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Sandra laughed nervously. “Well. As I said. Stiff.”

Mortification flickered across the ghost’s expression so quickly Nate would have missed it if he hadn’t focused all his attention on the thing trying to scare him away.

Interesting.

A ghost with that much presence should have been able to slam a door.

Unless he was holding back.

Or something was wrong with him.

Nate wrote pocket doors need repair.

Then, after a beat, added haunting: inconsistent physical influence.

The ghost looked at the notebook.

His eyes widened.

“Don’t write that.”

Nate glanced up.

The ghost looked furious—and also like someone who had been caught failing at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Shall we see the kitchen?”

“Please,” Nate said.

The kitchen was a crime scene.

Not literally.

Probably not literally—there was still the matter of the ghost hanging around— but someone had made terrible design choices in here, and the evidence was everywhere, including neon-green cabinets, peeling laminate counters, and a dropped ceiling looming eight feet over it all.

“It’s very retro,” Sandra said.

“It’s very something,” Nate admitted.

The ghost drifted in through the wall beside the refrigerator, arms crossed. “The kitchen is fine.”

Nate found a broom in the corner and used the handle to nudge one of the ceiling tiles aside. Above it: two more feet of height, and the original beadboard ceiling. Painted over, but intact.

Huh.

He let the tile drop back before Sandra could read his face.

“What,” the ghost said, drifting closer. “What did you see. What’s up there?”

A ghost who didn’t know what was above his own kitchen ceiling. Nate filed that thought away as he opened the nearest cabinet. The door came loose in his hand.

This seemed to upset the ghost. “You broke it!”

“I suppose these screws haven’t been tightened in a while,” Sandra said.

“Suppose not.” Nate put the cabinet door down and checked under the sink. The supply lines were copper, connecting to an old drain, but nothing was weeping.

“The basement is this way,” Sandra said.