror. My torn tights and scarf, which had protected me against the autumn wind outside, did nothing to curb the chill I felt now. It sank into my bones the second I passed the threshold, almost like the intention was to make me as uncomfortable as possible.

Wes was pissed and throwing a ghostly tantrum. Shocker.

I thought back to earlier in the day, when he’d manifested in town to slam a door in my face. There was something about me going into the café that pissed him off, and apparently, he wasn’t over it. Fenn hopped onto the large rug in the middle of the room, gaze shrewd and searching. When another bitter wind blew, he shivered and immediately hopped up to bury himself in the covers on the bed. Only his eyes were visible, and they were narrowed in annoyance.

If this attitude of his is going to be a regular occurrence, then I say it’s time to salt the room and be done with it.

The rocker in the corner banged against the wall in retaliation, and I snorted. If I thought that would work, I would have done it last night. Besides, now that I knew more about the ghost’s history, I felt bad. We were a literal reminder of his death and everything he was against in life. I wouldn’t trust me either. There truly was evil magic out there, and without getting to know me, how was he supposed to know that I wasn’t it?

Seriously, Fenn continued, not caring that he was essentially poking the ghost with a stick. I can teach you a spell or two that will take care of this whole thing, and then we can sleep nice and toasty tonight.

The blankets suddenly flipped, wrapping Fenn up like a dumpling and hanging him mid-air. He croaked in outrage before tapping into his own innate magic and appearing blanket-free on the hardwood. I hung my satchel on the coat rack behind the door and shook my head.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him, and besides, spells are big magic…which we’re not doing right now.” Fenn glared up at me, like I was ruining his fun, and I stared back with my hands on my hips. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

It probably isn’t worth the risk, he grumbled. But I’m sure there’s something we can do. You need your practice after all.

The window rattled violently at the suggestion, and I shook my head again. Wes was going to have to get over himself at some point; talking about casting and actually casting were two very different things. My small illusions, when necessary, were something I had no choice in. Everything else was off the table—not that the distinction mattered to him.

I sat at the desk to take off my boots, but Fenn hopped up, nearly knocking my notebooks onto the floor.

Use it or lose it.

I huffed. “That’s not a thing.”

It very much is a thing! Fenn lifted his snout, and sparks surrounded my laces, keeping them locked. I glared at his carefree use of magic; a little jealous and a whole lot irritated. Your spellcasting abilities will weaken if you don’t maintain them, and that makes you vulnerable.

I didn’t care. At least I’d be alive, but Fenn wasn’t going to let this go, despite how his encouragement sent the temperature of the room plummeting even further. It was awkward having an audience for this conversation because we were both excluding the most important part—Gideon.

Practice, of any kind, was more complicated than Fenn made it out to be. Every cast came with a major risk, and I wasn’t sold on it being worth it.

“For now, I’m strictly on the theoretical side of practicing,” I told him, then opened one of my family’s grimoires for emphasis.

The candles on the shelf nearest me moved into a perfectly straight, passive-aggressive line, and I rolled my eyes. At least Fenn was finally quiet. Maybe Wes would calm down when he realized nothing would come of the toad’s instigations. I tried to focus on one of my family’s more intricate illusion spells, jotting my ideas and notes down in a small journal.

When I reached to grab a potion off the same shelf as the candles, it slid away. Thinking I nudged it with the back of my hand, I stood this time and tried again. The small bottle slipped and nearly flung itself off the edge. The air on the back of my neck turned thick and pressed against my skin, as if someone stood directly behind me. My heartbeat quickened, but I forced it to calm down.

Wes was trying to get a rise out of me, and it wasn’t going to work. I dropped my pen in the crease of the journal and slowly turned. Arms crossed, I sighed heavily and focused on the swirling shadows a couple feet away by the en suite.

“You’re doing that thing again,” I scolded.