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Action/Thriller
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The family that ghost-hunts together...
If Ginger thought avoiding her determined ex-boyfriend and helping her brother with a paranormal investigation would be easy, she was dead wrong. A two-week mid-summer investigation is about to reunite a family and give Ginger a second chance at love—if she's bold enough to take it.
Excerpt
Good help is so hard to find...
“Ginger?” Chris yelled from downstairs. “I’ve got your candy bar. Sorry it took so long. I bought a new map and some snacks for the road. What are all those cars doing in the—” He stopped, nearly tripping over the body on the landing.
“I’m okay, Chris. Adam’s up here with me.”
Chris looked down at the body for long moments before raising his eyes to Adam and Ginger and hitching his thumb toward the lifeless figure at the bottom of the stairs.
“Are we calling the police, or do I need to put him in the trunk?”
A few weeks earlier...
As much as she loved her aunt and uncle and the extended bunch of family that had taken her in, at a rough time in her life, no less… Chris and Gran had practically raised her. There was a lot to be said for that. She felt the old familiar pull of duty and obligation and sighed, aware of being at a crossroads and thoroughly unsure as to what her next move should be.
That, she decided, was a problem for another day. Today, this day, was for soaking up all the sun had to offer. Maybe Chris would head to the beach with her, if he wasn’t too busy.
She found him right where she thought he was likely to be—in his study. She’d always hated this room, with its dark paneling, pressed-copper ceiling, and overall masculine feel.
“I’m going to the beach today,” she announced, crossing to the window to thrust the heavy brocade curtains apart.
“Have fun.”
“You want to go with me? Maybe a little shopping after? Or how about a movie? Is that little Indie theater downtown still open?”
“I think so, but you’ll have to go it solo today, Gin. I’ve got a lot of work to do yet.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sorry.” He looked up from a picture he had been intently studying and offered up the apology.
“No, it’s okay, I just thought you might be ready for a break. I know my way around.” She shrugged, peering around him at the photo. “What is that?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe nothing.” He set the five-by-seven photo aside and reached for the stack of mail at the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. “You go on ahead. Have fun. I’ll be around later if you want to grab dinner and drinks.”
“Drinks on a Friday night with my big brother? Sure, why not. I’ll be back around seven, God willing with a killer tan and a new dress.”
“Uh-huh…”
“See you.” She waved on her way out and was halfway to the front door when she heard the frantic call.
“Chris…?”
“Ginger, wait!” He met her in the hallway between the study and the main entrance, a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand, his face flushed with what she thought was excitement. “Read this.”
“Okay.” She accepted the papers from his outstretched hand. “What is it?”
“Today’s mail.”
He said nothing more. Ginger walked into the kitchen off the hall and slipped onto a stool at the bar overlooking the bay window before turning her full attention to the letter she held before her.
Mr. Malhaven,
My name is Elizabeth Scott. I don’t normally reach out like this, but I don’t know what else to do, and I saw you on TV when you did that spot on Ninety Minutes, and you seemed so trustworthy. Where do I begin? My husband Peter and I bought our first house in 2009, and if I ever write a book, I think I’ll call it ‘The Home Inspector from Hell’ or maybe ‘Run’ says it all. In retrospect, the deal was ill fated from the start. I have finally answered the age old question. What do you get when you throw a hundred-year-old house together with two toddlers, a pregnant woman, and a man who can outdo Tim Taylor from Home Improvement? A disaster.
My husband and I tried so hard. We nursed our dream through leaky pipes, lead, and asbestos. We spent a fortune on babysitters and Min-Wax. I will never forget the time when, late one evening, we collapsed into our front porch chairs and congratulated ourselves on a job well done. Boy was that a short lived victory. If I remember correctly, it was about three weeks later that the house slipped five inches off its foundation. Let me put this another way in case you’re not familiar with foundation lingo: When used in the same sentence, ‘slipped’ and ‘five inches’ is another way of saying ‘screwed’.
Picture a stack of dominoes—when it goes, it takes everything with it. Apparently, once the foundation starts to go, the wiring, framing, and pipes are usually not too far behind. The lowest bid to avert even more disaster came in just under fifty grand. In essence, we were left with a very classy-looking piece of crap.
The first oddity? The foundation had checked out as stable, confirmed not only by our inspector but by three separate contractors upon our purchase of the home. Even stranger were the events that led to our abandoning the property and trying to sell it for less than ten thousand dollars. Looking back, I think it all started with the nightmare. But here I am getting ahead of myself.
I can’t claim that I was ever truly comfortable in our house, but things began to escalate once we started renovations. At first it was strange noises—the proverbial ‘bumps in the night’ you could say. But then … other things began to happen. Strange sounds became voices; I would leave a room, knowing that I had turned off the lights, or switched an appliance off, only to find it on a few minutes later. And then of course, there was the episode with one of our dogs.
We abandoned the property several months ago, and since then things have started to happen in our new home. Please help us, I don’t know where else to turn at this point.
—Elizabeth
“Wow.” Ginger placed the letter aside and stared at her brother with wide-eyed speculation. “That was certainly interesting.”
“I have to call her.” He scooped the papers from the countertop. “Have fun at the beach. I’ll fill you in later, over dinner, on what I find out,” he tossed over his shoulder.
A second later she heard the door to the study close and strongly suspected that another case had just begun. The hunt was on.
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