Findley Black and the Ghosts of Printer's Devil

By Amy Spector

Starting over at thirty-four is harder than Owen Key expected. Lonelier too. There’s Bella, and the odd assortment of kids he’d inherited when a father he barely knew left him Printer’s Devil. But his bookstore employees and his cat aren’t much good when it comes to getting laid.

Findley Black says a lot of things. At least according to everyone at the store. When Owen runs into him for the first time during one of his ghost tours, with his leather jacket and flirtatious looks, Owen finds himself more than interested in what he has to say.

Owen may have been hoping for a one-night-stand, but when Findley asks to stay the remainder of Halloween night in the Printer’s Devil in hopes of seeing the ghost of a serial killer, he finds it hard to say no.

Halloween is a time for ghost stories and trick or treat. But running out of candy is a bad omen, and it’s hard to get lucky when something otherworldly seems determined to ruin your night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646569632

Amy Spector

Amy Spector grew up in the United States surviving on a steady diet of old horror movies, television reruns, and mystery novels.After years of blogging about comic books, vintage Gothic romance book cover illustrations, and a shameful amount about herself, she decided to try her hand at writing stories. She found it more than a little like talking about herself in third person, and that suited her just fine.She blames Universal for her love of horror, Edward Gorey for her love of British drama, and writing for awakening the romantic that was probably there all along.Amy lives in the Midwest with her husband and children, and her cats Poe, Goji and Nekō.

Book preview

Chapter 1

When the bells above the door to Printer’s Devil rang, Owen didn’t have to look. Micah’s disappointed sigh told him everything he needed to know.

He’s not coming.

It’s only 8:30. Sometimes Owen missed the days before the employees were comfortable enough to talk to him.

Exactly. Micah draped himself over the shop counter, not unlike a flapper over a tombstone in an Edward Gorey sketch. Why do I always fall for the wrong kind of men?

It’s only 8:30, Owen said again, louder this time as if that had been the problem and not that Micah required constant attention. Sometimes he missed the days before he was comfortable enough to talk to them, too.

The wind whipped up, rattling the panes of the window overlooking the side porch with its tables full of discount books. Since you have time, do you mind going out to roll down the vinyl? With any luck that’ll be enough.

If it wasn’t, they’d need to haul the books in early.

Micah let out another one of those sighs before pushing himself up off the glass and heading around the counter.

And Micah? Owen didn’t want to get involved, but he couldn’t help himself. Give the poor man a few more minutes before you write him off completely. He may not want to show up so early he looks desperate.

That seemed to cheer him up and he flashed a smile, before grabbing the last piece of candy from the trick-or-treat bowl and pushing through the door, sending the bell jingling again.

Alone, Owen went back to bagging up the online orders, stapling a printout of the receipt to each bag and adding them to a shelf with all the others. He didn’t normally close on Saturday, but like Friday, Saturdays were notorious for the stream of last-minute web pick-ups from people who’d decided to spend their weekend nose-in-a-book. It was exactly where he wished he was now.

Excuse me.

He recognized the white-haired woman on the other side of the counter. Though he’d never spoken to her, she stopped by the store every week, a legacy customer he’d inherited along with the shop itself. I’m in the mood for Catherine Crowe.

Ah. Owen smiled, looking around to find Kayla peering down from the third-floor railing above, and signaled for her to come watch the front counter. Something a little chilling to match the season?

He stepped from behind the desk to lead the way.

Printer’s Devil was a labyrinth of a place, full of odd-shaped rooms, their shelf-lined walls all packed to bursting, with a few comfortable and not so comfortable chairs pushed into the corners. Some forty-odd years before, what had been a collection of private town-homes and charming display-windowed storefronts, had been reborn as a mad assortment of mismatched carpets and wood plank floors, crooked doorways, narrow halls, and open staircases leading precariously from one level to the next.

The entire place gave off an imminent collapsing vibe as if the only thing that held it together was witchcraft.

We just got a collection in a week ago. And I noticed several copies of The Story of Lilly Dawson if you’re more in the mood for adventure.