Page 1 of Purrfectly Haunted

Prologue

JAMES

“Shoot her, Ewan! SHOOT HER, YOU BIG OAF!” I scream, crawling backwards as the nightmare entity limps towards me, engulfed in flames.

The witch’s skin melted off her face in the brazier that caused her death centuries ago. She reaches for me with a wrinkled hand and blackened fingers. Her dress is aflame, revealing the emaciated body underneath.

Ewan stands on the other side of the fire from which she emerged, fumbling with the ghost-hunting weapon issued by the company. In his panic, he drops the gun.

“EWAN!” I roar. “I SWEAR TO GOD.”

I throw the first thing I can get my hands on at the Crone’s face: the EMF meter I was holding. The device flies right through the entity and hits the fridge on the other side of the kitchen with a loud bang.

And this is how, ladies and gentleman, I discover ghosts are, in fact, very much real.

Well, fuck.

one

Thick thighs and pretty eyes

JAMES

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please look to your left, we’re arriving at our fifth stop. This is one of Edinburgh’s most haunted locations,” says the Ghost Bus Tour hostess with an ominous voice. “From whispers in the night, to soft touches on the back and apparitions at the top of the stairs, these ghosts have been around for far longer than you and I. They have terrified generations of visitors. Please behold, Lynch House!”

While the tour guide dramatically pauses so we can locate the house in question through the foggy windows, I try my best not to roll my eyes. For some reason, my new boss thought it would be a good idea to send me a vague voice message, in which he’d promptly forgotten the address of my first job. So, he just told me to get on the Ghost Bus and stop at the fifth stop. You best believe I’ll bill the company for the expensive ride.

I crane my neck to look at the house as the bus takes a turn into the narrow street of Old Town Edinburgh, but a giant bloke is obstructing my view. I glare at the back of his head for a heartbeat—a mess of light brown hair—before reaching over the aisle and thumping him on the back. He jerks and looks at me over his massive shoulder. He’s more youthful than I expected, early twenties at most, with a cute face considering his size.

“I can’t see,” I say, itching for an argument.

But the man just ducks his head politely, cramming his large body between the seats.

Dusk is descending over Edinburgh, accompanied by fog that could be a paid actor from the Ghost Tour company. The double-decker bus stops by the pavement, and the centuries-old gray stone building stands proud, light glowing from every window. There are at least five floors, and an actual tower with a spire on the left side of the house. The roof slates are covered in green moss and a great number of chimneys rise above the skyline.

This place looks haunted alright, I think.

“This house was built in eighteen forty-four by Earl Fergus Lynch,” the hostess continues. “Good old Fergus was a fan of the occult and a dark practitioner. He invited other nobles to partake in his seances to converse with spirits. The ghosts are said to have stayed behind long after the earl expired at the not-so-ripe age of fifty-five from syphilis. The house was passed down generations and rented out in the last decades, until the last son of the family died eight years ago. The house was bequeathed to a far-remote cousin who has since turned it into a hostel. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you can now stay with the ghosts of Lynch House! Reports of the many sightings of the spirit activity in the house can be found in our book...”

I stop listening to the hostess as I stand up and make my way down to the bottom deck, my company-issued bag thrown over my shoulder. They have turned off the lights for a spookier effect, and I almost trip twice on people’s outstretched feet in the aisle. Tourists watch me as I walk around the hostess with her mic and reach the door.

My reflection appears in the glass window while I wait for the doors to open. My black hair is elegantly mussed and the low collar of my ripped t-shirt shows the intricate tattoo on my neck—the ones on my arms are hidden under my black puffer jacket. The piercings on my ears glint under the light above my head. I might not be very tall, but at least I make up for it with my aura.

I glare at my reflection, the door isn’t budging.

“I’m getting out here,” I say to the driver.

The driver—a balding, middle-aged man—offers me toothy smile. “There’s no getting off this bus, mate. We’re the Ghost Bus Tour, not public transportation.”

I turn to offer him the full scope of my withering look. “Let me out.”

He must have decided it’s not worth antagonizing me further because seconds later the door opens with a plaintive groan. “Suit yourself.”

As I’m about to get out, there’s movement from the aisle. The hostess is trying to squeeze herself over an empty seat to allow the giant from the top deck to pass. He looks entirely self-conscious as the entire bus is watching him. When he reaches me, his eyes are downcast.

I harrumph and jump out on the streets. The big fella follows me, and the driver closes the door behind us with finality. As if afraid we’re going to cause trouble, he drives away as the hostess is still reciting Lynch House’s apparently endless history of ghost activity. The two of us find ourselves standing side by side on the pavement, facing the hostel.

“So, you’re my ExorSquad teammate,” I say as I eye him. I should have noticed it sooner, he’s wearing the same uniform as me, dark-blue overalls with the logo of the company on it, a depressed-looking ghost. Except his look about to burst at the seams. He really is a broad-shouldered chap. Even the bag on his shoulder—company issued, too—looks smaller than mine when compared to his body.