Page 2 of Gone for the Ghost (Maplewood Grove #3)

I placed it there myself not five minutes ago, perfectly centered, well away from any edges. Now it lies open on the floor, the pages fanned out like it’s been thrown with deliberate force.

A thrill runs through me—part apprehension, part something that feels suspiciously like excitement.

I’ve read enough paranormal romances to recognize the signs, and instead of fear, I find myself genuinely intrigued.

If I have a supernatural roommate, they’re at least polite about it.

No chains rattling, no blood dripping down walls, just some minor rearranging and a flair for dramatic temperature control.

“Okay,” I say aloud, addressing the empty room with the same friendly tone I used earlier. “I don’t know if someone’s trying to tell me something, or if this building just has really interesting quirks, but either way, we’re going to need to establish some ground rules.”

The temperature returns to normal so gradually, I almost miss it, like a held breath finally being released. My keys stay exactly where I put them for the rest of the evening.

The next two days follow a similar pattern—small mysteries that toe the line between explicable and impossible.

My coffee mug migrates from the counter to the bookshelf.

The shower turns itself off mid-rinse. Books rearrange themselves into what I have to admit is a better organizational system than my original attempt.

By day three, I’m ready to admit that whatever’s happening here goes beyond quirky old building charm.

The mysterious voice hasn’t returned, but the sense of presence has only grown stronger.

It’s like sharing space with someone who’s very polite about respecting boundaries but can’t quite resist offering helpful suggestions about interior design.

That’s when I decide intervention is necessary.

My research into spiritual cleansing proves both enlightening and slightly terrifying.

The internet has many opinions about earthbound spirits, most involving sage, salt, clear intentions, and what one YouTube spiritualist with very strong opinions about crystal placement calls “unwavering positive energy.”

“Okay, mysterious roommate,” I announce to the apartment at large while arranging white candles in what I hope is a spiritually significant circle.

“I’m going to try something here. If you’re stuck and need help moving on to whatever comes next, I want you to know you’re surrounded by love and light.

If something’s keeping you here, something unfinished, I hope you can find resolution. ”

I light the sage bundle, letting smoke curl through each room while speaking words I pulled from a YouTube tutorial performed by someone named Crystal Moon, who has very passionate feelings about the metaphysical properties of sea salt.

The whole setup looks like either a peaceful meditation space or the opening scene of a horror movie, depending on your perspective.

The apartment grows still in a way that feels different from ordinary quiet—expectant, like the building itself is holding its breath.

As I wave the sage with what I hope is appropriate reverence, something shifts in the air around me.

The temperature plummets again, but this time it feels intentional, purposeful.

The candles flicker wildly in a wind that shouldn’t exist in a closed room.

“I invite any spirits present to find peace,” I continue, my voice growing steadier as I find my rhythm. “If you’re ready to move forward, know that you’re free to go. If you need help, if there’s something I can do—”

The sage smoke suddenly swirls into impossible patterns, forming shapes that almost look like letters, like words trying to write themselves in the air. The candles steady. The temperature shifts again but warmer this time, almost welcoming.

And then, as suddenly as it began, everything stops.

The candles burn normally. The air clears. The smoke dissipates into ordinary wisps.

But standing in my closet doorway, translucent and wearing an expression of profound indignation, is a man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

He’s exactly as handsome as I’ve always imagined men from the 1920s should be—sharp cheekbones, dirty blond hair styled with the kind of precision that suggests both vanity and considerable time investment, blue eyes that currently hold enough irritation to power a small city.

His clothes look expensive even to my untrained eye, every line and crease speaking to quality that transcends fashion trends.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, him with his arms crossed and jaw set in displeasure, me clutching a smoking bundle of sage like it might offer protection against the most sarcastic-looking ghost in supernatural history.

“Well,” he says, and his voice is the same cultured tone I’ve been hearing through the walls, now delivered with crystal clarity and unmistakable disdain. “That’s just splendid.”

His gaze sweeps over my carefully arranged ritual setup—the salt circles, the candles, the crystals I’d added for good measure—before returning to me with an expression that suggests I’ve just committed some unforgivable breach of etiquette.

“Now I’m stuck looking at your dreadful decorating choices all day. Lovely .”