Spooks for Sale

By Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON IS BACK WITH ANOTHER WITCHY COZY MYSTERY FILLED WITH MYSTERY AND MURDER, AND A MOUSE FAMILIAR!

 

Witching isn't always what it's cracked up to be. For example, I've tried exactly ten careers in my twenty-seven years. You'd think with my being a witch, I could conjure up a passionate career choice out of nowhere, right? Nope. Witches don't have that kind of power, at least not in Swan Hollow.

It's not that I can't stick to a job, I just haven't found my true calling. But that may have all changed with my newest gig.

At the moment I'm a personal assistant for the busiest realtor in Swan Hollow, but since her partner just died, she's put me in charge of selling homes.

Old homes. Filled with ghosts.

Here's the thing, witches aren't supposed to see ghosts. But I guess I didn't get that memo.

Now that dead partner wants me to solve her murder, and the only beings I can trust to help are a mouse, a cat, and a shapeshifter.

And if I don't do something soon, someone else might die, and that someone is could be me. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Ridder Aspenson
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393216001

Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

A native of Indiana, Carolyn spent a good portion of her youth and adult life in the northwest Chicago suburbs, where she dabbled in the health and fitness industry until finally landing a full time career in insurance.  Not liking the cold, gray winters of Chicagoland, Carolyn moved to a bright and sunny suburb outside of Atlanta, Georgia.  She started her professional journalism career in Cumming, Georgia, where she continues to work as a freelance writer for various media outlets including print and Internet publications.   A life long fitness enthusiast, Carolyn writes a monthly column for Northside Woman, an Appen News monthly magazine. Carolyn enjoys reading, but considers herself a genre snob, reading mostly mysteries and some chick lit.  She loves to read Harlan Coben, Robert Crais and the late Robert Parker, whom she feels was the ‘most incredible writer ever’. Married since 1998 to her ‘hottie hubby’, she is the mother of three children and two very old, very high maintenance dogs. Carolyn doesn’t see ghosts, but swears she would be okay with it as long it was during the day. Keep in touch with Carolyn by visiting her website at www.carolynridderaspenson.com

Book preview

1

My glass slipped from my hand, shattering into tiny pieces as it smashed onto the old wood floor. I didn’t even glance down at the mess. I couldn’t. I just stood there, literally shaking in my boots, staring at the foggy apparition floating in front of me. I blinked over and over, hoping my magic would send the thing back to wherever it came—my imagination, my worst nightmares maybe, but it stayed.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Holly? Is that— No. No way. Not happening. I shook my head and forced my feet to unglue themselves from the floor and scurried away like a mouse escaping a hungry cat.

Yes, ghosts existed, but not on my plane, not the magical plane. I’d learned from experience the universe worked in funny ways, but even with its wonky style, it had a certain rhythm, and that rhythm remained consistent.

My deceased grandma Emma explained it to me this way.

"Imagine a three-layered chocolate cake, the bottom one, solid and strong, the texture of everyone’s favorite chewy corner brownie. Plop a layer on top of that, only a lighter, fluffier one, and just a little off balance enough that it needs another layer to hold it in place. That layer, the top one, is firmer than the second, but still has an airy, smooth texture. It’s deceivingly strong, that layer, but no one really pays attention to it. It’s only there to keep the middle layer steady.

The supernatural, witches, warlocks, shapeshifters, even those pesky werewolves, we’re the top layer. The spiritual world of ghosts and angels, and unfortunately, demons. They reside on the bottom layer, sent back to Mother Earth for an eventual rebirth. Their layer is strong, but taken for granted, even cast aside, because they appear useless. And the middle layer? That’s where the silly humans live. It’s our job to keep them on their path.

The way the three planes joined together was crucial for the Universe’s balance. Just one tilt the wrong way could send every living—and dead—being off the deep end.

Since spirits started as humans, they were given the ability to push through the portal between the two planes and hang out with their earthly buddies. But people like me, the supernatural, we didn’t come from humans. We came from a higher power, one designed with an extraordinary purpose, but also with considerable limitations. Limitations that got on my nerves a lot of the time. And because we weren’t derived from the human spirit, once that spirit left the human body, we were no longer able to communicate with them. Of all our limitations, that one didn’t bother me.

Ghosts freaked me out.

As a child, I felt cheated, left out of the crowd, inferior even because I wanted equality between the planes. It wasn’t fair that humans got everything, but I realized that wasn’t the case at all. Supernaturals appeared on earth to guide and care for, to help them keep Mother Earth intact, because humans had a way of mucking everything up.

It was hard, but we’ve managed it with pretty good success for thousands of years.

That’s why I panicked when I saw the ghost of my boss’s partner hovering in the old kitchen of the last home she’d listed for sale. The house she’d died in.

Two weeks before, Holly Glumming died in the old Alabaster home. A trip down the stairs she would have survived had her neck not snapped when it hit the cold, hard floor. Holly was human, and I am a witch, so seeing her kind of threw me for a loop. I shook it off. It had to be my imagination.

Okay, so I didn’t shake it off. I tried, but I knew it was possible for witches to see ghosts. I’d heard the stories. The supernatural have their share and not the kind that ends up with a loud boo. Our ghost stories had gumption Grandma called it. Gumption that could scare the magic out of a young witch. I didn’t want to end up the star of one of those ghost stories. The lead never had her happy ending. Me? I’d been hoping for a happy ending from the moment I read human fairytales.

I stepped further into the beat up foyer, my boots leaving detailed prints in thick layers of accumulated dust. The ample empty space was once beautiful, but years of neglect dimmed its shine. Once lit by a bright multi-crystal chandelier casting beams of rainbow sparkles bouncing from the walls and floor, reflecting years of entertaining, excitement, and lives long gone, the room sat sullen, depressed, longing for some elbow grease and a good SOS Pad. That chandelier hung lifeless from its pole, crystals broken or missing, no reflection lighting up the empty, cold space.

So, so cold. I pulled my cardigan tight around me, warding off the chilly air. Spring wasn’t usually sixty degrees in Swan Hollow, Georgia, but it was early enough in the season for mornings to come with dewy grass and cool breezes. By afternoon I’d rip off the cardigan and sweat just walking down the street.

Witches and other supernaturals flocked to Swan Hollow because of the weather. Nestled on the edge of the Georgia-Florida line, the small town’s temperature rarely dipped below the fifties. The temperature in the old Alabaster house didn’t come close to the fifties, and regardless of the season, the walls alone should have kept it around fifty-five.

There’s got to be a window open, I said out loud. I glanced up at the chandelier and watched it sway back and forth. Definitely an open window somewhere. I searched the surrounding rooms, checking the old, molded windowsills for cracks or openings. Everything, even the super moldy ones, was locked in place. The ones in the study had the most mold, and from the looks of the room, I had a feeling the walls were infected too.

If anyone buys this place, those windows need to be the first thing to go.

I blinked, giving myself a view of the room’s walls. Yup. Mold. I pictured the wall interiors clean, mold free, and even padded with a thin layer of insulation, something few homes in South Georgia ever had, and then I blinked. Another quick internal check and the walls were as good as new inside.

I didn’t do that for personal gain. I did it for the being who decided to purchase the house. It was just one less thing for them to worry about.

A mouse skittered across the room and a high-pitched yelp escaped my lips. I jumped away and bounced on my tiptoes. Then I laughed, flipping the ends of my long blonde hair behind me. As if that tiny thing would hurt me. I peeked around the French doors back into the foyer and eyed the same mouse—at least I thought it was the same mouse—staring up at the swinging chandelier. The little guy flipped his head toward me, then back at the light, and then back to me again like he was trying to tell me something.

He stood on his hind legs and wrapped his teeny little front arms around his chest. His microscopic claws barely reached the other side. He shivered.

I stepped through the open doorway. You ain’t the only one shivering, little guy. I’m freezing.

I’m more concerned about the chandelier. It looks like it’s going to fall. You should fix it.

My jaw dropped, leaving my open mouth shaped like an O. The mouse had a shockingly baritone voice for his three-inch little body.

What’s the matter? Never heard a mouse talk before?

I jutted my chin up and out. As a matter of fact, I have.

He narrowed his beady little eyes at me.

Okay, fine. I haven’t, but I did have a conversation with a rat once, and that’s kind of the same thing.

He hopped up on his hind legs again. Did you really just compare me to a rat?

Whoops. Someone once called me a wizard, and I took offense. I’d probably just insulted the guy. Sorry.

He shrugged and stared back up at the chandelier. I really think you should fix this, and honestly, the way it’s moving? That’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?

I gazed up at the crystal monstrosity. It’s probably nothing. The house is old. I’m sure there’s a draft or something from one of the windows upstairs.

Or something. He dropped back down on all fours and scampered to me. I’ve been through every crook and nanny in this broken down shack. Trust me, if there were a draft coming through, I’d know about it.

I stared down at him as he hitched his little body up onto my boot top and climbed up my leg. My whole body tensed, and I cringed.

Hey, witches could be wiggy about mice just like humans. We’re supernatural, not fearless.

He ended up on my shoulder, his teeny head next to my left ear. It’s the ghost. You should at least repair it so it doesn’t come crashing down on someone interested in the place, don’t you think?

Wait, did you just say ghost?

He nodded.

I didn’t mention seeing Holly Glumming’s spirit just a few minutes before. Until I knew who the mouse was, I didn’t want to sound crazy.

I pictured the chandelier in its former glory. Bright, clean, brand new, and sparkling beautifully in the foyer, and then I blinked.

It came to life, sending a rainbow of colors across the dingy room. Better?

Yup, and safer too. Good job, Alyssa.

You know my name? Are you sure you’re a mouse? How?

He nuzzled his furry head into my neck. I’ll explain later. And I thought we’d established already that I am a mouse?

No, I don’t mean now, sorry. I mean, is that what you’ve always been? You know, for all your life or lives?

Oh, yeah. I’m all mouse. Well, except for that one possible blip in my DNA.

Blip?

Yeah, my great, great, great, great, great, great, great—one, two—yeah, there’s a rumor my seventh great grandmother had a fling with a chipmunk, but no one’s been able to prove it.

I bit my lip. I see.

A robust and frigid breeze swept through the room, sending the chandelier swinging violently. The mouse scurried under my sweater. I tucked my chin toward my chest as my long hair whipped up behind me.

As the wind blew, a female voice whispered, Alyssa.

Whoa. That’s not good, the mouse screamed.

I cupped his covered body with my hand and bolted for the front door. I made it down the steps and into the middle of the three-acre lot before moving my hand from my shoulder.

He climbed out from under my cardigan and whistled.

Mice had surprisingly loud whistles.

Hey, not in my ear.

Whoops.

I held my arm out straight. How about you scoot down here so I can see you?

He galloped down my arm and rested in my palm. If he stayed there long, I’d probably end up with tennis elbow or something. And I felt a desperate need to wash my hands with bleach. Who knew where he’d been?

The supernatural got sick, too.

That was definitely a voice. You heard it, right? he asked.

I nodded.

But there wasn’t anyone there. Did you see anyone?

Nope.

Well, crap. It’s a ghost. I knew it. I knew I felt it before. What’re you going to do about it?

What am I going to do about it? I pressed my lips together and then sighed. I’m a witch. Ghosts and witches don’t interact.

Just because there’s a rule doesn’t mean everyone follows it.

He had a point. "It’s not