The medium paces slowly through the rooms of 6294 Greenwoods Terrace, hands held outwards in a position of surrender. Her purple-shaded eyelids are closed, and her beaded necklaces clack together when she moves.
I found her through Google, searching for someone practiced in exorcisms. The ghost hunting team would only traipse through the freshly washed carpets with their equipment to capture evidence, not actually remove the spirits. And the only priest in the tri-county area advertising his services wouldn’t be available until he returned from his sabbatical in Boca.
This ghost has made the property unsellable. So Lila Moonlight is my best option. Currently, she’s touring the house, putting her palms against the walls my clients just painted last month.
“I sense dark energy,” she murmurs, stopping by the master bed window. Touching the base of her skull, she whispers, “A blow to the head…”
Behind me, I hear an otherworldly snort. “Try a heart attack, lady.”
I wait to see if Ms. Moonlight’s heard the comment, the flirty voice over my shoulder. She doesn’t respond. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Don’t worry, toots. I’m not going anywhere until you agree to that date.”
In fifth grade, Catherine Hardin thought about how many words were in a book and swore to never become an author. Two years later, she filled a notebook with stories and hasn’t stopped writing since. Now she’s putting one word after another until she has a book of her own.