I touch the spot on my neck where he placed a kiss after closing the clasp on the long, gold chain.

“It’s beautiful.” Lifting the locket, I notice the delicate engraving on the front.

“A for Alice. Always,” he whispers.

On the reverse, ASW-N is engraved.

“What does it mean?” I rub the pad of my finger over my initials. “What’s the N for?”

“Open it.”

I use my nail to release the slim lock on the side.

“It’s a compass. In case you ever get lost, you’ll be able to find your way back to me.” His breath is warm on my skin where he’s peppering my shoulder with kisses with his arms wrapped around my waist.

“And I’m north?” I twist so I’m facing him inside of the cage of his arms. “

“For me, yes. You are my constant, my north star and a reminder of love in the world.”

“This sounds like a proposal.” I trace his jaw with my index fingers.

Inhaling sharply, he blinks. “It isn’t.”

Unwelcome disappointment flashes through me like lightning.

“Do you want it to be?” His voice is nothing more than a whisper now.

“We barely know each other. It’s too soon. That would be crazy.” None of these excuses equal a denial.

“I didn’t ask you to list reasons. I asked what you want.” The love in his eyes gives me the confidence to say what I really feel.

“You. I want you.”

“You have me.” He presses his mouth to mine. “Happy one year anniversary. Someday we’ll make it forever. Officially.”

The Present

Wandering around the Winthrop summer house, I’m bored but feeling mischievous. The holidays are coming and it’s my favorite time of year. Between Halloween and New Year’s Eve, nostalgia fills the air. The solstice in two days brings with it a certain happy buzz of energy. The light will return, and with it, the promise of summer.

Today is different.

Hidden under the wintry scent of snow is something else.

Magic.

Inhaling deeply, I fill my nose with its familiar mix of amber, sparklers, and fresh rain.

Someone or something powerful is coming.

Good. It’s been forever since I’ve had some fun.

Most of the time I avoid people, choosing to hang out in this house when it’s empty. Other than Tate’s annual Halloween party, the house remains shuttered after Labor Day until Memorial Day.

Here, I can wander amongst my memories and not be bothered by the living and breathing.

Plenty of time to remember and the quiet to think.

One of the strangest parts about being a ghost is not remembering how I died.

Not a clue.

Woke up like this. Thank you very much.

Weirdly, I have a vague memory of my last day, but no idea of the details of my untimely demise.

Not to be melodramatic, but the day I died didn’t feel special. Not once did I think to myself how perfect my life was, or happy I felt, or any other sappy, sentimental nonsense. It was just a day, like so many others that had passed before it.

Geoffrey and I waking up in our bed in our little apartment not far from the Society headquarters. A third floor walk up in a narrow brownstone with a crooked staircase that squeaked in humid weather. The tiny pedestal sink in the bathroom we shared while both trying to get ready in the morning. Him standing behind me shaving while I washed my face. The kitchen table that was barely big enough for two where we’d eat breakfast and talk about our days, our hopes, and our future. A lumpy couch where we cuddled at the end of the day and watch TV.

Those were happy times. I’m not sure we even appreciated the simplicity of happiness.

One day I was alive. And then I wasn’t.

I suppose I could find a copy of my obituary, but I’m a teensy bit lazy. I’m also worried that whatever version of my life my family presented to the world will only piss me off, even twenty-five years later.

Beloved daughter, sister, friend …

For sure they wouldn’t have been as trite as to say only the good die young. That would contradict their belief of me as the wicked one.

I wonder who spoke at my funeral. Would my love have spoken my eulogy? Would my parents have let him?

Knowing them, they probably didn’t even invite him. Out of spite. Or grief. Or both.

My lovely family. With the exception of a few cousins, I avoid all of them unless I absolutely have nothing else to do but stick my nose into the family gossip.

Tate is my second cousin. Or is it first cousin once removed, I can never remember. In any case, he was only six when I died and doesn’t remember the handful of times we met at various Winthrop events. He’s the only family who hangs out at the summer house anymore, often showing up with a group of his friends. I like it when someone other than the housekeeper or groundkeepers are here. Makes it feel less of a mausoleum and more of a house. I won’t go as far to call it a home. Baby steps.

Tonight, Tate lit a roaring fire in the library to chase away the perpetual chill in this house. Designed to escape the heat of Boston, it’s perfectly suited for summer, but less than ideal in winter.

Someone’s knocking at the front door and Tate excuses himself to answer it. I follow along out of curiosity. He greets the new arrivals and invites them inside. A tall, blond woman is accompanied by a couple. I recognize Andrew Wildes immediately. His dark hair and nearly colorless blue eyes are identical to his mother’s coloring, both unforgettable. The petite woman next to him also seems familiar, but I can’t place her.

“Some say the old manse is full of drafts, but I prefer to call them ghosts. How boring to have a house over two hundred years old that isn’t haunted. Complete disappointment if you ask me.” Tate’s walking and talking over his shoulder, leading his guests across the grand foyer and into the library.

I pause near the front door. Does he know?

For the past fifteen years, I’ve assumed none of my family can see or hear me. They barely acknowledge the living, let alone the dead other than to name drop our ancestors and how important we are. The Winthrops are the foundation on which this commonwealth was built. Hell, might as well say the country. I know my ancestors would want to take credit.

“Everyone, this is the rest of everyone.” Tate makes a general sweeping movement around the room to introduce the two groups. “You should all know each other.”

Andrew smiles and introduces his girlfriend as Madison.

The loud buzzing in my head blocks out the rest of the conversation.

Madison. Could she be the same little girl from the park all those years ago? I do the math in my head and it works.

Madison is here. The girl who could see me, who played hide and seek with me fifteen years ago. I always wondered what happened to her. Our paths never crossed again. Until now.

I slip into the room and stand in the corner, waiting for her to spot me.

Staring right at me, she blinks and then shifts her gaze to Andrew.

“Is the house really haunted?” she asks him.

This gives me hope she can at least sense me here. I’d always hoped to encounter her again and prayed she’d hold onto her special gift for seeing what others couldn’t.

Resting on the arm of the closest sofa, he stretches his long, black jean covered legs out and crosses his ankles. “Depends on how you define haunted. Is a possessed doll going to come to life and kill you to avenge the unfortunate and gruesome death of a child? Probably not.”

I agree. Dolls are scary and creepy. Now about the unfortunate death of a child. I was twenty-one when I died. Does that still count?

Her eyes grow huge. “Probably?”

“Almost certainly not. Never wise to completely rule out any possibility.” He arches one of his dark eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Has anyone died here?” She nervously studies the shelf-lined walls and rich wood paneling.

“In the library with a candlestick. Or was it a fire poker?” He grins. “This isn’t a game of Clue.”

“Does anyone still play that game?” Everett asks from the couch.

Andrew glances over his shoulder with a smile. “Who can say. I’m sure there’s a copy around here somewhere if you’re interested in murder.”

His effortless charm reminds me of a younger Geoffrey.

Madison steps closer to Andrew. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He takes both of her hands in his. “Of course people have died here. Loads of them. Well documented natural deaths. For the most part. A few questionable accounts of poisonings and an unfortunate fall out of a second story window.”

I remember the poisoning story. An unhappy second wife and the right amount of arsenic in the nineteenth century. The unfortunate fall doesn’t ring a bell.

Did I fall out of a window? Could I have been pushed? My favorite bedroom in the summer is upstairs on the second floor. Tucked into a corner near the back stairs, it has a beautiful view of the beach and Atlantic.

I tuck this tidbit of information into a pocket of my memory for later.

Tate and Sam return with beers and cups of drinks.

Madison studies the contents. “What is it?”

“Never you mind. Drink and be merry.” Sam taps her red cup against Madison’s.

“Mmm, delicious.” Madison licks her lips.

Never taking his eyes off of her, Andrew watches Madison like she’s a rare bird who randomly showed up one day and might fly away at any second. “Want a tour of the house?”

Tate speaks up from across the room, “The couple who leaves the group is always the first to die. Classic horror movie trope.”

“I think we’re safe.” Andrew stands and leads her out of the room.

Certain I’m safe from being spotted, I follow behind them across the foyer.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asks him.

“I believe anything is possible.” He leads her closer to the grand staircase. “Like hidden rooms and secret passages.”

“Really?” Excitement brightens her voice. “I’ve always wanted to remove a book and have a wall open to reveal another room.”

“Tonight, your wish is going to come true.”

They’ve almost reached the second floor when obnoxiously loud chimes boom from below.

“Is that the doorbell?” she asks.

He turns to answer her, his brow furrowed. “Strange. We all knock or just come in.”

“Did you invite more people?” Tate appears at the base of the stairs. “Print up flyers? Send out engraved invitations?”

“Not me.” Andrew holds us his hands in innocence. “You know I don’t really like people.”

This earns him a chuckle from Tate. “Must’ve been me. Eh, the more the merrier.”

Andrew groans. “Tate can never keep these things small.”

“We can sneak away before the new arrivals see us.”

“Is my son here?” a deep voice asks from the threshold. “He’s not returning my calls.”

Andrew’s hand grips the banister, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

“Father.”

He steps in front of Madison, blocking her body with his own. She and I both peer around his shoulder at the enormous open door, mostly filled by Tate’s height and broad shoulders.

The familiar, deep voice keeps speaking. “Ah, he is here. Figured he’d be neglecting finals to party with his buddies and pals.”

What an asshole.

“Finals are over.” Andrew defends himself. “Thanks for checking up on me.”

“We’re about to play a game of Clue, Mr. Bradford. I apologize, but we don’t have enough pieces for late arrivals. Perhaps you can join us another time,” Tate says slowly and condescendingly as he closes the door on Mr. Bradford.

“Nice try, Winthrop.” A pointy black shoe prevents the door from closing. “I’d like to have a word with my son. Since he refuses the aids of modern technology, I’ve taken the courtesy of driving all the way up here from Boston. He’s not rude enough to turn me away after all my efforts.”

He couldn’t be more awful. Like the Winthrops, the Bradfords can trace their family’s lineage back to the Mayflower and the earliest days of the colonies. They’re the OG Pilgrims. In other words, they’ve had centuries to perfect their sense of pompous entitlement. He’s everything I hate about my family personified into a dark charcoal suit wearing middle-aged tool.

Downstairs, Tate finally invites Mr. Bradford into the house, “You may enter.”

To protect the enchantments surrounding the house, we’ve always been careful who is invited inside. Tate’s words are carefully chosen to communicate to Mr. Bradford he is welcome only by invitation.

“Thank you.” Stanford nods and steps over the threshold, inhaling deeply as if he were sniffing the air for something specific. I wonder if he can also smell the scent of magic in the air tonight. His eyes flash to Madison, who is sitting on the step. His lips curl into a sneer. “You must be the Bradbury girl who has my son so enchanted.”

Interesting choice of words. Enchanted? The Bradbury girl. It’s not a common last name in our circle. What does he know?

“Andrew has clearly forgotten his manners tonight in failing to introduce us. I’m Stanford Bradford, Miss Bradbury.”

Andrew ignores his father’s jabs. “What do you want? I’ve made it explicitly clear I don’t want to speak to you.”

“I assumed you were busy with classes and your studies.” His cold, dark eyes settle on Madison again. “Shall we step outside for privacy?”

He finds her threatening and now I’m curious as to why.

Andrew stays put. “Whatever you want to say can be said in front of Tate and Madison.”

His father makes a disapproving tutting sound. “That’s not acceptable. I’m well aware of your friend’s meddling abilities.” He glances toward the library. “Are you sure you want all your fellow partygoers to listen in on our conversation?”

“No point in trying to get syrup from an oak tree.” Tate shrugs his shoulders. “Why don’t the four of us step into the dining room? More privacy and not as cold.”

Tate using our grandfather’s old expression makes me smile.

Andrew squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to join us.”

“Yes, I do.” Madison’s chin lifts as she refuses to run and hide.

Mr. Bradford extends his hand and moves toward the couple when they descend from the stairs. Andrew’s stiff as a board, but Madison manages to plaster on a fake smile to convey she’s not intimidated. I want to give her a high five.

“You’re as lovely as I’ve heard.” Stanford moves to kiss her hand and I have the sensation of bile rising in my throat.

The foursome moves into the dining room, but no one sits despite the twelve chairs.

Tate closes the pocket doors and rests a shoulder against the jamb. Andrew and Madison stand as far away from Stanford as possible. He’s settled at the head of the table.

Madison takes a long sip of her drink, but otherwise, no one moves.

I decide to sit on the buffet, letting my feet dangle off the side. Who knows how long this standoff might last? I like to be comfortable when I’m eavesdropping on the living.

Stanford finally says something. “There is a rumor of a coven gathering a few weeks ago.”

“Interesting. Is this the word on the street in Boston?” Andrew’s voice drips sarcasm. He’s actually showing more restraint than I would.

“People talk.” Stanford sweeps his hand over his suit-covered arm.

“Not the people I know. It surprises me you have any curiosity about what happens in Salem. You’ve made it clear you hate this place.” Andrew glares at his father.

“My concern lies with my only son’s welfare. If he insists on living here, it’s my parental duty to protect him.”

“Bullshit,” Andrew says in disgust.

“Language.” Stanford frowns as he chastises him.

“Protection?” Andrew grips the back of a chair. “Is that what you call using dark magic on your son?”

And this evening just became a whole lot more interesting. Dark magic isn’t illegal, but it is strongly frowned upon by anyone who practices witchcraft. The old tenfold rule keeps most people soundly on the side of light and goodness. Whatever energy you put into the world will return tenfold. But every few generations, someone gets power hungry and decides they’re the one to be able control whatever they unleash. It never ends well.

Stanford pales, but recovers almost instantly, turning his shock into a fake laugh. “Is that what your mother told you? Or is this your doing, Miss Bradbury?”

“I figured it out,” Andrew speaks up. “All those years of you telling me to be boring. Hide who I am, or else? You poisoned me with your own fear and shame of my mother’s power. Turning me against my true self. Now it’s over.”

Ooh, this sounds like a soap opera of epic proportions. Things are definitely not going to be boring around here for a while. I knew from the second Mr. Bradford showed up he was a bastard, but didn’t realize he was king of the assholes, too. Any witch knows that you don’t go near the dark stuff unless you’re willing to risk everything, including your soul. There’s no dabbling in the darker elements of magic. As far as I can tell, Stanford doesn’t posses his own magic abilities, which means he’s teamed up with someone, or several someones.

Stanford dismisses Andrew’s accusations with a shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re opening yourself up to. The world is bigger than little Salem. Darker, more dangerous.”

He would know. Now that I have more information about him, the energy I picked up on when he arrived is swirling with darkness. He’s tainted by the darkest elements of magic and doesn’t realize yet he’s doomed. Nor will he until it’s too late to be saved.

“Who helped you? Give me the name of the witch.”

Yes, say it out loud so we can all hear.

“I can’t.” Stanford refuses with a shake of his head.

“Can’t or won’t?” Andrew asks.

His father’s jaw clenches. “Doesn’t matter, you won’t get the answer from me.”

That’s a load of crap. What’s he hiding? Or who? My attention slips to Tate, who is also glaring at Stanford with an intensity that could burn a hole in the wall. Then I remember that Tate’s an empath and a damn good one. Maybe he can tell if people are lying.

Jumping down from my perch, I move closer to the head of the table to see if I can get a better read on our unwanted guest.

“Did you use Curses.com? Bad idea, Mr. Bradford.” Tate uses humor to defuse the situation.

“Are you ever serious?” Stanford snips at him. “Doesn’t it get tedious going through life playing the fool?”

Tate stares up at the ceiling. “Better than being a bitter ass.”

I snort and it’s very unladylike. Luckily, no one can hear me. Madison stifles her own giggle.

Andrew’s expression sobers. “If you’re not willing to give us the name of the witch using dark magic, then our conversation here is done.”

“Well, that concludes another awkward family meeting in this dining room. The streak is unbroken.” Tate slides open both pocket doors. Laughter carries across the foyer from the library.

Stanford crosses the room to stand in front of Andrew and Madison. My spine straightens at his threatening posture and I feel a snap of electricity skitter over my hands. That’s new. I glance down, expecting to see flashes of light zapping from my fingertips.

“Don’t do anything rash.” Stanford reaches for his son’s hand, but Andrew evades his touch. Focusing on Madison, he continues. “I don’t approve of you dating my son. I’d ask you to rethink your romantic notions about witches and magic. Before it’s too late.”

Epic eye roll. He’s so melodramatic. Before it’s too late for what?

Madison suddenly slumps into Andrew’s shoulder. Her eyes have gone glassy and she looks drunk. Or drugged. Or under a spell.

“Don’t you dare threaten her,” Andrew shouts, his voice cold as ice and as menacing as the bark of an angry dog “Get out. Now.”

If I could, I’d shove Stanford to get him out of the house quicker. As my thoughts wander to violence, the electric pulses surround my hands. I wonder if the old adage of thoughts being energy is true. Could I focus my intentions enough to cross through whatever spirit barrier separates me from the physical world?

“And on that note, I’ll see you out.” Tate escorts him to the door. “You’re no longer welcome here, Mr. Bradford.”

Stanford stumbles when he reaches the threshold. I want to think it was a push from me rather than he tripped over nothing. Energy hums around me.

Once his father is gone, Andrew wraps his arms around Madison and leads her over to the steps. “Are you okay? Sit. Tate, get her some water. Please.”

My attention shifts from the front door to Madison on the stairs. Sitting on the step next to her, I study her face. She’s paler than earlier and looks like she might faint.

However, she puts on a brave act when she replies. “I’m fine. I think. I got a little woozy. Probably drank Sam’s concoction too quickly.”

Tate eventually returns with a glass of water.

Sam exits the library. “Where have the three of you been? We found a set of Cards Against Humanity. You want to play?”

“Didn’t you hear us?” Madison asks her.

Of course the group in the library couldn’t know what was happening in the foyer or dining room. The protection enchantments around the house also work to ensure privacy. We Winthrops love our secrets. I swear the walls are lined with black tourmaline. Wouldn’t put it past old man Winthrop to have hidden crystals throughout the structure of the house during construction.

“Andrew and I gave Madison a tour of the house,” Tate says, like we’ve been having the best time ever.

Madison lies to her friend. “I wanted to see the secret passages and hidden doors.”

I swear this house breeds secrets and deception in everyone who enters.

Sam pouts. “You’re not the only one.”

“Another time, I promise,” Tate tells her with a flirty smile.

Oh, there’s something brewing between them. I put a pin in that to return to later. While I have Madison here, I need to focus on reestablishing our connection. Her questions about ghosts and haunted houses show an interest in the afterlife, but not necessarily a belief. Curious, I gently press against the boundaries of her energy.

Madison? It’s Alice. From the park. Do you remember me? Your imaginary friend?

“I’m not feeling well. I think I should go home and go to bed.” Madison presses her fingers against her temples.

Andrew’s brows lower as he frowns. “What did you put in the drinks, Sam?”

“I found some brandy in the liquor cabinet. Mixed it with hard cider and a splash of Fireball. Wasn’t it yummy?”

“Maybe the brandy had turned,” Tate suggests.

“I drank it and feel fine. In fact, I was about to make another round,” Sam sniffs her empty glass. “Anyone else want one? Not you, Madison. You don’t look so good.”

“I’ll be fine after some sleep,” Madison says weakly as she continues to rub her forehead.

Madison, can you hear me? Please concentrate. This isn’t a headache. This is me knocking on your subconscious. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

I mentally poke her again. Pay attention to me. Hello?

Nothing. She leaves and I remain behind in the house.

The certainty this isn’t the last I’ll see of her gives me some comfort.