The Complete Coffee and Ghosts

3. The Ghost Whisperer-7

“You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

I’ve said this before. Actually, I’ve said it a hundred times, at least, since Malcolm and I started working together. Even though my street is quiet and half my neighbors leave their doors unlocked (the others keep a key beneath one of those fake rocks), if the sun is flirting with the horizon, Malcolm makes the trip up the front porch steps and makes sure I reach my door.

He says nothing in response. I never push the issue and in return, he isn’t pushy. He’s just there, solid and sure. This one small thing defines who he is.

“In the morning,” I begin. My hand lands on the doorknob. A second later, I jerk it away. What happens first, I can’t say. Do I yelp? Or do I clutch my hand to my chest, the sharp sting of freezer burn making its way through my skin?

“Katy! What is it?”

I’m doubled over, but straighten just enough to test the door again. Frozen solid. My house? Malcolm probes the door, but yanks his hand back.

“Damn.” His gaze meets mine. “It can’t be.”

But it is. My house is in a full-on ghost infestation.

He scans the porch, the roof, the yard. “Back door, maybe?” He takes my hand. His fingers are so warm, I don’t want to let go. We race around the house, clatter up the back porch steps, and confront a door hoary with frost. Instead of letting go, Malcolm grips my fingers tighter.

“Now what?” I say.

“What did you do last time?” He nods toward Sadie’s house.

Oh, yes! Of course. The full-on ghost infestation at Sadie’s might count as our very first job together—even if we didn’t realize it at the time. I clear my throat.

“All of you are aware that coffee doesn’t brew itself, right?”

At first, nothing but icy silence greets my proclamation. Then, slowly, the back door creaks open. We’re allowed only as far as the kitchen. When we try to push through to other areas of the house, a force pushes us backward, toward the percolator. Something much stronger than a sprite rattles the bin where I keep the Kona blend.

“Looks like we have our marching orders,” Malcolm says.

Over the past few months, we’ve brewed so many pots of coffee together it’s like a dance routine. He knows what pitcher to use for the half and half, which spoon for the sugar. It is, perhaps, not strictly necessary to use the same items in the same manner, but routine soothes both humans and ghosts. The air vibrates around us, a whole pack of ghosts anticipating the first hints of rich brew from the percolator.

I pour the coffee into the twelve cups lined up on the kitchen table. Malcolm adds the half and half and sugar. It’s always the same: three black, three with half and half, three with sugar, and three extra light and extra sweet.

Aromatic steam fills the kitchen. It wavers, not just with air currents, but with the ghosts that fill the space, soaking in the warmth and flavor. The temperature in the house also rises, the thermostat nearly back to normal. I sag against the sink.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

As if in answer, cold swirls around my ankles. Ghosts urge me forward. I glance at Malcolm, and he takes my hand again. Together we creep into the living room, the dining area, explore the entire house.

It’s filled with ghosts, from attic to basement. I lose count sometime after ninety. Some I recognize, or at least they feel familiar when they brush against my skin. Others are strange, wild things, the sort that haunt deep woods or old, abandoned houses. The only ghost I don’t sense is my grandmother’s.

“Why are they here?” I ask Malcolm.

It isn’t logical, not on the surface, anyway. I’ve been catching and releasing ghosts since I was five years old. I’m not scared of them, although I’ve encountered my share of stubborn ones. Still, ours is a relationship where I—more often than not—spoil their fun.

Malcolm holds out a hand, turning it in the air. The ghosts are so thick, I can see them swoop between his fingers. “I think they’re scared,” he says.

“Of what?”

“Mistress Armand?”

“Is she really a danger?” I ask.

Sure, she’s a fraud and is planning to bilk people out of money—at least, I’m pretty sure she is. But dangerous? I don’t see it.

“What if it’s a distraction?” He points between the two of us. “For us.” Now he waves that same hand in the air. “And for them. We’re all in one spot. Who would want us all in one spot?”

“If I have all the ghosts, then it looks like Mistress Armand’s methods work, right?” I say.

“What if it’s more than that? What if she’s the distraction?”

“You mean that thing …?” I begin, but my words dry up. Dread fills my stomach; it feels as cold as the ghosts around me.

“Yeah, that thing that attacked you at the mausoleum.”

“That was weeks ago.”

“That’s just it,” he says. “I don’t think it was the sort of thing that cares about time.”

He’s right. The thing—for I have no other name for it—is not a ghost. I don’t know what it is other than some sort of entity. But maybe a few of my current houseguests might.

“Okay, you guys.” I cup my hands around my mouth, letting my voice carry throughout the space. “Who wants more coffee?”

The air shimmers with excitement. A few sprites whirl around my head. Malcolm raises an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face. It’s really kind of adorable when he does that. But when I hold out my hand, he doesn’t hesitate.

“You may have to make a bean run to the Coffee Depot when it opens,” I tell him on the way back to the kitchen.

“What did you have in mind?”

“We’re going to get these guys drunk.”