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

Julian

The woman—Lily, though I never gave her permission to address me so familiarly—clutches her smoking bundle of sage like it might offer protection against supernatural irritation.

Her eyes are wide with what I can only assume is shock at having successfully summoned something she wasn’t entirely prepared to confront.

“You’re Julian,” she says, and it’s not a question. “Julian Cosgrove. Mrs. Whitfield told me about you, but I didn’t think…”

I raise an eyebrow, though the gesture feels rusty after decades of existing without need for facial expressions.

“I am indeed. And you, I presume, are the person who’s been systematically destroying my apartment’s aesthetic integrity while singing what I can only assume are the musical abominations currently passing for popular entertainment. ”

“Your apartment?” Her voice carries the kind of challenge that suggests she’s recovered from her initial surprise with remarkable speed. “I’m paying rent here.”

“To whom, precisely?” I cross my arms—a gesture that feels satisfyingly solid despite my translucent state. “Because I assure you, I never signed any lease agreement transferring ownership to someone with such questionable taste in interior design.”

She glances around at the admittedly chaotic result of her cleansing ritual and then back at me with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. “The landlord. You know, the living person who legally owns this property?”

“Legal technicalities aside,” I say, because I’m not about to concede ground to someone who thinks romance novels belong on the same shelf as Dickens, “I’ve been in continuous residence here for ninety-eight years.

Squatter’s rights, if you will—though I suppose that makes me the squatter in this scenario. ”

“At least you’re self-aware,” she says, and I’m caught off guard by the dry humor in her tone. “So, what exactly are the terms of supernatural squatting? Do you pay property taxes? Handle maintenance issues?”

“I maintain perfect order and civilized standards of living,” I reply with as much dignity as I can muster. “Standards you’ve systematically violated since your arrival.”

“By doing what, exactly? Unpacking my belongings? Using the furniture for its intended purpose?”

“By eating cereal in bed ,” I say, warming to my theme. “By singing Broadway show tunes in the shower with complete disregard for pitch or the neighbors’ sanity. By rearranging furniture that took me decades to position correctly.”

She considers this for a moment and then nods thoughtfully. “You’re right about the furniture. I moved the desk, and the new position actually works better with the light.”

The admission surprises me more than it should. “I beg your pardon?”

“The desk. Three inches to the left, better sight lines, more even lighting. You might be a territorial ghost, but you have excellent spatial awareness.”

I find myself without an immediate response to what might be the first genuine compliment I’ve received in nearly a century. The sensation is deeply unsettling.

“Yes, well,” I manage finally. “Proper arrangement isn’t merely aesthetic—it’s a matter of functionality and flow.”

“Clearly.” She stands, surveying the room with the kind of professional assessment that suggests she’s taking my territorial concerns seriously. “What other improvements would you suggest?”

The question catches me off guard. No one has asked for my opinion on anything substantial in decades. But as I look around the space I’ve inhabited for nearly a century, I find myself genuinely considering how to optimize it for dual occupancy.

“The bookshelf organization is catastrophic,” I say, grateful to return to familiar criticism. “Romance novels should not share space with serious literature. It creates cognitive dissonance.”

“Romance novels are serious literature,” she argues, but there’s no real heat in her words. “They’re character-driven stories about human connection and emotional growth.”

“They’re formulaic entertainment designed to provide escapist fantasy.”

“They’re hopeful stories about people choosing love despite obstacles.” She moves toward the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. “Sometimes that’s exactly what people need—proof that connection is possible, that taking emotional risks can lead to something beautiful.”

Something in her tone suggests personal experience with needing hope, needing stories that promise happy endings are possible despite evidence to the contrary. The observation creates an unexpected flutter of… not sympathy, exactly, but perhaps understanding.

“Perhaps,” I concede reluctantly, “the genre has evolved since my last encounter with contemporary literary trends.”

She turns to look at me, and I see something in her expression—gratitude, maybe, or recognition of the concession I’ve just made.

“Perhaps it has,” she agrees gently.

We establish ground rules after that—no moving my furniture without consultation, reasonable volume control during her shower concerts, and mutual respect for each other’s space. It’s a more civilized negotiation than I expected from someone who apparently believes breakfast can be consumed in bed.

“One more thing,” I say as she begins cleaning up the remnants of her cleansing ritual. “What precisely do you do at that desk for hours on end? The typing is… energetic.”

“I’m a writer,” she says, and I hear pride in her voice tempered by something that might be insecurity. “Romance novelist, actually. The kind you think are formulaic drivel.”

“I see.” I study her face, noting the way she braces herself as if expecting dismissal or mockery. “And you’re attempting to complete a manuscript?”

“ Attempting being the operative word,” she admits. “I’ve been working on this book for two years, and it’s still a mess. The characters are flat, the plot meanders, and I’m pretty sure my heroine has the personality of lukewarm oatmeal.”

The self-deprecation in her tone strikes me as both honest and unnecessarily harsh. “May I ask what specifically you find challenging about the process?”

She blinks, clearly surprised by the question. “You actually want to know?”

“I’m curious about the creative process,” I say, which is true enough. “It’s been some time since I’ve observed someone actively engaged in artistic endeavors.”

“Well,” she says, settling back onto the couch with the kind of animation that suggests she rarely gets to discuss her work, “the main problem is that I can’t seem to make Ava—that’s my heroine—feel real .

She’s supposed to be this independent, successful woman, but every time I put her in a scene, she just…

reacts to things instead of driving the action. ”

“Ah.” I nod, recognizing the issue immediately. “A passive protagonist problem. Quite common in amateur work.”

“Amateur work?” Her eyebrows rise, but her tone holds more curiosity than offense.

“The protagonist must want something specific and be willing to take action to achieve it,” I explain. “Otherwise, you’re simply documenting a series of events rather than telling a story.”

“And you know this, how?”

The question forces me to confront my own assumptions about artistic expertise. Do I know this? And if so, how?

“I was… am well-educated,” I say finally. “Literature, rhetoric, the classics. I may have some familiarity with narrative structure.”

“Some familiarity,” she repeats, and I catch the hint of a smile. “Right. So, what would you suggest for Ava?”

***

The next morning, I find myself drawn to observe her writing routine with genuine interest rather than mere territorial concern.

She settles at my antique desk with her laptop, coffee mug steaming beside her, and begins typing with the kind of focused energy that suggests real investment in her work.

“Your protagonist’s motivation is inconsistent,” I find myself saying after reading over her shoulder for several minutes. “She’s supposed to be independent and strong-willed, yet she’s making decisions based entirely on what other people think of her.”

Lily pauses mid-sentence, glancing up at me with the kind of attention that makes me feel genuinely useful for the first time in decades. “You’re reading my work?”

“I’m observing,” I correct. “And what I observe is a character who lacks clear objectives. What does she want in this scene?”

“She wants to impress her boss,” Lily says, but even as she speaks, I see her reconsidering the choice.

“Why? What does impressing her boss accomplish that she couldn’t achieve through more direct means? And more importantly, what does she fear will happen if she doesn’t succeed?”

The questions seem to unlock something in her understanding. She stares at the screen for a moment and then begins deleting paragraphs with the kind of ruthless efficiency that suggests she’s finally identified the real problem.

“She’s not trying to impress her boss,” she says slowly, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she explores the deeper motivation. “She’s trying to prove to herself that she’s capable of taking risks. The boss is just… the vehicle.”

“Better,” I say when she reads the revised passage aloud. “You’re learning to trust your character’s intelligence.”

This becomes our pattern over the following days.

She writes; I observe and critique. She accepts my feedback with the kind of grace that suggests she actually wants to improve rather than simply receive validation.

Her manuscript grows stronger under my guidance, developing the emotional authenticity that separates genuine storytelling from formulaic entertainment.

“Your heroine needs to fail,” I tell her one afternoon as she struggles with a particularly saccharine scene. “Success without struggle is neither interesting nor believable.”