Sadie's Spirit by CB Samet (best book reader TXT) 📕

“Sensing.”

“Ghost sensing.” Mark shook his head. “Doesn’t have the same allure as ghost whisperer.”

Willow started up the stairs, and he followed.

“So, what does pay the bills?” Mark suspected she had some other type of employment, since her performance seemed rather bland as far as ‘ghost sensing’ went. Willow was too normal—not enough pizazz or dramatic flare. The first crew he’d hired had brought all sorts of equipment and cameras, and even planned to camp overnight. They didn’t last the whole night, though.

The second hire had been a woman in her sixties with long gray hair, dressed in robes. She’d thrown holy water around the house.

“I’m a freelance writer,” Willow explained.

Mark chuckled.

“That’s funny?” Willow turned to look at him, as they stood halfway up the stairs.

“Does that make you a ghost writer?”

“Cute.” Her eyes stayed sharp, but the slight smile betrayed Willow’s amusement. She continued climbing the stairs.

“Have you sensed anything?” she asked.

“Anything paranormal, you mean?” Mark stared at the back of Willow’s head, so as not to watch the way her hips moved hypnotically with each step.

“Yes. Anything unusual?”

“Creaks, moans, and doors opening and closing. Things I can’t explain away based on the outside temperature, barometric pressure, or the tilt of the house. But absolutely nothing suggests there are ghosts here, that’s for sure.”

“But other people have seen something?”

“So they say.”

Willow stopped so abruptly at the top of the stairs that Mark almost ran into her. This close to her, he breathed in and realized Willow smelled like cherry blossoms. As she turned, he stepped backward to give her space.

“The attic,” Willow demanded.

“Right this way.” Mark stepped around her and led Willow to one of the bedrooms. He’d been doing his own repairs to the house for a month now, and by now knew every nook and cranny. He’d even gotten to know the spiders in the crawl space intimately.

As for the attic, it was cluttered but harmless enough.

Mark opened the attic door, and Willow stepped inside without hesitation. Light from the window on the opposite wall gave her a white, angelic glow. Mark didn’t believe in ghosts, but he might just start to believe in angels.

Ridiculous. What type of mentally unstable woman has a part-time gig inspecting haunted houses?

Mark checked his watch. “Are you going to be okay on your own? I’ve got to head into Wilmington for a meeting.” He recalled the white-faced, wide-eyed looks of his contractors when they’d quit. Maybe he shouldn’t leave Willow alone.

“I wouldn’t be much of a medium if I ran and hid from every ghost I encountered! Besides, you have only one ghost, and his name is Henry.”

Mark looked around the room—from the old chests to the broken and dusty furniture. He cleared his throat. “And Henry is here now?”

“He is. He says hello, and not to take the bridge back home until after six pm.”

“Oh-kay.” Mark backed out of the attic, leaving the door open.

Yeah.

He could leave her here for a few hours, and she’d be no worse for wear.