Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Teaser chapter
Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Ghost Hunter Mystery Series
“Victoria Laurie is the queen of paranormal mysteries.”
—BookReview.com
“Reminiscent of Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s bunch, Laurie’s enthusiastic, punchy ghost busters make this paranormal series one teens can also enjoy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Laurie’s new paranormal series lights up the night.”
—National bestselling author Elaine Viets
“A bewitching book blessed with many blithe spirits. Will leave you breathless.”
—Nancy Martin, author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries
“Filled with laugh-out-loud moments and nail-biting, hair-raising tension, this fast-paced, action-packed ghost story will keep readers hooked from beginning to end.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[A] fun, suspenseful, fast-paced paranormal mystery. All the elements combine to make this entry in the Ghost Hunter series a winner.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“A lighthearted, humorous haunted-hotel horror thriller kept focused by ‘graveyard’-serious M.J.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Ms. Laurie has penned a fabulous read and packed it with ghost-hunting action at its best. With a chilling mystery, a danger-filled investigation, a bit of romance, and a wonderful dose of humor, there’s little chance that readers will be able to set this book down.”
—Darque Reviews
“Victoria Laurie continues to excite and entertain with her ideas and characters and also inform John Q. Public in matters metaphysical. Cannot wait for the next from Ms. Laurie!”
—AuthorsDen.com
“Perhaps what makes this story and this series so good is that Victoria Laurie is actually a professional medium. She knows what she’s talking about, and she sure can write a good story.”
—A Bibliophile’s Bookshelf
“A great, fast-paced, addicting read.”
—Enchanting Reviews
“A great story.”
—MyShelf.com
“Laurie’s new sleuth, M. J. Holliday, is a winner.... Laurie makes everything that her characters do ring true, which can be a feat in a paranormal story. This highly entertaining book has humor and wit to spare.”—Romantic Times
Praise for the Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Mysteries
“Victoria Laurie has crafted a fantastic tale in this latest Psychic Eye Mystery. There are few things in life that upset Abby Cooper, but ghosts and her parents feature high on her list . . . giving the reader a few real frights and a lot of laughs.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Fabulous . . . Fans will highly praise this fine ghostly murder mystery.”
—The Best Reviews
“A great new series . . . plenty of action.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An invigorating entry into the cozy mystery realm . . . I cannot wait for the next book.”
—Roundtable Reviews
“A fresh, exciting addition to the amateur sleuth genre.”
—J. A. Konrath, author of Cherry Bomb
“Worth reading over and over again.”
—BookReview.com
“A series which somehow manages to get better with every book that comes out.”
—Examiner.com
The Ghost Hunter Mystery Series
What’s a Ghoul to Do?
Demons Are a Ghoul’s Best Friend
Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun
Ghouls Gone Wild
Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls
The Psychic Eye Mystery Series
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye
Better Read Than Dead
A Vision of Murder
Killer Insight
Crime Seen
Death Perception
Doom with a View
A Glimpse of Evil
Vision Impossible
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January 2012
ISBN : 978-1-101-55927-7
Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2012 All rights reserved
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Acknowledgments
By my count this is my eighteenth book. Technically, it’s the seventeenth to be published, but the eighteenth to be written. (Number seventeen—or eighteen depending on how you look at it—will be out in February.)
Anyway, the point is that I’ve written a buttload of books. Not as many as Barbara Cartland or Nora Roberts, mind you . . . but still, a buttload. Throughout most of them, I’ve acknowledged not only those people who’ve helped make that book a reality, but also those souls who’ve inspired characters and plots. To that end, I’m quite blessed. I’m surrounded by amazingly color
ful people and I love showcasing them in fun ways—well, fun ways to me; maybe not always fun to them (just ask my sister . . . ahem!). Still, on the whole, they’ve all been incredibly good sports about it.
So while I list here the names of those wonderful folks who’ve assisted with the process of bringing Abby and M. J. to life, remember that many of them have often given more to the process than they bargained for!
To my amazing, dedicated, and incredibly supportive editor, Sandra Harding, who is just about the most gracious and talented woman I know: Thank you, Sandy, for all your time, effort, and insight. I absolutely adore both you and the opportunity to work with you.
Jim McCarthy, my agent, muse, and friend. True story about Jim: midway through this book I called him, complaining that I’d run out of new neuroses for Gilley. Without missing a beat he replied, “Did I ever tell you about the time I had a really bad headache on a plane and convinced myself that I was having a stroke, to the point that I spent most of the flight in the bathroom making sure I could raise and lower both eyebrows?” If you love Gilley like I do, then you may also have Jim McCarthy to thank.
Michele Alpern, my awesome and fantabulous copy-editor (who is probably right now itching to fix the word fantabulous!). Michele is so good that I refuse to be assigned to anyone else. I believe she walks on water. . . . Mostly, she just keeps me honest and makes sense of the prose. (Trust me, walking on water is less of a miracle!)
Clair Zion—my publisher extraordinaire! This woman is an absolute marvel, and I’m so grateful to huddle under her umbrella. Especially if it’s an L. L. Bean umbrella. (Haha! Claire, that one’s just for you!)
Kaitlyn Kennedy—my publicist and a veritable fountain of bubbly enthusiasm. You cannot talk to this talented young lady without feeling jazzed, energized, and enthused about getting the word out. Thanks, Kaitlyn. You’ve definitely made a difference!
Finally, a few personal mentions: My own Team Laurie, namely, Katie Coppedge and Hilary Laurie, who keep me firmly ensconced in a happy bubble of love and support, where I get to work without interruption. Thank you for creating such a secure and happy space for me. I love you both.
Also, some of my trusted inner circle should be noted here too: Nora, Bob, and Mike Brosseau; Karen Dit-mars; Leanne Tierney; Neil and Kim Mahoney; Betty and Pippa Stocking; Shannon Anderson; Silas Hudson; Juan Tamayo; Ric Michael; Thomas Robinson; Jackie Barrett; Suzanne Parsons; Molly Boyle; and the woman who started it all, Martha Bushko. Love and special thanks to each and every one of you.
Chapter 1
I’ve always believed in ghosts. Actually, I had no choice in the matter. My childhood was full of encounters with disembodied voices, strange blue flashes, flickering shadows at the edge of my peripheral vision, and odd-looking orbs appearing right over my head.
And then, of course, my mother died and her ghost came to see me.
I was eleven going on twelve when her cancer finally won the war it’d waged so savagely against her. I knew the instant that she passed, even though every adult in my world had tried to shield me from the knowledge that it was coming. I remember playing with my new best friend, Gilley Gillespie, on the back porch of his house in beautiful Valdosta, Georgia. The memory of that day is as clear as if it happened yesterday.
Even back then his mother had indulged Gilley’s rather effeminate tastes. Gil had one of the best collections of Barbie and Ken dolls you’ve ever seen and we played with those dolls almost constantly.
In fact, on that beautiful early fall morning twenty-odd years ago, that’s exactly what we were doing. While Gilley was setting Ken up on a blind date with G.I. Joe, I’d been happily working Barbie into a new pencil skirt, and just like that, I knew my mother was gone.
I remember dropping the Barbie and getting to my feet, the shock from the certainty of Mama’s passing crushing something fragile inside of me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and I certainly couldn’t think past the terrible heartache building inside me.
My vision had clouded and stars had begun to dance in front of my eyes and I felt myself sway on wobbly knees. Somewhere nearby, I could sense that Gilley had noticed my strange posture and was calling my name, but I was unable to reply, or even acknowledge him. I felt like I was dying, and I didn’t know how I would ever be able to live in a world without my mother. My only thought was to pray that she’d somehow find a way to stay with me.
And then, as if by some miracle, my silent prayer had been answered and my mother appeared standing in the doorway right in front of me.
“Breathe, Mary Jane,” she’d said softly, coming quickly to my side. “It’s okay, dumplin’. Just breathe.”
I’d managed to take a very ragged breath, and with it my vision had cleared. I’d blinked and she hadn’t vanished and that crushing heartache inside me eased. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong? Maybe she hadn’t died after all?
“I have to go away for a spell, sweetheart,” she’d said, that Southern lilt in her speech so sweet and caring.
“Mama?” I’d said as she’d knelt down in front of me and placed her warm hands on the sides of my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay with you, Mary Jane,” she’d whispered tenderly, bending in to kiss my forehead. And then she’d looked me right in the eyes and added, “I know what you can see, and I know what you can hear. I also know that your daddy and your nanny, Miss Tallulah, don’t want to believe that you’re a special gifted child, and not just imaginin’ things. But you are special, dumplin’. I’ve known it from the day you were born. And during this whole time I been fightin’ the cancer, I’ve known in my heart that if I couldn’t beat it, then you’d still be able to hear me when I come round to visit with you.
“I’ll never really leave you, puddin’,” she’d assured me when I’d started to cry. “Anytime you need me, you just call out to your mama and I’ll come, so don’t be scared and don’t be sad, you hear?”
I’d nodded with a loud sniffle, trying hard to be brave for her, and she’d let go of me and stood up. I’d noticed then how beautiful she’d looked. How radiant and gloriously healthy she’d seemed. Such a far cry from the bone-thin pale woman who’d occupied her bed for the last year.
A little gasp from behind me had told me that Gilley could see her too. She’d looked at him then, and she’d said, “Now, Gilley Gillespie, you don’t be afraid neither. I need you to stay close to my Mary Jane, you hear? You be a good friend to her, ’cause I believe she’ll be needin’ a real good friend for a spell.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gil had squeaked obediently.
And then my mother had looked one last time at me with such tenderness and love that I’d nearly shattered inside. She’d blown me a kiss, mouthed, “I love you,” and then she’d vanished into thin air.
Gilley and I had never once spoken about that morning, and I carried the memory of it like a safely guarded secret. It was such a bittersweet memory that to tell anyone about it might forever taint it in some way, which is why I told no one, and I pushed it to the back of my thoughts to keep it safe and pure.
So, I couldn’t imagine why, after all these years, I’d be dreaming about it on the eve of leaving Ireland for Dunkirk to film the next segment of our reality-TV show, Ghoul Getters, but here I was all grown up now having a dream about visiting that same porch back in Valdosta, which was once again scattered with Barbies, Ken dolls, and tiny clothes, and there was my mother, standing in the doorway, looking every bit as lovely as I remembered.
“Hello, Mary Jane,” she said softly, almost shyly.
I blinked—just like when I was eleven. “Mama?”
My mother stepped forward, her smile filling up the room and my heart. “I’ve been watchin’ you,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “My, what a lovely lady you’ve turned into!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the emotion of seeing her was too much and the words just wouldn’t come.
Mama was kind enough to ignore that and simply stepped closer. T
aking my hand, she said, “I am so proud of you, Mary Jane. You just light me up with how smart you are and how courageous you’ve become. Why, I remember when you were afraid of your own shadow!”
I swallowed hard and attempted a smile. In recent years I’d played on my natural psychic-medium talents, and become a credible ghostbuster. While working on the Ghoul Getters show, I’d faced and fought back against some of the most fearsome poltergeists you could ever imagine.
“Lord, Mary Jane!” my mother exclaimed knowingly. “I’ve watched you tackle murderous spirits, and vengeful witches, and now even a phantom!”
My chest filled with the pride and love from my mother. But just then her beaming face turned serious, and she seemed to hesitate—as if she was about to choose her next words carefully. “There is a mission about to be offered to you that I know you’ll accept, honey child. One that involves the most horrendous evil imaginable.”
I blinked again. Was she talking about the ghosts in the haunted village in Dunkirk—the next place on the Ghoul Getters agenda? “I’ve already read the literature,” I said, trying to reassure her. “This time I’m going in prepared, and honestly, Mama, I don’t think it’s anything we can’t handle.”
My mother squeezed my hand, however, and sighed heavily. “Nothing can prepare you for this, Mary Jane. But I know better than to try and talk you out of it. Sam has come to me, you know.”