The phantom touch of a ghost can be cold or HOT.
The first in the Ghosts of Salem series by Angelica Dawson.
The first in the Ghosts of Salem series by Angelica Dawson.
Summer froze, her trowel still an inch above the bed. “How did you get out here?” she asked the air. There was no mistaking that presence. She still didn’t know who he had been, but after a month it seemed obvious to her that he was masculine. Something in his bearing, which she couldn’t see, and his stature gave the impression he was taller than her.
There was no answer, but a breeze rustled the leaves and the ghost sat next to her on the ledge.
“I refuse to be put off by you. You can haunt the house all you like. I’m not going anywhere. This is my family’s house. Who are you to haunt it anyway?”
It occurred to her that he might be a distant ancestor. Aunt Marge said no one had reported the house as haunted and that there was no record of a death in the house. Even Mary, tried as a witch, died in the square, not the house.
The ghost didn’t answer, but he did leave, not before touching her arm and making her shiver. Upstairs, washing the soil off her hands, he returned. It had become less oppressive all the time, and she was actually getting used to him, dammit.
She had the sense he was looking at her in the mirror. It felt like hands slipped around her waist, and she tipped her head to the side. Goosebumps flooded her skin and she could have sworn he kissed her neck. Shuddering, she leaned forward, gripping her vanity.
“Whoa. I don’t think I’m ready for a frisky ghost. Tell you what, you don’t do that again and I won’t try to push you away.”
There was no way of gauging his response, but he didn’t grab her again. Instead he brushed her hand, something she thought she could get used to in time.
There was no answer, but a breeze rustled the leaves and the ghost sat next to her on the ledge.
“I refuse to be put off by you. You can haunt the house all you like. I’m not going anywhere. This is my family’s house. Who are you to haunt it anyway?”
It occurred to her that he might be a distant ancestor. Aunt Marge said no one had reported the house as haunted and that there was no record of a death in the house. Even Mary, tried as a witch, died in the square, not the house.
The ghost didn’t answer, but he did leave, not before touching her arm and making her shiver. Upstairs, washing the soil off her hands, he returned. It had become less oppressive all the time, and she was actually getting used to him, dammit.
She had the sense he was looking at her in the mirror. It felt like hands slipped around her waist, and she tipped her head to the side. Goosebumps flooded her skin and she could have sworn he kissed her neck. Shuddering, she leaned forward, gripping her vanity.
“Whoa. I don’t think I’m ready for a frisky ghost. Tell you what, you don’t do that again and I won’t try to push you away.”
There was no way of gauging his response, but he didn’t grab her again. Instead he brushed her hand, something she thought she could get used to in time.
