 
Ghost Moon Rising

A Peter Brannigan Novella

By Claire Farrell

When Peter Brannigan sold his house, he thought he was done with the bad memories of his past. But as Halloween rolls around, he's faced with being sued over the fact the house is now haunted.

Determined to deal with the problem before he's forced to go bankrupt, Peter enlists the help of a reluctant medium and a Catholic priest. But as the violence and danger grows, it soon becomes clear that the problem could be bigger than a disgruntled spirit... and the solution the one person Peter can't afford to risk.

Copyright © Claire Farrell

Claire_farrell@live.ie

Cover by  Daniela @ SelfPubBookCovers

Licence Notes:

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold.

Chapter One

The obnoxious ringing of his phone woke him from a deep dream. Groaning, he reached out, still half-asleep, and knocked the bedside lamp over in his attempt to grab the phone. He answered, yawned, held the phone to his ear, and promptly dozed off again.

"...haunted... legal proceedings... Mr. Brannigan. Mr. Brannigan!"

Peter's eyes flew open. "Huh?"

"Did you hear what I said?" a sharp voice demanded.

Peter blinked at a shard of moonlight on the ceiling. What time was it?

"Mr Brannigan?"

Wait, what had he said? The voice was familiar, but—

Peter sat up, his back ramrod straight as his mind cleared enough to figure out the words. "I'm being sued for what?"

***

"Here." Carl poured out a steaming hot coffee and pushed it toward Peter. "You look like a zombie this morning."

Peter looked up at his friend gratefully. Carl hadn't batted an eyelid when he showed up at his doorstep before eight am, but he was exactly the person Peter needed to throw ideas at.

He wrapped his hands around the oversized cup with the words Fang Hag emblazoned across the surface. "Is this to get you back for the vampire frog thing?"

Carl made a sound of amusement. "So she says. She loves it really."

Peter inhaled the scent of coffee. "You don't know much I need this right now."

"The bloodshot eyes give me some idea." Carl took a seat across from him with his own drink. "So let me get this straight. They just called you there and then. In the middle of the night. Couldn't even wait until morning?"

"Yup." Peter took a long sip, ignoring his burned tongue. "Last straw, apparently. They didn't even shut the door behind them. Of course, they weren't too panicked to threaten litigation."

"Think they could be chancing their arm? Or that someone put the idea into their heads?"

The people Peter had sold his old house to had been delighted at first. The McCarthy family hadn't cared about the murders that turned off most interested parties. They just wanted a nice home in a half-decent area for their growing brood. Dropping the price way below value hadn't hurt either.

"They didn't come across as the type to turn to ambulance chasers if that's what you mean. She has a great job, and he's taking extended leave to care for the kids. They don't seem like the kind of people to pack up on a whim, especially not on the word of somebody else."

"Still. With your reputation as the world's most charming man, you have to wonder."

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "You think this could be about revenge?"

"I'm not saying it's likely. Just that it's possible. Even you have to admit you've pissed off a good chunk of the population over the years. Still, this does seem a bit too petty for a supernatural enemy." A frown deepened the lines on Carl's forehead. "What are you going to do?"

"No idea."

"Is this even legal?"

"Ava gave me the number of her solicitor. I spoke to him an hour ago. Martin Breslin is naturally dubious, but in the light of everything that's happened in Ireland, he thinks this might set precedent." He shook his head with a wry smile. "A year or two ago, this would have been laughed out of court, but now that everyone knows the supernatural world exists..."

"People can claim the houses they regret buying are haunted. That's going to be a nightmare. The bubble burst. Half the country has mortgage-regret." Carl narrowed his eyes. "Is your old house haunted?"

Peter stared at his coffee. He had spent years self-medicating with alcohol to shut up the voices. Had they ever been his conscience? Or were they simply ghosts, after all? He pushed that thought away. "I said I would go look at the place today. See if I can figure out what the hell is going on. You sure Emmett can hang out here?"

"Of course. You can't exactly bring him back to that house if it's haunted."

"It was fine before," Peter protested. Okay, maybe not fine, but certainly not unliveable. Not for anyone but him. He was the only one left alive with memories that chased him away.

Carl drummed his fingers on the table. "Let's go with the worst case scenario. What if it really is haunted now?"

"Then that's going to be really bloody awkward to explain to the kid who can see ghosts," Peter muttered.

"They could be hysterical." Carl leaned back in his seat. "Remember that woman last month who was convinced a pooka was stalking her, and Phoenix had to go on the news and reassure people that pookas didn't actually exist? It could be exactly like that."

"Yeah, but she really was being stalked. Just by a human. And we already know ghosts are real. My son can see them." Peter sighed. "Whatever's going on, I'll figure it out. This is going to cost me a fortune. I just know it."

"What about the money from the house?"

"That's Emmett's. It's his family, his house, his money. He'll get it when he's old enough." Peter felt sick, remembering the threats from the new buyers. If it all went to hell, he might have to pay legal fees on top of returning the money. And then he'd be stuck with that house all over again.

"You don't think it could be," Carl lowered his voice, "Yvonne?"

"If it is, I'll kill her," Peter said unthinkingly. He shook his head. "You know what I mean." He had allowed his son's aunt to go on a suicide mission, and when the world went to hell, her soul had been trapped by a madman. She had visited his son in death and almost scared the life out of the child. If she was holding on and terrifying people, he was going to find an exorcist, or whoever the hell got rid of ghosts. He picked up his keys. "No point putting this off any longer. I'll head on."

He headed into the living room to say goodbye to his son. "I have to go out for a while."

Emmett brightened. "Are you getting my Halloween costume?"

Peter winced. He hated Halloween. "No, not today. I won't forget though. Don't worry."

"You better not. Dita is bringing me trick or treating. It's my first time going, so you can't forget."

"I'll get it for you. I just said, didn't I?"

"Did you get work?" Emmett asked. "Is that why I'm here?"

"Sort of," Peter said. "I'll be back later."

"Why can't I stay with Ava?"

"She's busy. You like Carl."

"He never lets me touch his comics."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds before plastering a smile on his face. "Just... do what he says, and be good."

Emmett's face fell. "He's not going to teach me stuff, is he?"

"Depends on how much you annoy him." Peter hid his grin. "We'll see, okay? Talk to you later, kid."

He ruffled the boy's hair and headed out to the car. She started on the first try, and he patted the steering wheel with pride. "Good girl," he whispered. "Nice and easy."

He pulled out of the cul-de-sac and drove to his old house, the place he had lived when he first became a father. The place he had lost his son, his girlfriend, and her parents. The place he had holed himself up in to punish himself, to force himself to remember. The place he had fed his need for revenge. For too long, it had been his punishment. And then his son had returned to him, and he had a reason to live again.

Moving on from that house had been the best thing he ever did; the last thing he wanted to do was go back. But he was no longer bankrolled by the defunct Council, his fledgling business had hit every snag possible, and he badly needed to make money, not bleed it on haunted houses.

A sense of nostalgia hit him as he drove down familiar streets to get to the house. The neighbourhood was almost exactly the same as it had been when he first moved in. Kids played on either end of the street, but now they avoided "The Death House." And bloody hell, the McCarthys really had left the door open. The couple who had purchased the house had two young sons. Leaving in the middle of the night wasn't going to be a young family's first choice.

He cut the engine and stared at the house. A tricycle sat in the front garden, eerily still, even in the breeze. As he left the car, the curtains in Mrs Moore's front window twitched. Some things never changed.

He stuck up his middle fingers at Nosey-Next-Door then headed into the house he had sworn he would never step foot inside again. A chill ran up his spine as the front door shut behind him, confining him inside. The house was cold. It was October, he chided himself. Of course it was going to be cold. But seeing his own breath was somehow disturbing.

He reluctantly moved into the living room. Sound blared from the television. He had to look twice at the screen. That particular show hadn't been aired in at least eight years.

"Ah, crap," he whispered as the station changed of its own accord. "You stupid bloody house."

He knelt and reached for the socket to unplug the television, but it had already been unplugged. He rocked back on his hunkers and took a deep breath to settle himself. That was a mistake. He recognised the perfumed scent in the air. A crawling sensation crept across his skin. He would have given anything to be anywhere else.

He got up and moved to the hallway in a trance-like state. There was no turning back now. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated, but he had to see, had to know. Silence blossomed as the television shut off. Still, his foot didn't take the first step.

Years ago, he had been the one who discovered his girlfriend's body outside his son's room. A part of him was terrified that it was really her haunting the place.

Man up! He shook himself off, trying to build up his confidence. He had never been a coward. He definitely wasn't going to start now.

He lightly touched the banisters as he walked, half-closing his eyes in a memory long forgotten. Lisa, running, giggling as she went. Peter, chasing her. Catching her outside of the nursery, his hands careful on her tiny bump.

"What if it's a boy and we never agree on a name?" he whispered, echoing the words she had said that day.

"We'll find the perfect name." His voice reverberated around him, but he hadn't spoken this time.

The pit of his stomach dropped out. The memories were so close, the old feelings just under the surface. If he was ever going to fall apart, it would be here, in this house. His hands trembled as he reached the top step. The silence entombed him, closing in until it trapped him completely. It hurt to breathe, but he couldn't turn back. Not now.

His veins turned to ice as he stepped into the hallway and moved to his son's room. He stared at the closed door as he remembered.

Once, a long time ago, he had walked in a trance from the dead bodies to his son's room. He had been so sure he would see a tiny body in there, and he hadn't wanted his son to be alone, not even in death. But his son had lived. His son had been in the arms of a monster, and Peter had been knocked unconscious, incapable of saving the boy. Or anyone. If he hadn't gone out that night. If he hadn't...

He broke free of the trance. The memories hadn't been this strong in a long time. Swallowing his fear, he opened the door, but it slammed shut in his face. He tried again, but this time, the door didn't budge.

An inhuman shriek came from somewhere. Alarmed, he turned in time to see everything came off the walls: lights, photos, all aimed for his head. Ducking, he ran down the stairs, flinching at the sounds of the objects crashing against the walls.

The unmistakeable sounds of the kitchen drawers opening made his blood run cold. The slinky sound of a knife pulling free followed. He didn't hesitate, never looked back.

He sprinted away, happy to leave the memories behind. As soon as he passed the front door, it slammed shut behind him. He reached the car and looked back. All of the curtains pulled closed as one. No, one peeked open wide enough for him to see a pair of shining, inhuman eyes. Golden eyes.

Backing away, he got into the car, willing his heart to slow down.

His fingers trembled as he turned the key. The car refused to start. "No!" He smacked the steering wheel. "Not now!"

He had seen far scarier things than slamming doors and flying objects in the past, but he had never felt as terrified in his life.

"Fuck," he whispered, staring up at the house. "It really is haunted."

***

He had calmed down some by the time Dave showed up.

"My favourite customer," the mechanic said with a wide grin. "How much am I getting paid this time?"

"Fuck off, you. Can you jump-start the engine?"

Dave pulled the leads out of his car boot. After a lot of fluting about while Peter kept an eye on the house, Dave shook his head. "Jesus, Peter, what did you do to her? The battery is beyond dead. I'm going to have to take it to the garage."

"And then what?"

"The battery is fried, but I have a replacement waiting. Always pays to have your car's parts ready. Shouldn't take long if you want to come back with me and wait."

Peter looked at the house. "Yeah, okay." He wasn't looking forward to having to admit to a solicitor or the buyers that the house really was haunted by the people who used to live there. He thought of Yvonne with a shiver. Who else would hate him enough to stick around and cause so many problems? She had never forgiven him in life; it looked like death hadn't eased her anger any.

Thankfully, Dave did most of the talking on the way to the garage. Peter didn't pay him much attention until the man nudged his side with more than a hint of aggression.

Peter looked at him blankly. "Huh?"

"I said, that boy you bribed me to take on has been working hard. I think he'll be well able for an apprenticeship."

"I'm just glad he hasn't killed anyone."

Dave gave him a sharp look.

Peter laughed. "I'm kidding." Mostly. "Noah was a favour to a friend. He was raised to fight, and he's too old for the new school, so she thinks he needs a fresh start. He's still just a kid though, and you're all about second chances."

"Whatever you say. Nah, I'm pleased with how it's working out. Noah's not afraid to get scruffy." Dave waved a hand. "And he's actually excited to get to work every day."

"Wouldn't you be if you had to go home to that place he's stuck in?" In truth, the so-called supernatural children's home wasn't so bad, and it was being improved constantly. Still, Peter wasn't sure he would ever think of the place as good.

"He won't be there forever," Dave said. "Although, on the allowance they let him have, he isn't going to be moving out anytime soon. Still, I'm impressed so far. Between himself and Nate, I can thoroughly recommend the hiring of people who have been brainwashed or grown up in slave markets. They're very... eager to please."

Peter gave him a sharp look. He might not trust people like Noah, but he didn't want to see them used for cheap labour either.

"What?" Dave said innocently. "It's a compliment. Ah, I forgot. Your new business partner is one of them, too." But he gave Peter a searching look, waiting for more information to be volunteered.

Peter grunted in response. The rumours that his son had been in the slave market in Hell had travelled far and wide, but few had dared ask him to confirm it.

"Did I offend you?"

Peter kept his eyes on the road ahead of them. "Nope."

"Then what the hell is up your arse today?"

"Ghosts."

Dave choked out a laugh. "Say what?"

"The bloody house I sold is haunted. People are threatening to sue. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?"

"It's really haunted?" Dave gave him a sympathetic tut. "That could be bad."

"Being sued feels pretty bad, Dave."

Dave laughed. "Yeah, but I mean, if you can't figure out what they want, then you'll be stuck with that house forever unless you find some creepy bastard who's into the ghost kink."

"What the hell are you even on about? Ghost kink?"

"I'm not judging. Just saying there's something out there for anyone."

Peter pushed a disturbing visual out of his head. "Wait a second, go back. What did you mean, figure out what they want? I know what they want. They want to sue me for everything I have, everything I will ever have, and then some."

"Not the buyers, you muppet. The ghosts! If you find out what the ghost wants, they'll fuck off to the beyond or whatever."

"Is this guesswork or personal experience?"

Dave smirked. "I run a garage, and my wife isn't human. Do you not think I hear some stories? There are people you can hire. Ghost whisperers or whatever."

"Will they teach them to sit?" Peter asked wryly.

"No, smartarse. They talk to the ghost and ask what they want and hopefully, persuade them to fuck right off."

"And I find these kinds of people where exactly?"

Dave flashed a sly glance his way. "I heard you lot already had a clairvoyant in that cul-de-sac of yours."

Peter kept his face expressionless. Did he mean Emmett? Or maybe Lucia, the half-fae seer. "She doesn't live there anymore. Besides, she doesn't see ghosts." Not that he would actually know for sure; the woman never spoke. "But is that what I need? A clairvoyant?"

"A medium, whatever. Somebody who hears or sees things the rest of us can't. They call themselves different names, but most of 'em do the same job as far as I can tell. I'll ask the missus when we get to the garage. I'm pretty sure she mentioned somebody one night over dinner. I wasn't paying attention. Some of the things she comes out with would fair creep a man out. I try to block her out when I'm eating."

Peter smiled and leaned back. He couldn't be sued if he acted. Probably. He could hire a medium or a priest or something and get them to cleanse the house or whatever it was people did with ghosts. Then the buyers would go back, and he could relax and never have to think about that bloody house again. Please let that solve everything.

At the garage, Peter chatted with Noah, a sullen, distrustful kid who had once been a guardian in Hell. He forced himself to exchange an amiable nod with Nate, a previously brain-washed man with magical tattoos who had likely once tried to kill either Peter or one of his friends. He sometimes thought about switching garages to somewhere that wasn't a reminder of war-times, but he was a little sentimental at times.

The car was soon sorted, and Dave returned with a name and address.

"Melody Love," he said triumphantly. "That's the medium."

"What about a priest?" Peter asked, gazing suspiciously at the address. "If it's an evil spirit or something."

Dave shrugged. "This is what the wife swears by. Doesn't mean she's right. Have you got a priest then?"

"I've met one who isn't afraid of much." Peter shook his hand. "Thanks for sorting out the car. Send me the bill."

"I'll make sure you receive it before you get sued," Dave said, and his belly laugh followed Peter all the way out of the garage.

Chapter Two

Melody Love's lemon-coloured house was small and well-cared for. Situated away from the rest of the houses in the street, the lone whimsical building stood out amongst bland conformity. The tiny front garden teemed with life and colour, even in late October. A disturbingly lifelike jade turtle stared at him from amongst the shrubbery.

He banged on the front door with the over-sized knocker before realising it was in the shape of a kilt, bare legs and all. Snorting softly, he took a step back and waited. And waited. He knocked a second time before hearing footsteps run in the hallway.

The door swung open, and a breathless woman stood there, wiping her hands in her frumpy floor-length skirt. They left dark brown stains in their wake. She followed his bemused gaze downward and gave a sheepish shrug. "I was making brownies. Can I help you?"

He stared at her, wondering if she was the medium. Her light brown hair reached her shoulders, too frizzy to be actually wavy. She was short, plump for her height, and maybe in her early thirties, although it was hard to tell. Her clothes could have been worn by somebody's grandmother two decades ago, while her accessories—tiny sparkling cherry earrings and an over-sized ring in the shape of a panda—might have been more suited to his ten-year-old neighbour, Dita. Her eyes were pale grey, almost completely colourless, and her nose was pierced with a tiny stud that looked like a neon green ladybird.

"I'm looking for Melody Love," he said hesitantly.

"Riordan," she said quickly then blushed. "Melody Riordan."

"Are you the medium?"

The colour ran out of her face. "I don't do that anymore."

"Talk to ghosts?"

"No, I—" Her left eye twitched, and her fingers clutched her skirts. She had totally zoned out on him. He cleared his throat, and she came to with a start. "Ghosts ruined my life. I gave it up ages ago."

"Do you know anyone who can help me? I have a serious problem with a haunted house, and I—"

She turned her head slightly to the left. "I know. Just...shut up," she said below her breath. She turned back to Peter, her cheeks as pink as though they had been freshly scrubbed. "I'm sorry. I can't... I just can't help you."

"Could a priest?"

"With spirits?" She nodded vigorously. "Sure. Gotta go. Bye."

She slammed the door in his face. Twice in the one day. He was on a roll.

He stood there for a couple of seconds, running through his options. Screw Melody Love or Riordan or whoever the hell she was. He got into his car and drove off, cursing fickle women and spiteful ghosts and bloody Halloween because that was his unluckiest time of year by far.

***

Father Ryan wasn't in the church. The place had once been attacked by vampire-like beasts, but it looked as though it had never seen a day's violence since the day it was built. The parish had taken good care of it after the vampire war.

Peter shivered as he looked around. The smells always got to him. That and the eerie silence when there was no mass on. The massive crucifix that appeared to be staring at him from behind the altar made his skin crawl. Churches only ever reminded him of funerals and death.

And something else. A rare childhood memory struck him as he stared at the pulpit. He had attended mass with an elderly neighbour who decided he needed saving from his father. He had sat next to her, bored out of his mind, staring at the priest for so long that everything in his peripheral vision had turned white and silver, shrouding the man with a distinct glow. It had been some trick of light, something to do with his focus and the candles in dim candlelight. Something.

But Peter the boy had heard his teenage babysitter giggling with her best friend while taking a quiz in a magazine. What's the colour of your aura? In his head, white and silver had meant something holy and good. But that priest left the parish in a disgrace soon after, and Peter the boy learned a lesson about appearances being deceiving.

The church was almost completely empty save for an elderly woman with her head bowed in one row, her mouth moving rapidly in silence. He wandered around, wondering if confession was on, but the confessional appeared to be empty. Trying to relax, he did a full circle of the church before he came across the caretaker cleaning a brass cross.

"Is Father Ryan around?" He meant to speak quietly, but his voice seemed to rise and echo. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, although he wasn't quite sure why.

The man looked at him, shook his head, and then turned back to his work.

"Okaaay then." Peter turned to leave.

A male voice called after him, "You'll find him in the community centre around the corner today. I wouldn't chance it myself though. Not today anyhow."

Confused, Peter left and headed to the community centre. There were a couple of cars outside, but inside, the building was full. There was some kind of meeting going on, a discussion on whether communion children had to wear their school uniforms or not on their big day.

He realised with a start that Emmett had been baptised at only two months old, but that was back in the days when Peter didn't believe in anything supernatural, before he met fallen angels and tainted nephilim. He wasn't sure he could find peace with a god who could not only create violent beings, but let them do as they would to innocents. Yet another shiver ran down his spine; he had been a violent being, too.

He waited outside the main room, but he could still hear the arguments within.

"I want my daughter dressed to the nines," a woman's voice said. "It's her big day. Why shouldn't she wear what she wants?"

"But you can do that after the ceremony," Father Ryan replied in a patient voice. "It's not appropriate for eight-year-old girls to wear makeup and fake tan to church." He didn't say or anywhere else for that matter, but his tone was clear on his stance.

"It's not your choice," another woman said. "And you a man and a priest at that. Who are you to tell my child what to wear? And what do you know about fashion anyway?"

"I know it has no place in my church. It's not fair that the children are compared to one another. I won't have the less well-off children judged because they can't compete."

"None of us are well off," the first woman protested. Her tone turned playful. "Sure the limo alone has me in debt."

Some of the women chuckled together at that, but Father Ryan spluttered with alarm. "A limo, Lorraine? To drive from one end of the street to the other? You should be ashamed."

That caused an uproar that lasted for at least ten minutes.

"Now, look," Father Ryan said. "It's not about appearances. We're welcoming the children to the church, remember? It's about spiritual guidance, not wearing an expensive outfit. You're free to do what you like afterward, but the ceremony is my job. And if you want me to do that job, then you'll have to abide by the rules."

"Ah, now, Father. There's no point getting excited. I was joking about the limo," Lorraine said. "If it means that much to you, we can always have a party here in the centre later on in the day, you know, before we go visiting family or throw our own parties. We'll even have the ceremony first thing to give us a chance to dress the kids up afterward. Would that suit you then?"

The priest breathed a heavy sigh. "That would be... acceptable."

Peter relaxed. If Father Ryan could handle the group of harpies in there, he could handle anything. Who needed a medium anyway?

The women, finally appeased, left with the lone male who looked as though he had just been in a boxing ring for an hour. Peter entered the room when he was sure the priest was alone.

Father Ryan picked up a cup then glanced in Peter's direction. He looked mildly startled before recovering. "I didn't expect to see you today."

"I'll bet. Is it close to communion day?"

The priest winced. "It's not for another six months. I can only imagine... well, never mind. Are you well, Peter?"

"As I can be, in the circumstances."

Father Ryan set down the cups and took a seat, gesturing for Peter to do the same. "Tell me what's on your mind. Is it the boy? Were you looking for him to join the communion group this year?"

"Oh, God, no." Whoops. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

The priest didn't look concerned. "I've heard worse just this morning, don't worry. What can I do for you?"

"I have a kind of... strange problem."

Father Ryan snorted. "The first time I met you was when the supernatural world revealed itself. You set the bar high that day. I don't equate you with the normal side of life, I assure you of that."

"I sold the house," Peter said slowly, reluctant to actually say the words. As much as he had gone through, it seemed pathetic to be frightened of a ghost. "It's where... everything happened, you see. Emmett was taken. The others died there. I found the bodies, felt like I had to... Anyway, when Emmett came back to me, I finally realised I could move on."

"And do you regret it? Moving on? Was it too soon?"

Peter shook his head. "Not soon enough. I let that place... It was good to leave it behind. I had no regrets."

"But something has happened?"

"You could say that." Peter exhaled noisily. "I got a phone call last night. The buyers had run out of the house like it was Amityville. They're claiming it's haunted, and now they're saying I knew it was haunted when I sold it to them."

"And that carries some weight now that everything has changed," the priest said, studying him.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "I spoke to a solicitor. They could have grounds to sue."

"It's Halloween in a few days," Father Ryan said soothingly. "Perhaps it was a prank gone wrong. The neighbourhood children perhaps."

"I went there today. It was..." Peter could feel it again, the shiver down his spine. He wrapped his arms around himself, and continued. "There's something there. Something angry. I don't know what exactly, but it didn't want me in that house. I just... I got the name of a medium."

The priest blinked rapidly. "A medium?"

Peter gave a wry smile. "Is that against your rules?"

"Some would say." The priest returned the smile. "But these are dire times. They could be worse, of course, but this is a new era for most of us."

"Don't I know it. I asked the medium for her help, but she said she's not doing that anymore, and I thought of you."

"Parish priests don't generally deal with ghosts," Father Ryan said with a smile.

"Neither do I."

"So what exactly are you asking of me?"

"Maybe you could bless the house? Give the spirit the peace to move on? I don't know what I'm asking for here, Father, but I know I need help."

"I can see that. And is there no one in your... circle who can help? I have to admit I'm surprised you would come to me, given all of your contacts."

Peter thought of Emmett. His son could see spirits, and control them, but he wasn't involving the boy, not in this. He couldn't do that to him. And he couldn't bring himself to go to anyone other than Carl. He didn't want the freshly awakened sympathy that his past brought out in people. And he definitely didn't want Ava to know he still hadn't gotten his life together. That left him with the priest.

He shook his head. "No. Nobody. Besides, I want to keep this as quiet as possible. If this gets out, every idiot who wants to move will be suing vendors over hauntings every time a floorboard creaks or a draught makes a room chilly."

"I see." Father Ryan frowned and rose to his feet to tidy away the chairs.

Peter helped him, reluctant to leave. He had no other ideas. "I'm desperate, Father. I can't handle this right now. I need it to be over before... I just need this to be done with."

"I'll see what I can do," the priest said after a long silence. "I know I joked about ghosts not being a priest's forte, but I could perform a cleansing. A kind of holy ritual that does indeed involve blessing the house and its occupants."

"Well, let's just start with the house first." Peter noticed a gleam in the priest's eye. "Father, are you actually excited?"

"I have to admit, I'm a little intrigued."

"But you can help me?"

"I believe so. I'll just need a few things. I'll sprinkle holy water in every room, saying a blessing, and then we'll see if we need to... go deeper."

Peter wasn't sure he liked the priest's enthusiastic tone of voice, but he had little choice. Whatever was haunting his house had to go, or he was screwed.

Chapter Three

Peter pulled up outside the house and just sat there, gazing at the windows. A light flashed in an upstairs window, and he was almost certain he saw the shadow of a figure pass by.

Father Ryan laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, son. It'll be over soon."

"Yeah." Peter shook his head. "Yeah, I know. I just thought I was done with this place. I thought I had finally said goodbye."

"It's not done with you," the priest said. "But it will be presently. Peter... do you, ah, attend mass very often?"

Peter restrained his instinctive eye roll. "Not really a good time to be recruiting, is it, Father?"

"That's not what I meant. I just didn't know how familiar you are. I want you to bless yourself with holy water, for protection."

"I'm told holy relics are only powerful if faith is behind them."

"And you don't have faith?"

"I have faith in the people I trust," Peter said slowly. "But do I believe there's a god looking out for me? No. I've had some bad experiences with angels, Father. And the worst part is that I can't even remember what it is I'm supposed to be wary of. If anything, I believe that god is screwing with me, not looking out for me."

The priest held his gaze, not a trace of judgement in his eyes. "Do you remember the night we met, Peter? I'll never forget it. I was sure we were all about to die together. I was certain it was the end times approaching. And I have to admit that my faith wavered. There was a moment when I thought He had forsaken me."

Peter frowned, wondering where he was going. "So you understand then."

"At that precise moment, when the doubt lingered for more than the briefest second, I saw you and your friends, and a deep relief settled inside me. I knew, without doubt, that you had been sent to us, to save us."

Peter released a pitying smile. "I'm sorry, Father, but no god sent me. A woman with a big heart led us there that night. Someone who never gave up, even when it seemed impossible."

"And that's who you have faith in." Father Ryan smiled innocently. "I've been told that she's the child of an angel, by the way."

"It's... complicated." Peter resisted the urge to clap the priest on the back. "You're a devious man, all the same. Go on then. Hit me with the power of Christ."

The priest opened his bag of tricks and handed Peter a bottle of holy water. "Use a little to bless yourself."

Peter obeyed, trying to remember if his hand was supposed to cross left to right or right to left, or if it even mattered. The priest rapidly blessed himself then sprinkled holy water over both of them, muttering under his breath.

"What else is in the bag?"

"More of the same," Father Ryan said. "And my little book of blessings. I'm going to bless every room. That's usually enough."

"Usually? You do this sort of thing a lot then? I got the impression this wasn't your style."

Father Ryan shrugged. "I bless a home whenever anyone in the parish moves, and there have been some superstitious people who have needed a little... extra. I'm getting old, Peter. I've had a lot of experiences, and I know better than to say never."

"And how have these blessings gone?"

The priest sighed. "Usually, it's quick and pain free. But there have been times when I've seen things I couldn't explain."

"Ghosts?"

"I like to think of it as the atmosphere of a home lingering, rather than a ghost. We all leave our mark. That's how certain buildings gain a reputation. People look at a place and instinctively feel as though they should keep away. Cleansing the home clears out the negative atmosphere and gives it a fresh start."

"You really believe in this stuff."

"Well, if I didn't, it wouldn't work." The priest tugged at his collar. "And this would be a bit pointless, don't you think?"

Peter carried the bag out of the car for the rotund priest. Looking back at the man huffing and puffing just getting out of a car made him think he should roll him to the front door instead.

The twitching of the curtains next-door stopped. Peter grabbed the priest's arm and hauled him inside the house before the old bag made it to her front door to interfere.

"Was that really necessary?" Father Ryan rubbed his arm then flinched as the front door slammed behind them. "Windy day."

"October's always pretty bad," Peter said with a straight face. He rubbed his arms. "Bit nippy, too."

"I believe you're trying to scare me." The priest shook his head as he took a bottle of holy water from the bag. "You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid. All right, then. We can start with the front door and hallway." He liberally sprinkled holy water onto the door and carpet. "Oh, heavenly Father, we beseech you to bless and sanctify this house and all who dwell within." His voice was rich and deep, resonating through the house.

The words felt like a spell to Peter. Goosebumps rose on his arms. How could words have so much power? Time and time again, the world surprised him. Magic was usually simple; why not this?

"All clear," the priest said, looking pleased with himself. "Good. Living room next?"

They moved into the living room, and Peter froze to the spot. For the briefest instant, a fire had roared in the hearth, voices long forgotten had spoken. The priest sprinkled his water, and the fire vanished. "Oh, heavenly Father..."

The television flickered on, and the priest's voice died for a second before starting again, louder and firmer. Peter moved to the fireplace and ran his fingers across the mantelpiece. It used to be covered in family photos, his family's photos. Now there was an old-fashioned clock that didn't work. He poked it. It ticked once, the noise deafeningly loud. He flinched, waiting for it to happen again, but the clock was dead.

So are we.

Peter shook himself. He needed a drink. That was all. Alcohol made the voices shut the hell up. No, he was done with that. It was like muscle memory. Being in the house triggered an old need. He didn't need a crutch. Not anymore.

"Finished in here?" he asked in a shaky voice, disturbed by the intensity of the compulsion.

"Almost." Father Ryan unplugged the television and left the room. When Peter reached the doorway, a voice came from the screen. He ran before he could hear what it said.

Father Ryan was already in the kitchen. "...and sanctify this house and all who dwell within."

Drops of holy water landed on the kitchen table, bubbled, then evaporated. The priest hadn't appeared to notice. As he passed the kitchen drawers, they slowly opened, one by one. And then that sound came again, the slick, sharp sound of a knife being pulled free.

"Get down!" Peter knocked his body into the priest, sending both of them hurtling to the ground.

"What are you doing?" the priest huffed.

Peter got up and helped the priest to his feet. He pointed at the knife sticking into one of the press doors. "Trying to avoid that, mostly."

"Angry," the priest muttered. "What happened here?"

"People died," Peter said. "Let's just hurry this up."

The drawers opened and closed again. A few forks flew up and across the room, well away from both men. "It's a warning," the priest said.

"Warning about what?" Peter asked.

The priest looked at him. "Let's have a look upstairs."

Peter reluctantly followed the man up the stairs. To his surprise, the lights and pictures were still intact on the walls. He sighed. So many memories. So many things he had walked away from. He could almost swear he felt Lisa's presence, left it behind at the bottom of the stairs.

"Do you feel that?" the priest asked. "That chill?" As he spoke, his breath appeared to momentarily freeze in the air before disappearing.

"No," Peter lied.

Father Ryan took another step forward, and all of the upstairs doors slammed as one, making him flinch. He turned to Peter with a wry smile. "Take another bottle of holy water out of the bag. This is going to be quite the job."

The priest sprinkled water in the hallway, Peter in his wake. The water splashed on the doors, and a howl rose, sending all of the hairs on Peter's arms on end.

"The doors are stuck," Father Ryan said as he tried to open one. "As though something is right on the other side."

Peter was standing in front of his old room, the one he had shared with Lisa. They had argued and loved on the other side of that door, and it was all gone. All lost. He laid his palm on the door and found it hard to breathe. He leaned his forehead against the surface, his eyes closed in silent memory.

"Peter," the priest gasped. "Help me."

Peter turned. The priest's face had gone bright red, and his hands fought off some unseen enemy at his throat.

Peter ran to him. "This isn't a warning, Father. We have to leave. Now!"

The priest nodded, scarcely capable of catching a breath. Something shoved Peter in the back. Barely keeping his balance, he supported the priest and hurried to the stairs. Something touched him again, something heavy and strong. They slid down a couple of steps, only prevented from tumbling because of the priest's sheer size.

The priest croaked as Peter propelled them both down the hallway. A quick glance noted purpling skin, as though ligature marks were burning around the older man's neck. Outside the house, the priest sucked in a deep breath at last. The front door slammed behind them.

The priest collapsed to the ground. "Well," he managed to eke out, his eyes watering. "That was unexpected."

"Jesus," a female voice called out. "He's gone and killed a priest this time."

Father Ryan looked up in surprise, but Peter was already hauling him to his feet and leading him to the car and away from nosy neighbours.

"Do you need me to call the police, Father?" Mrs. Moore persisted.

"No, no," the priest said. "I just had a bit of a turn." To his credit, he didn't ask Peter any questions about why the neighbours assumed that Peter was some kind of serial killer.

Safely inside the car, Peter turned the key in the engine. The car was dead. Again.

Peter lay his head against the steering wheel and swore. Loudly. Would he never rid himself of that bloody house?

Chapter Four

"I'm screwed." Peter glared at the house. "I'm absolutely fucking screwed."

"Now, now," Father Ryan said in a placating tone. "We'll just have a chat with your medium friend, and then we'll figure out some way of persuading her to help you."

Peter tried to smile at the priest. "Aren't your lot supposed to be against that sort of thing?"

"There are exceptions for everything." Father Ryan cleared his throat. "And I'm out of my league."

"She turned me down already. She's not interested. I'll get you a lift home, Father. Don't worry."

"Not at all. Take me to the medium, and I'll do the talking."

"This isn't your problem."

"There's a darkness in that house, Peter Brannigan. I'm bound to cleanse it, and I will." The priest frowned. "I just need some help first. This friend of yours could shed some light on the matter. Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go."

"She's not actually my friend." Shaking his head, Peter took out his phone and called Dave. "Same problem, Dave."

The mechanic sighed over the phone. "Where are you?"

"Same place, too."

"What is that street, the Bermuda Triangle? I'm on my way, you big eejit."

"Can you drop us somewhere on the way to the garage?"

"Where to?"

"That medium you told me about. She turned me down already, so I got a priest, but it's serious shit over here, so I'm going to need the medium to help."

Dave released a sigh. "All right. Need me to put in a good word for you?"

"Nah, I've got a priest. What can go wrong?"

When Peter hung up, the priest was beaming out the window at the passing children.

"You'd think you'd be sick of kids by now," Peter said. "What with your communion woes and all."

"It's not the children," Father Ryan said. "It's the parents." He shook his head. "I should be more understanding. It's tradition for them. The previous parish priest indulged them. Of course, he may have had his reasons. The first christening I ever did there, my eyes bulged at the amount of money in the envelope the parents gave me afterward. I returned it, asking them to donate it to charity instead. That didn't go down well."

"The rebel priest, eh?"

"Something like that. The parish committee once tried to have me removed, you know."

Peter choked on his own laughter. "Would that be like getting fired or expelled?"

"A bit of both. Some people don't appreciate change."

That sobered Peter. There was a lot of that going around.

***

He was already feeling apprehensive when he knocked on Melody's door. He was on the cusp of becoming her stalker. Screw it. He was desperate.

Father Ryan patted his stomach as it rumbled. "I hope they have biscuits."

The door opened. An elderly woman stood there, took one look at the priest, and turned into the most obliging person on the planet. "Father, how are you?"

"Hello, my dear. We're looking for Melody. Is she here?"

"Oh, she is. Come in, come in. Will you have a cup of tea?"

"That would be grand, thank you." Father Ryan beckoned Peter to follow him inside.

"Okay, Father Ted," Peter said under his breath.

Father Ryan shot him a dirty glance before beaming at the old woman. "I'm Father Ryan. I don't believe we're part of the same parish, so I apologise for dropping in uninvited."

"Not at all," she said, beaming. "I'm Ms. Love, and the kettle's always ready and waiting as long as I'm able enough to get around on my own two feet. It's the bunions. They give me trouble." She raised her voice. "Melody! Visitors!"

She brought them into a cosy kitchen that made Peter terrified to breathe too heavily in case the bucket loads of precariously placed china tipped over. "I'll get the tea. Melody made brownies. If she hasn't eaten them all already, that is. The girl has an appetite."

She babbled away, but Peter was paying more attention to the footsteps on the stairs. Melody rushed into the room then stopped short when she saw Peter. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Melody! Language in front of a man of the cloth." the woman scolded. "These are our guests."

"Sorry," Peter said, feeling like a child. "But we really need your help."

Melody wrinkled her nose and nodded at the priest. "Holy water didn't work, I take it."

"I didn't get the chance to finish," Father Ryan protested. "We were, er, evicted from the house before I could complete the blessing."

"Melody," the old woman said. "The brownies?" She set cups of dark, tar-like tea in front of Peter and the priest.

He was pretty sure the tea had been stewing for an hour, but he took a big gulp as the older woman was apparently waiting. He smiled at her, struggling to swallow the bitter drink, but she seemed satisfied enough to move away.

Melody reached the press, her head cocked to the side as though she were listening. "When you say evicted..."

"Something tried to kill the priest," Peter said sharply. "Tried to strangle him, to be exact."

"Oh, no, Father. Do you need me to call the doctor? He'll come out to see you, I bet," Ms. Love said.

"That's quite all right," Father Ryan said. "I recovered quickly enough."

"A spirit tried to strangle the priest," Melody said disbelievingly. "That's unlikely. It's exceptional for a spirit to be able to do much of anything to hurt another person. Maybe on Halloween night, but certainly not now."

"You told my friend here that you were out of the business," Father Ryan said. "What exactly was that business?"

"She sees the dead," the aunt said. "So did her father, rest his soul. I've had a few whispers, but Melody is the talent now. If she invites them, and they want to, the spirits can communicate. If the dead are lingering for a reason, Melody shares that reason with the living who might need to know. But she doesn't do evictions. She doesn't believe in removing the dead from their homes. They'll move on when they're ready." She rolled her eyes. "And sometimes they're never ready." A china cup toppled off a shelf and shattered. The old woman rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, we hear you."

"There's a ghost here?" Peter looked around. "Right now?"

"A spirit, actually. I live with my two great-aunts," Melody said crossly. "One of them happens to be dead. That's all. And I don't have a business. I don't want to have anything to do with spirits anymore." The light flashed, and she sighed. "Except you."

"You can't turn down a priest," Ms. Love said primly. "You'll go to hell."

"I don't believe in hell," Melody said in a strained voice.

"Oh, Hell is definitely a thing," Peter said. "You just don't go there when you die."

"See?" Melody said, but she was looking at Peter with new interest. "What's your name?"

"Peter Brannigan. I sold a house, and now I'm being sued because it's haunted. It's typical B-movie stuff: telly turning on, knives flinging across the room, cold spots, doors closing. That's not too bad. I mean, it's creepy and all, but not completely disastrous."

"Most people would be scared of that sort of thing." She wrinkled her nose. "But you're not?"

"I've seen a lot of scary things," he said as gruffly as possible. "But this was different. I saw the priest being attacked by an invisible force, and I felt something try to push me down the stairs. I get that you're saying ghosts aren't supposed to be able to do that, but something can."

The aunt reached out and squeezed Melody's arm. "Melody, you said it yourself that something has changed in the spirit world. This could another sign of that. I know you don't want to risk any more... upheavals, but you should help him. Somebody could get hurt. Maybe the spirit is newly passed and confused. Surely you can help this once."

Melody's face paled. "Uh, I... I suppose I can do something," she stuttered. "Just this once. But tomorrow. I need to... do something today." She looked at Peter, barely able to meet his eyes. "Can you come back tomorrow?"

Peter frowned. The woman had been adamant she wasn't interested in helping him. What had suddenly changed? Not that he could complain. He was desperate for help.

***

He watched his sleeping son with a heavy heart. Being back in that house had been like being in the pit of his own personal hell. He had blocked out so many things for so long, but something about the house was reminding him of all of those things he wanted to forget.

He ran his hand across Emmett's cheek, stealing a moment of affection because when the child was awake, he was distant and tended to pull away from Peter's touch. They still hadn't properly bonded, and Peter couldn't figure out what to do about that.

Sighing, he headed downstairs. He was exhausted. The weariness was deep in his bones and caused by years of anger. He had everything he should have needed, and he had never felt so broken.

He took a bottle of beer from the fridge, opened it, and sat on his sofa. He didn't bother turning on the television. He held the bottle to his chest, sniffed it, then tilted his head back and relaxed.

He hadn't told anyone, not wanting to admit it when he inevitably failed, but he hadn't tasted a drop in months. Holding the bottle was the comfort. It reminded him of when Emmett had been a baby and held a blanket against his nose whenever he wanted to sleep. The blanket had been left behind when the child was taken. He wondered how many sleepless nights the boy had over that blanket. A lump in his throat hardened. So many missed years.

When he woke in the morning, he was still holding the beer. He emptied it out in the sink and got rid of the bottle. It was still dark out, too early to really get up. But as soon as he had woken, the jitters in his stomach had begun anew, and he was sure he wasn't going to get anymore sleep.

He showered, but he really needed to let off some steam. He looked out his window to Ava Delaney's house. There was a light on in the living room. She wouldn't appreciate him interrupting whatever she was doing. Something in his gut pulled him to her, but after being in that house and feeling Lisa's presence again, it felt like a betrayal to his past to go to Ava.

He zipped a hoodie over his naked torso. A jog might clear his head. He left a note by Emmett's bed. He didn't feel guilty about leaving him alone while he slept. There was always someone around in the cul-de-sac. Some mornings, the kid left before Peter woke to play with Dita in her garden. Other times, he went to Ava's for breakfast instead. The boy didn't need him, and while that was a sign of independence, it was a sign Peter didn't like.

He ran out of the cul-de-sac, a quiet little place that had seen too much violence. The wind was sharp and painful, and he welcomed it. It was a good reminder that he was alive. He kept running, never planning where to move next, but still not feeling surprised when he ended up in his old neighbourhood again.

The sweat that ran down his back had nothing to do with exertion as he passed the house. At the window, a pair of malevolent golden eyes glowed menacingly. Peter kept running, feeling that gaze on his back for too long.

Chapter Five

Peter picked up the priest first in case he went to Melody's door and discovered she had changed her mind again. When Father Ryan bundled himself into the car, Peter noticed his eyes were red-rimmed, a nice match to the colour staining the tip of his nose.

"Long night, Father?" Peter asked.

"Something like that." The priest cleared his throat. "We're going in again then."

"Lost your nerve?" Peter shrugged. "I don't blame you. You don't have to come with me today. You tried to help, but this is my problem, not yours."

"I need to see this through. I can't abandon one of my flock, you know."

Peter smiled as he pulled away from the priest's house. "I'm not one of your flock. And you're not abandoning me."

"If you say so."

"Think the medium will come with us today?"

Father Ryan smiled. "After a little persuasion, no doubt. The girl is terrified. There's a story there. I'm curious to hear it."

"Are all priests nosy, or is it just you?"

Ryan's smile widened. "Only all of the good ones."

They soon reached Melody's home. "I'll get the medium then," Father Ryan said with a sigh. "Wish me luck."

It was at least forty-five minutes before the priest returned with Melody, crumbs covering the front of his shirt. He gave Peter a sheepish smile before climbing into the passenger's seat.

Melody got into the backseat as slowly as humanly possible, a frown creasing her forehead. She clutched an oversized bag embellished with a picture of a unicorn with rainbows streaming out of its backside. Jesus, he was pinning his hopes on a pair of oddballs.

"Good morning," he said.

"Oh, yeah, hi." Her eyes darted to the left.

He couldn't tell if she was communicating with the dead or debating the best way to run so he set off before she could chicken out.

By the time he reached his old neighbourhood, he wasn't sure if he would be the one to chicken out or not. He circled then pulled in on the next street. "Car keeps dying outside that house," he explained. "I'm assuming it's for a reason."

"Spirits sometimes use up power that doesn't belong to them," Melody said in a faraway voice. "Perhaps the car's energy helped... the occurrences in the house."

"Good thing we parked out here then." He noticed the priest's hands had started to tremble and took pity on him. "I think we should take it slowly today. Father, the holy water pissed off the spirit, so for now, it's probably best if you sit in the car while Melody takes a look around. We won't be long."

The priest reached out and gripped Peter's arm. "You'll call me if you need me."

Peter hid his smile. "Of course. But I'm sure nothing will happen. The car isn't feeding the ghosts today."

"Spirits," Melody said snappishly.

Sighing, Peter got out of the car. Melody waited until he opened the door for her. He wasn't sure if it was because of her reluctance or some high expectation of old-fashioned chivalry.

She pulled her bag over her shoulder and nodded resolutely. "Let's get this over with."

They walked briskly toward the house. "How does this work anyway?" Peter asked.

"Spirits are just as different as people are." She shook her head. "And yet so similar, too."

"And you talk to them."

"It's usually not as easy as that. I knew my aunt in life, and we've been together for so long that it's easy for me to understand what she's trying to say."

"So it's harder when it's a stranger."

She nodded, her face paling for some reason. "They send me images, symbols, clues. I don't always get the message right. Sometimes I pick up on a symbol wrong, read it badly. It can... upset people."

"Is that why you don't do this anymore?"

She was silently for a few beats. "Sort of. If I'm distracted, the messages can get twisted. Sometimes, it's only later that any of it makes sense. And the living tend to hide things. They test me, and it hurts the... communication."

"Can they follow you? Bother you?"

"There's a certain amount of respect and privacy involved. If the spirit panics, they may be drawn to me in a hurry, but they generally have a limited amount of power. They're constantly having to draw it in from elsewhere. That's why so many linger in homes or places where there's a lot of energy. The energy can influence the spirit. Has there been... negative energy in that house, do you think?"

"You could say that," he conceded. "The priest told me that atmospheres are usually the source of a ghost problem."

"He's on the right track."

Peter thought through it as they approached his old street. "So bad stuff stirs up a ghost?"

"Spirit. And that can happen. You said a new family moved in. Moving house can be stressful. Maybe that did it."

"Did enough to strangle a priest?"

She frowned. "That's not really... I don't know why they would do that. We'll find out soon enough."

"Your, eh, aunt seemed pretty powerful yesterday."

"She was showing off. And if you saw our electricity bill, you'd get how often she feeds. Besides, she has me."

"She feeds from you?"

She glanced at him. They had reached the house. "I don't feel it. She just uses me as an anchor, I suppose. She's my guide. She helps me. She saved me, in fact."

"From what?"

She shivered. "She died when someone came to take me. She protected me, but her heart gave out. She had been warned by other spirits that the slavers were closeby."

Peter gaped at her. "Slavers? As in Hell's slave market?"

She shrugged. "I don't know much about it. Only that she knew it could happen. Anyone with a gift is at risk. It's cyclical, she said, when the slavers come around."

"Interesting." He nodded at the house. "Well, this is it. Feel anything yet?"

"Nothing but an incredibly nosy woman's eyes on me. Are you ready to go in or should I do it alone?"

"I can't leave you in there alone," he scoffed. "If things get out of hand, we're leaving."

She looked taken aback. "I can handle a few spirits."

"Then why don't you do this anymore?

"For personal reasons." She strode up to the front door. "What are you waiting for?"

He shook off his fears and opened the door. She pushed her way in first, sucked in a breath, and spun around in a circle. She was elegant, despite her weight, and multi-coloured bangles chimed as if in tune with something he couldn't hear.

"There's more than one," she whispered. "There are spirits tied to this house. Literally tied. This is super weird."

She moved into the living room, ignoring the cartoon on the screen. She plugged the television back in and patted the top of the screen. "There you go," she whispered.

Peter had the feeling that he had been forgotten. Her eyes had sort of glazed over, and when he called her name, she ignored him. The volume on the television flared, dropped, and then the thing shut off again. Melody held her hands over the empty hearth as if getting warmth from a fire. She touched the clock, and it began to tick again.

"What are you doing to them?" Peter asked warily.

"Listening," she said. "There's some kind of confusion. It's hard to... There are a lot of images, a lot of symbols. I see a baby blanket and handcuffs, and then I see blood, but now there's a feeling of... love, I suppose. These spirits aren't malevolent."

"Then why did they try to hurt us?"

"Maybe they didn't." She tapped her finger against her chin. "Maybe they were warning you." She jerked as if being shocked. "Ooh. That's it. A warning. They wanted to get you out of the house. No. Some of them did. Another wanted you to stay. That's what the car was about, I think. There are too many of them." She rubbed her temples. "It's getting confusing. There's a lot of emotion. Let me visit another room. It might be easier to separate them elsewhere."

In the kitchen, the cutlery rattled in the drawers. "It's okay," Melody said softly. "I'm here. I'm listening. I'm open to you."

After a few minutes, she turned to him in frustration. "I've let them know I'm available, but they aren't opening all of the channels."

"They can't or they won't?"

"I... I don't know. There's something... You have a son."

He flinched. "Yes."

"What's his name?"

"Why?"

"Just... curious."

"His name is Emmett."

A drawer shoved open so hard that the contents toppled out and onto the floor.

"Oh," she said, swallowing hard. "Let's try upstairs. That's where the priest was attacked, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said suspiciously. What was her deal?

They stepped upstairs. Peter could have sworn he felt the trace of fingers on the back of his neck. He reached for them, but he touched nothing but air. He was surprised by his own disappointment at that.

"It's cold up here." Melody's voice was barely a whimper. "It doesn't feel good. There's blood on the wall. So much blood. There's no love anymore. Only anger and pain." She pointed at the spot he had found Lisa's body. "This is a bad place. Too many echoes."

"She died there," he said, feeling a lump in his throat. "That's where I found her."

She looked at him sharply then reached for the door. She wrung her hand as though it had stung her. "That's not fair." She kicked the door. "Open up!"

The door swung open, and before them stood a visible spirit. In one glance, she looked like Yvonne, but a wretched version. And when Peter looked twice, he saw a twisted, deformed monster with golden eyes and rotted sinewy skin.

"That's not a spirit," Melody whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear her.

The spirit, or whatever the hell it was flew at them. Peter pushed Melody out of the way, and the spirit ran through him. He gasped, choking for air as a chill invaded his body. It felt as though his lungs had turned to ice, as though something was leeching everything from his body. And then it was over, and he fell to his knees.

"It's gone," Melody said, helping him back up. The doors all slammed shut as a horrible laugh echoed around them.

"Let's go," he managed to say. His legs wobbled down the stairs, aided by Melody.

"We need to get out," she was murmuring. "We need help."

Nothing else stopped them. The front door opened as they approached, and when they stepped outside, it slammed shut again.

Peter's lungs melted. He coughed up a large amount of sticky fluid before sinking to the ground. He looked up, grateful for the escape.

Melody stared down at him, her face an expressionless mask. "We have a lot of talking to do."

Chapter Six

Peter felt uncomfortable in Melody's kitchen. If he moved too quickly, the chair wobbled as though it would fall apart. And Melody was glaring at him as she served tea and coffee, her eyes glittering with the kind of fury that generally only sparked within people who loved or hated him. He hadn't thought he had known her long enough for either emotion, but he supposed he had to acknowledge he had been bringing the absolute worst out of people for a while now.

Father Ryan gave him a sympathetic nudge before taking a gulp of tea.

When she finally sat, Melody took a deep breath. Her fingers shook as she wrapped them around her cup. "Now. Tell me what the hell happened in that house."

"You were there," Peter said. "You know more than me."

"No, I mean before." She scowled. "And you know it."

"You can't just—"

"Peter! That house is... please, tell me what happened there, what you should have told me in the beginning."

"Should have told you?" Peter rested his cup on the table a little too heavily. "How am I supposed to know what I should or shouldn't say to a complete stranger who didn't want to help us in the first place?"

He blinked as the shelves rattled, but Melody didn't appear to notice.

"You thought there were dangerous, lingering spirits, but you neglected to tell me about the murders!" Her cheeks turned ruddy, and she struggled to compose herself. A breath whooshed out of her. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to... Just tell me from the start. Everything."

Father Ryan gave him a reassuring nod. But having to go through it again might kill him. He trusted few people enough to discuss that night. Except he remembered those terrible eyes in Emmett's old room, and he knew he couldn't hide anything now. The past had finally caught up to him.

He stared at his cup. There was a chip on one side, and flecks of tea floated across the somewhat oily surface of the drink. And everyone else was staring at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat. "I went home one night and found everyone dead. That's what happened there."

"When was this?" Melody asked. "Recently?"

"No, it was years ago. I was living in my girlfriend's parents' house at the time. I was young."

"You were close to them," she persisted.

"I saw them as my family. I had been out... somewhere. I went home, and everything was quiet. She was dead. Her parents were dead. Her sister had moved out, so she was okay. She died relatively recently. The thing that attacked us back there looked a little like her."

"So they're all dead," she said in an emotionless voice. Usually, he couldn't stand the sympathy those words provoked, but she was all business. "Were you angry when it happened?"

"Angry?" Something sharpened in his throat. "You could say that."

"But you continued to live there."

"I... Yes."

"So it's your anger, I felt. Your pain."

"Melody," he said warningly.

She looked frightened, but she carried on. "There was a child."

He cleared his throat. "My son."

"I'm so sorry."

She meant it. He could tell. "He's alive. He was taken from the house. We... I thought he died. But all along, he was alive and waiting for someone to just... He came home last year. Turns out he had been in the slave market the entire time. You weren't the only one the slavers came for."

She spilled some tea and hurriedly grabbed a cloth. She patted the stain, avoiding his eyes. "So he's... talented then."

"Sort of."

"Are you? Or was his mother?"

"No. I mean, the people who came for him knew he came from the right bloodlines, but I had never heard of anything like it in my life. That was another pretty recent discovery. My blood isn't attractive to the bloodsuckers, some latent protection from my ancestors."

Melody's mouth fell open. "That's why? It's all about being the right flavour?"

"It's a side effect." Nothing was that simple. "I've heard stories of old gods protecting their followers. God water, special people, blessings, I don't know. What I do know is that the people hunting children for the slave markets follow certain bloodlines. As far as I'm aware, there haven't been any gifts in my family, but blood is blood, and apparently, combined with another... special person, it can add up to children like Emmett. The so-called protection became a punishment."

"A target," Melody said under her breath.

"That's interesting," Father Ryan said, sounding pleased. "God gave literal blessings in the past?"

"Not your god. At least, not that I know of. These were old pagan gods. Faith is somehow rewarding for a god. Gives them power." Peter shrugged. "And when they lost their followers to your god, they started punishing the people and took the gifts away. But for some, it was already in their genes. Looks like it takes a long time to breed those gifts away." And maybe some humans had been more powerful in the long-forgotten past—something that could potentially have caused old myths to surface.

"We're getting off the point," Melody said. "The fact your son is alive explains everything. The spirits in that house want to see him, to know he's safe."

"He's been in the house before," Peter pointed out. It had been a while though. "And I heard you in there, Melody. You said that wasn't a spirit."

"Not a spirit?" the priest exclaimed. "Then what else could it be?"

"I don't know," she said in a small voice.

"You said yourself there are spirits in the house. Why not this one?"

"It's different. It's hard to explain. Something changed when the sun went away," Melody said, looking sure. "The sky went dark for a while, and it was as though every spirit on the planet got a surge of energy. They're all somehow stronger now, more insistent. I had already given up on this line of work, but I felt the change. I saw... strange things. Even my aunt had trouble staying with me. Something tried to call her away that first night. If it wasn't for our bond, I don't know what would have happened."

"So it could be a spirit that received an extra-strong surge," Father Ryan offered. "Maybe all of the power directed to that house came to one spirit instead of all of them equally."

"I suppose that's possible," she said slowly.

Peter sat back in his chair, unsettled. "A powerful man unleashed that darkness on the world." He glanced at the priest. "He was a Keeper of Gods. He held the power of the sleeping gods, and I think he was supposed to stir up new followers to give them their strength back."

"That's possible?" the priest asked.

"That's the gist of it. But that's not my point. This man trapped spirits to him, tried to use them to power his spell."

"That explains what happened to my aunt, but not what's in that house," Melody said.

"I'm getting to that." Peter winced at the thought of what he was going to say. "Brogan tried to release demons into the world during that spell, so it's possible that somehow what was back there really was a demon of some kind."

"That was true about the demons?" the priest asked with a gasp of horror.

"They come from other worlds," Peter explained. "But these ones were trapped in a book. Now the spell was interrupted, so we think that only minor demons might have escaped, so what if this thing causing the violence is some kind of demon who attached itself to the spirits when they were freed from the spell?"

That's terrifying," Melody said. "Is there anything you can do with a demon, Father?"

"A good old exorcism is my only idea," the priest said. "And we've all seen those movies."

Peter frowned, thinking hard. "What's this bond you mentioned? Do all ghosts have one? Somebody who tethers them here? Makes them earthbound, I mean."

"Spirits, and it's not really a bond. It's not a spirit thing either. It's more like... we're tied together by our roles. Every child like me is assigned a guide."

"A dead guide?" Peter asked.

"No." She smiled prettily. "My guide just happened to die. Your guide is another like you. It's difficult for a child to discern between negative and positive energy sometimes, and we need to be led in the right direction by someone with more experience."

"She means to say children are more likely to carry the spirits with them and call them imaginary friends," the aunt piped up from the doorway. "The spirit gets attached and is never able to move on. Sometimes, they go mad, and that's... very bad indeed."

"The guide is usually a family member." Melody glanced at Ms. Love. "But not always. It's the link to the spirit world that's important. Spirits aren't really supposed to linger. It's not good for them or us." She looked to her left and smiled. "There are some exceptions, of course. But it can get dangerous. And as we age, our links to the other world can strengthen dramatically. There are stories of wanderers, usually teenagers who haven't been guided, who sort of break away from their bodies and traverse that other world."

The priest set down his cup. "Astral projection?"

Melody nodded, but she looked uncomfortable by the subject.

"This is all fascinating."

"I know someone who can do that," Peter said. "She doesn't see ghosts though, but she can kind of sense them."

"It's not the same thing," Melody said before giving him a sideward glance. "And why didn't you ask her for help?"

"She's pretty attached to Emmett. I don't think it would be good for her to sense any of what happened in that house. Besides, she's been there before. She hasn't mentioned sensing anything."

"As I said, the spirit world has changed."

"What happens to these wanderers?" Father Ryan asked. "Do they grow out of it?"

"No," she said softly, her face creasing with concern. "They stop coming back. Either they get stuck or... they just choose to stay with the dead. That's the risk when you see spirits. Sometimes you want to forget about the living and join the dead for a while."

"Oh, shit," Peter said under his breath.

Melody gave him a sharp look. "What is it?"

"It's just that..." He squirmed in his seat. "Well, actually, that gift my son has is sort of like yours."

"He sees spirits?" Her back straightened. "Are you telling me your son is a medium?"

Peter gave a helpless shrug. "Something like that. I mean, I think so."

Melody clapped her hands together. "No wonder they want to see him! They can communicate with him, tell him things. He's their unfinished business, Peter! We have to take him to the house."

"No! I'm not taking him back to that... I'm not doing it."

"But you're being sued."

"I'll figure something out," he said. "I can't bring him back there. What if he sees their deaths? What if they show him something awful? Besides, it's too dangerous. I'm not doing it. Just... no."

"The spirits will protect him from whatever else is in there. They might protect us, too, if we're with him."

"You just said it's dangerous for a kid! That he might choose to stay with them instead of... instead of the living."

Father Ryan touched his arm. "He wouldn't choose them over you, Peter."

"That's not what I meant," Peter snapped.

Melody frowned. "But this might be the only way."

"He's ten years old. I've done some stupid things, but this one isn't happening."

She was silent for a long time before saying, "Okay, then. We'll just have to deal with this ourselves."

"Do you have a plan?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly. But between all of us, we can come up with something, right?"

Peter sighed. They might come up with a solution, but he had discovered another problem. Emmett was at risk from his gift. Emmett needed a guide, and Peter had no idea how to help him.

Chapter Seven

"I'm not actually an exorcist," Father Ryan explained. "And I've never performed an exorcism. I did, however, attend a course on exorcism in Rome in my youth. It wasn't as exciting as it sounds. I'm going back to the parochial house to cleanse myself."

"Cleanse yourself?" Peter squinted. "How does that work?"

"I need to be as pure as possible." The priest sighed. "I need to confess my sins first, Peter. And then I need to print out the rite. It's long, and I don't have a hard copy myself."

"We don't actually know for sure that this is a demon," Peter reminded him.

"What can it hurt?" Melody asked lightly.

Peter chose not to remind anyone what had happened the last couple of times they had entered the house.

"It must be a demon," the priest said. "What else could it be?"

"But even if it is, what's to say your exorcism rite will even work?" A trickle of sweat ran down Peter's back. He was in over his head. Again. "How do you know this was ever used against real demons? What if it's just superstitious nonsense?"

"I have faith," Father Ryan said shortly. "You said yourself that faith gives power. If that's true, then my faith will give my words power. Besides, you said demons were trapped in a book. Something had to put it there. What if it was an exorcism rite?"

Peter highly doubted that. "Say that's true. Then how do we know it'll work on a house?"

"Technically, we're exorcising a spirit," Melody said. "You said that demons may have passed through when your friend went on that magical rampage, that they may have... found a home with a spirit. That means we'll be exorcising the demon from the spirit rather than the house itself."

"Although, the house still needs to be cleansed," Father Ryan added.

Peter felt the blood run from his face as something occurred to him. "This could be happening elsewhere. There could be demons all over the place by now."

"People would notice," Melody said. "This isn't going to stay quiet." She gave him a pitying look. "There's always the idea that this spirit could have allowed herself to be possessed. Or perhaps her anger and vengeance lured the demon to her. I felt it when the door opened back at the house, Peter. She's in a great deal of pain. The other world, the spirit world, is harder to explain than this one. Things can manifest in ways you could never even think of."

"She was angry." Yvonne had been as angry as Peter, but she hadn't had anyone to temper her. She hadn't mellowed or found a new cause. She lived amongst the vampires, beings she hated, in an attempt to learn information, and then later, in an attempt to get revenge because that information had never been revealed to her. She had died in a state of anger and then been trapped to a madman. Who knew what condition her mind was in by now?

"Well," Father Ryan said, heaving himself to his feet. "I'll be off. Just one thing, though. Try not to let anyone know I'm doing this. It's not my place. I haven't been given authorisation to perform exorcisms in the first place."

"We're desperate," Peter said.

"Be that as it may." Father Ryan patted his round belly. "There is an exorcist in Northern Ireland at the moment, but we don't get along. I could ask him to pay us a visit when he has taken care of business up there, but knowing him, we'd still be waiting for him at Christmas. It's best we take care of this quickly and quietly. We don't want people to panic. The country is already in an uneasy kind of peace right now. Let's not rock the boat."

"You can wait here, Peter," Melody said, although she looked uncomfortable. "But he's right. We need to take care of this soon."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," the priest said and took his leave.

"So," Melody said in a falsely breezy voice. "More tea?"

***

Melody's aunt was staring at him again. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his third cup of tea lukewarm in his hands. God, this was unbelievably awkward. He should have just taken his chances with the demon/ghost/spirit thingy.

Melody cleared her throat. "Um, you live with your son then."

"Yeah." Peter was glad for a chance to avoid the aunt's eyes. "It's just the two of us."

"When did he start showing signs of his gift?"

Peter's back stiffened. "I wouldn't know. I didn't... have him until he was older."

Melody's face turned pink. "I knew that. I'm so sorry. I know I knew that, but—"

"It's fine." He took pity on her. "Almost as soon as he was back, he was seeing ghosts, I mean, spirits."

She smiled at his correction.

"He gets warnings from them sometimes."

"They don't ask for his help?" She looked confused. "They give him help?"

"Is that... weird?"

"I'm the grown woman who lives with her dead aunt. I can't really talk about weird."

He laughed along with her, relieved as the unmistakeable tension eased a little. He wasn't sure why he was making her so uncomfortable. Maybe it was just his face. He never could pull off the pleasant, unthreatening resting face look. "So. What do you do when you're not taking part in exorcisms with strange men?"

"I work part-time in a mobile library."

"Really?" He leaned back in his chair. "What's that like?"

"It's okay. I like books, so..." She shrugged, but she looked embarrassed.

"The man who let the demons out... his home and shop was turned into a museum. Lots of books if you were ever interested."

She stared at him for a couple of seconds. "The bookshop... that was his? He lived there?" She shook her head. "I've been meaning to pay it a visit. Not sure I want to now. He really trapped spirits? I hate him."

Peter shivered at her vehemence. And at how little he hated Eddie Brogan, despite what he had done. The man had looked out for him for years, and while Peter was pissed at being used by him, he still appreciated the kindness along the way. Probably one of the few times someone had wronged him without leaving him full of hate. Was he changing? Or was he just too old to get so bloody angry all of the time?

***

When the priest returned, Peter drove them to his old neighbourhood, again leaving the car parked nearby. He was already bleeding money. He didn't need to owe Dave anything else in the one week.

"I must admit, I'm slightly nervous," Father Ryan said, breathing heavily from the brisk walk.

"We'll leave at the first sign of trouble," Peter said.

"Maybe it'll be different this time," Melody said. "Now they know I hear them." She shivered. "But it's Halloween week. Not really the best time to be dealing with angry spirits." She exchanged a glance with Peter. "Probably not demons either."

They reached the house and gathered outside the door. The dark energy vibrated in the air, making Peter's skin crawl. Every time he stepped inside the building, yet another old memory tormented him. It wasn't right. He wasn't meant to go back. He was supposed to move on and become a different person. How could he when he was still tethered to that old life?

Inside, the house turned dark, as though it were already night. Lights switched on, one by one, leading them back upstairs. Peter and Melody left the priest in the hall as he began his never-ending liturgy. The house didn't react to his blessings or his goading. In the kitchen, the drawers rattled. The priest's voice followed them, loud and clear. Peter realised that Melody was whispering responses to the priest's words.

He nodded at her. "Religious?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Oh. No, actually. After my dad died, I went to live with my aunt. Mass every week. Rabbiting off replies is a habit I can't shake, apparently. Divorce papers sent me back home. She's been trying to talk me into mass ever since." She made a face, that look of indignant horror when a person feels they've said too much. "And you can talk. I tell you no, and you rat on me to your priest."

"He's not my priest. He's just the only priest I know. And he's fought against vampires and beasts. He can handle himself. Besides, I wasn't judging. I was just making conversation." He turned away, rolling his eyes. Wow.

"Oh. Sorry, I really am. I'm just dying for a cigarette. I gave them up years ago, but since the divorce, I've been going between fags and eating my feelings instead." Her sudden giggle sounded hysterical.

Peter froze, unsure what to do with the overshare of personal information.

Melody cleared her throat, gripping her skirt with tense fingers. She looked around as the priest's voice raised in a commanding tone. "Really though? He fought things?"

"Appearances can be deceiving. It's not like you look like someone who can speak to the dead."

She bristled. "And what is a medium supposed to look like?"

He held in his laughter. "Well, I never thought they'd be carrying around farting unicorn bags, for one thing."

"You're making fun of me!"

"Not at all." The drawers rattled, drawing his attention. "Think this will work?"

"Let's hope."

Melody didn't sound confident, and Peter felt his last ounce of confidence seeping away. A sudden crashing sound startled them both, making Melody shriek. Father Ryan's choked off yell sent Peter running into the hallway, closely followed by Melody. He skidded to a stop and barely felt her bump into him.

The pages the priest had clutched as he entered the house were whirling in the air as though trapped in a miniature tornado. The priest had been pinned up against the front door by an invisible force of energy, his legs dangling. His face grew purple as Peter rushed to help him.

The priest fell, sending both men tumbling to the ground. The drawers broke free in the kitchen. Peter's blood ran cold as he heard the sound of knives pulling free. He hauled the priest to his feet, grabbed Melody's hand, and bundled all three of them out the door. He slammed it behind him in time to hear a dozen knives slam into the surface.

"This isn't going to work," Melody said breathlessly. "We need that boy. He can help."

"He can't," Peter said gruffly. "Let's just take a break for the day. I'm going to call an angel I met and see if he has any ideas. I have another friend who might be able to see something we're missing. Just prepare yourselves. We're doing this tomorrow. No matter what."

"Tomorrow's Halloween," Melody said softly. "It'll be stronger then. They'll all be at their strongest tomorrow."

"Good," Peter said. "Then the spirits will be strong enough to fight back."

She gave him a sharp look, but he was determined. He was going to find a way to get this done.

***

He dropped off Melody and Father Ryan then called Adam, a seraph who had spent time in Dublin earlier that year. If anyone had the inside deal on demons, it was Adam. It had to be. Peter wasn't ready just yet to call out defeat.

Actually asking Adam for help was another issue. The man had made it clear he didn't like anyone who lived in the cul-de-sac, but after Ava Delaney had helped free his daughter from a dangerous deal Adam had made with archangels on her behalf, Peter was pretty certain that the cold seraph owed favours of his own now.

But when Adam answered with laughter in his voice, Peter wasn't sure he had called the right number at all.

"Adam?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"Um, this is Peter Brannigan. From Dublin. Ava's... friend."

"Ah." The humour vanished. "Peter. How are you all?"

"Everyone's fine. I just needed to pick your brains a little. I wasn't sure who else to ask, but you're the only angel I know right now, so I—"

"Peter, what's wrong?"

"Uh, do you know anything about demon possessions and exorcisms?"

"I... Who's been possessed?"

"A house. Well, a spirit. It's a haunted house basically, but one of the spirits seems to have been engulfed by a demon of some kind. I... We think maybe one of the demons who were freed somehow piggybacked a way to safety."

"Interesting. Are you certain it's a demon?"

"Well, I've gotten the help of a medium who speaks to spirits, and a priest who took an exorcism course back in the day. We're no experts, but we're definitely out of other ideas. We tried an exorcism today, but we were... removed from the house."

"That would happen." Adam fell silent for a moment. "Did you get anywhere with the exorcism before the demon evicted you from the building?"

"Not really. We tried a blessing already, but we weren't wanted around then either. Although, this time, the message to leave was a lot clearer."

"It knew what you were doing then. It didn't let you get far enough to see if it would work. Do you know the demon's name?"

"Its name?"

"Yes. They all have names. It's how they're called from one world and expelled to another. The demon needs to be sent back to wherever it came from, but you'll need its name to do it."

"The demons came from a book."

"But they were trapped in the book. You want to send it back to its place of origin. The book disappeared, didn't it?"

"Yes. So how do we know its name?"

"That's the tricky part. Usually, demons are only released by someone who knows their name. They have to be sent back by the same means. Do you know any demonolotrists?"

"Uh... no?"

"Pity. They could have safely summoned a lesser demon to rat out the big boy."

"That's the only way?"

"You said you have a medium working with you. Is he any good?"

"She. And I haven't gotten much of a sample of what she can do yet."

"She could ask another spirit to tell her the name. The spirit could find out, but it would be at risk of being trapped by the demon, too."

"So you're familiar with this? It's definitely a thing then?"

"I've heard a lot of stories. This is a definite possibility, given all that's happened over the last year. The demon must be sent back to wherever it came from before it upsets the balance here. And you don't want the demon to have control of another spirit. Not this close to Halloween. It could summon the power to leave the house."

"What happens if it leaves the house?"

"It wreaks havoc on your country." Adam cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I can't help you any further."

"You were helpful, thanks. How are things in your neck of the woods?"

"Interesting." Adam let free a harsh laugh. "It's definitely interesting. We're still trying to get back on our feet. I'm trying to keep my daughter out of trouble, but she seems to find other people's trouble every time she turns around."

"I thought you moved to get away from that."

Adam sighed. "I think maybe it's in their nature to take care of strangers. Good luck with your demon, Peter. I wish you well, but you may need to bring in some more... exotic help. A medium and a priest might not be enough for this one."

Peter hung up the phone, fighting the urge to throw it out the window. A medium and a priest not being enough was exactly what worried him.

Chapter Eight

Carl answered the door and welcomed Peter inside. "Emmett's having dinner at Anka's. He should be back in a few minutes. Want me to call her and tell her to send him home now?"

"Nah. I needed to talk to you anyway."

They sat in the kitchen. "No luck then?"

"Not much. It's not a spirit, Carl. Yes, there are spirits in the house, but they're not the problem."

"What do you mean?"

"We think it's a demon."

Carl went very still. "Eddie's demons."

"It makes the most sense right now. I badly want to be wrong about this, but every time we go in there, somebody gets hurt."

"What are you going to do?"

"I called Adam. He reckoned we needed to know the demon's name to send it back to wherever it belongs. And if we don't, it could steal enough spirit power to release itself from the house."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Not even a little. I mean, we still don't even know for sure if it's a demon anyway, but when Eddie trapped the spirits, one could have returned when they were set free again."

"It kind of adds up. I mean, we expected to hear at least one story about a demon, so this theory works for me."

"I wish it didn't work for me," Peter said, rubbing the sides of his face. "Have you any ideas? We keep going inside and getting kicked back out before we can actually do anything. It's so bloody frustrating."

"What about the medium?"

"I had to tell Melody everything, and now she reckons we need Emmett's help. I can't bring him back to that place. Not now. But we're running out of time. It's Halloween tomorrow. That'll work in our favour and go against us."

Carl frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Halloween really is the night of the dead. Trust me, I've had experience with this before. The spirit world is at its strongest, or the space between the living and dead is at its thinnest. Either way, the spirits might be strong enough to fight back."

"Ah." Carl leaned back in his seat. "But if the demon is attached to the spirit, it'll just make him stronger, too."

"Maybe even strong enough to leave the house if he's trapped there."

"Trapped? Why is he trapped?"

Peter took a wild guess. "The spirits are still there because they can't leave. So if Yvonne is trapped there, then he is, too. If he can't move freely, then maybe we should just leave the fecker alone."

"But you'll get sued."

"It looks like it's going to happen anyway, Carl. How the hell am I supposed to find this demon's name? Was there anything in Eddie Brogan's place about the demons? Something convenient like a nice, neatly-written list of names?"

Carl shook his head. "But I haven't properly dug into the demon lore yet. There's a lot I haven't seen."

"I'm out of time. We can't wait anymore. If we're going to do something, it has to be as soon as possible."

"Would an exorcism even work on a spirit? And what if the exorcism just releases the demon from the house and doesn't send it anywhere important?"

"We're supposed to send it home, I think."

"But what if its home doesn't exist anymore? We have no idea who these creatures are or where they came from. We don't know how many escaped or where they went. We're walking blind, Peter. You need to be careful."

"Adam reckons that a medium could persuade another ghost to find out the name for him. Spirit, I mean. But letting another spirit get close enough to the demon to find out could be risky, too."

"Maybe the other spirits in the house already know the name."

Peter nodded. "That's what I'm hoping. I mean, they've been there all this time. They have to know something that could help us. And tomorrow, they just might be strong enough to tell us."

"What if they don't? What if they can't?"

"Then we're screwed. This demon is already powerful enough to hurt us. It's probably feeding on Yvonne, and if she gets stronger tomorrow..."

"So does the demon," Carl murmured. "I take it your medium friend can't order spirits about like Emmett."

"Nope. She doesn't even speak to them anymore. Not that she ever actually spoke to them."

"Then how does she communicate?"

"It's complicated. She sees images or something. But she has a dead aunt attached to her. She calls the spirit her guide, says all mediums need them. I don't know, Carl. This demon aside, we need to figure out more about Emmett's gift."

"I'm working on it."

"But you didn't tell anyone, right?"

"Of course not. I don't see the harm in telling some people, but as long as you want to keep quiet, I will."

"I have to protect him. If people found out how powerful he actually is, they could try to take him again."

"I know. I won't do anything to risk him, and he's been keeping a low profile himself. But you have to understand what it's like at the school. He sees other kids being encouraged to explore their talents, and he's going to want to do the same eventually."

"That's what I'm worried about," Peter said in a low voice.

"He's getting better, Peter. I've been watching closely, just like I promised, and his episodes haven't been happening as frequently, even after he saw Yvonne's spirit that time. It's not the spirits that are bothering him. It's his past."

"The past he can't talk about."

"Phoenix could help with that. Maybe dig through his memories."

That fae was never touching his son. "I don't want him anywhere near Emmett."

"Are you still on this? He didn't actually betray us."

"It was close enough for me."

"You weren't even there!" Carl shook his head. "You can't hate the man forever, Peter."

"Watch me. This isn't the point. I need to work on the demon problem first. If Yvonne is feeding him, then the demon probably hates me, but the priest is the one who keeps getting hurt first. Father Ryan isn't even an exorcist, but it makes me think we must be on the right track."

"So the priest doesn't actually know what he's doing?"

Peter shrugged. "He said he did some course in Rome. It's only recently that the Catholic Church has come out into the open with this. They used to claim that exorcisms had stopped being performed. But with everything else out in public view, they have to be honest to restore confidence."

"But the church can help?"

"It would take too long, according to the priest. They don't have many practising exorcists anyway, and they're busy. But here's what I'm thinking: if Father Ryan wasn't chosen or asked to be an exorcist, then maybe there's something he doesn't have."

"Are we talking bravery or special blood?"

"Either. Both." Peter stared at his friend. "I have no idea."

"I read as much as I could about it. Does he know the Rite of Exorcism?"

"He printed out a copy. He went to confession, said he had to cleanse himself. But it didn't matter because he didn't really get a chance to begin. The demon is just gunning for him. And when he's not there, it's me who's the target."

"He needs protection then. A blessing, to start. Did he get a chance to begin with the Litany of Saints?"

"I think so. I'm not up on the prayers, Carl." Something dawned on him. "Is that the one with the responses? Melody's been doing that."

"Well, you need to take part in the responses, too. He can't do it alone."

"But it doesn't even matter when he doesn't get anywhere. Say we find something to protect him. We still need that stupid demon's name, and there's not a hope in hell of Melody risking her dead aunt's spirit to find it out. Yvonne's the only spirit we've seen so far, and she's... not in a good way. The others are present, sort of. It's more like they're a part of the house. But they're not communicating much in any way other than warning us."

"They haven't spoken to Melody?"

"They keep asking to see Emmett. They're chasing us away while asking for the boy. I mean, how does that make sense?"

"The other spirits are his family, right? Maybe they want to talk to him. Maybe they know a lot of things we don't."

"Emmett's not going to that house. I'm not involving him in this. It's too dangerous. Melody's just going to have to persuade them to talk to her."

"I can make them talk," Emmett said from the doorway.

Peter started then frowned as his son walked into the room. The boy's eyes were huge, but there was nothing childish in him. More like a determination that he recognised... and feared. "No, Emmett."

"I heard everything," the boy said. "I know I can do this, Dad. And I... I want to see them. I just want to see them."

"It's dangerous."

"Do you think living in Hell wasn't dangerous?"

Peter flinched.

"I survived that, Dad. So I can do this, too. I can make them tell me the demon's name. I can do that. I'll leave straight after if you want, but I can help. Let me help you. Let me help them."

"You don't understand," Peter began.

"Dad, don't start. I understand more than you think. I've seen worse things than these spirits. Yvonne is still trapped, you said. She's still suffering. She was my aunt. She's my... my family. I can't sit here and let her suffer. You don't understand."

"This isn't a game, Emmett. People are getting hurt. How do you think I'd feel if you got hurt?"

Emmett's cheeks flooded with colour. "You're just scared of what Ava will say! You don't care about us. You never cared. That's my mother in there. All I know about her is that she's trapped in that house, and you won't let me see her! You can't stop me! You have to let me see her. It's not fair. It's just... not fair." His shoulders slumped, his eyes filling with tears.

"I do care about you." Peter gave Carl a helpless look. Carl shrugged in response. Damn it, he was on shaky enough ground with Emmett without turning him down. The kid's judgement was clear. He thought Peter didn't care about him or Emmett's family.

Peter couldn't run away anymore. He couldn't avoid the past. He could, on the other hand, let Emmett into the house for a couple of seconds. That was as long as it would take to find out the name. Then he could send Emmett outside, away, far from danger. He crossed his fingers. Please don't let him get hurt.

"Fine," he said at last. "You have twenty seconds to get that name. And Emmett, if you don't listen to me when I tell you to leave, I'll never take you anywhere again."

His boy's face was expressionless. "I get it. I'll find out the name, and then I'll leave. I can do this."

Peter exchanged a look with Carl. One last chance was all he had, and he was relying on a ten-year-old boy who saw ghosts. The odds were against him.

Chapter Nine

"I'm regretting this already," Peter said under his breath as he took a look at his son in the backseat.

Emmett had been extremely pale when he returned from Hell, but he now had the glow of a child who played outside often. His innocence was slowly returning, and Peter didn't want to take that away. But how would he and Emmett feel if someone was hurt by the demon? And the child hadn't gotten the chance to know his mother. He didn't even remember her. Who was Peter to tell him he couldn't say goodbye? His father, that's who.

But being a father was more complicated than he had ever expected. Saying no to Emmett terrified him. The child already had bonds with other people. He wasn't sure Emmett even liked him that much. Peter was slowly creating a space for himself in Emmett's heart, but he could still feel the distance. It was cold and lonely, and sometimes, in the dead of night, he feared it was a distance he could never close.

"We have to do this," Emmett said firmly. "It's the right thing to do. You need me, and when I'm a grown up, this might be the thing that I do every day."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll have to work, right? Get a job. People like me don't get to have normal jobs. That's because we get to do the cool stuff."

"I wouldn't call demons cool."

"I have a gift, Dad. I wouldn't have it if I wasn't meant to use it."

A chill crept around Peter's heart. It was everything he feared. "You can be normal. You look normal. We can have an ordinary life, Emmett. There's no shame in that."

"Just because we can do it doesn't mean we should."

"Where are you getting this stuff from?"

"My head."

Peter swore under his breath. Bloody kids.

"I'll never be normal," Emmett said, his eyes on the window. "Sorry."

Peter immediately softened. "No, stop that. I didn't mean I wanted a normal child, Emmett. I just meant... we don't have to be a part of the crazy side of life."

"We already are."

He had said the wrong thing again. It always happened, whether he meant it or not. He had spent too long alone, too long trying to convince the rest of the world that he just didn't care. And now he was having to learn a new language, one that endeared rather than repelled. He was really bad at it.

He picked up Father Ryan first. The priest wore a purple waistcoat and held a heavy bag that rattled when he moved.

"I made a call," Ryan said. "And I picked up a few tips. Ah, you must be Emmett."

Emmett stared at the priest before nodding. Father Ryan settled in the front seat and exhaled loudly. "Are you dressing up for Halloween, Emmett?"

"No," Emmett said flatly, and Peter winced. He had forgotten the bloody costume after all. Not that he would get a chance to do anything fun.

"Next year," Peter said firmly. "Next year, we'll do something crazy on Halloween. Maybe we'll throw a costume party." He drove to Melody's home with a heavy heart. No matter how good his intentions were, he always messed up. Thinking about another person's needs was something he really had to freshen up on. He was always forgetting something.

Melody rushed into the car, her cheeks flushed, and her smiling sun ear-rings pointing upside down. She smelled like grass for some reason.

"Emmett," she said breathlessly when she shut the door. "It's so good to finally meet you. I'm Melody. I'm... like you."

Peter watched as they shook hands before realising that they had shifted their arms at an angle as though avoiding a person sitting between him. His stomach curdled. "For God's sake, Melody. Is that a ghost in my car? Did you actually bring a bloody ghost with you?"

"Spirit," Melody said, and she exchanged a grin with Emmett. "And technically, she tagged along."

Emmett stared at the empty space. Melody subdued a sudden gasp.

Emmett cocked his head to the side as though listening. "Oh? So what does a guide do anyway?"

Peter swore for the millionth time and started driving toward his old home. It was going to be a long day.

***

They walked down the street toward the house. A couple of young children ran shrieking with laughter down the road, already wearing their costumes. Peter gave his son a sharp glance, fervently wishing he could give the kid his childhood back. Other kids got to dress up as imaginary monsters; his child got to face the real deal.

As they neared the front door, Father Ryan liberally sprinkled holy water on everyone, murmuring prayers as he moved.

"Is your... aunt here?" Peter asked.

Melody shook her head. "Too risky. She's keeping her distance while we go inside."

Emmett gripped Peter's hand. He wished he had brought everyone else he knew, but what could brute force do against a spirit-bound demon? All of the ancient creatures he might have asked were dead or travelling. He had to figure this one out on his own.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered to Emmett. "You'll be in and out."

"I'll see her," the boy whispered back. "I'll get to see my mother. For real."

Peter's throat hurt. "I know." He felt the same apprehension. He wouldn't see Lisa, but he would know she was there. He'd feel her presence and know that he had let her die. That he hadn't been there to protect her when it counted. And worse, he had given up on their son and now he was unable to bond with the boy. He had failed her in every way. He didn't blame her for hating him.

He opened the door, and the four of them stepped inside. Emmett gasped instantly, but Peter already knew. He could see something in the hallway, a shimmer of movement that was gone before his brain could process it. The spirit world was strengthening.

"They're here," Melody said. "But they're... it's weird. It's almost like—"

"They're chained," Emmett said. "They're trapped. It's happening again."

"Can we free them?" Father Ryan asked.

"I... I don't know." The boy shook his head. "It's... noisy in here."

"Can you understand them?" Melody asked. "I can't make out what they mean."

"I hear them." Emmett took a step forward as if in a trance. "They don't know the demon's name. They wanted you to bring me here to tell you that. They can't help you, and the demon is going to move on to them next. It's building its strength, pulling energy from them. It wants to leave. But they can't say the name. That was the first thing it took from them. One of the chains."

"Okay," Peter said. "Go outside, Emmett. Walk back to the car and lock yourself in. If we don't get back within an hour, use my mobile to call Ava or Carl to come get you. Do you understand?"

Emmett shook his head. "I have to go upstairs. They're saying that Yvonne knows the name because it's part of her. I can make her tell me. She knows everything, and I can make her do whatever I want." He gave Peter a fierce look. "I can get the name."

"Make her?" Melody whispered.

"You can command the dead?" The priest sounded horrified.

"He can't command the dead," Peter said hurriedly. "He's just—"

"Dad. They do what I tell them. I've done it before. And now it's important. I can do it again."

"If he can do this at his age," Melody whispered as though to herself.

"No," Peter said. They weren't using his son this way. Not for a gift that sounded suspiciously like some kind of necromancy. "Emmett, get out now. Before it's too late. It's too dangerous upstairs. Trust me. I've been."

"They won't let it hurt me," Emmett said softly, already moving toward the stairs. "They won't let it do anything to me. This is what they've been waiting for."

"They're not strong enough to protect you from some demon," Peter insisted, sweat trickling down his back. He was rapidly losing control of the situation.

"They're already stronger than they were," Melody said.

"And so is it."

"If you don't let the boy get the name," Father Ryan said, "the demon will be released to the world, and the boy could get in its way."

Peter scowled at the priest. "Do they teach emotional blackmail in the seminary?"

"A little."

Peter shook his head in disgust. He was outnumbered. The priest was right. The demon could even seek out Emmett afterward if he knew his power.

Emmett held his gaze. "Dad, if it kills you, it'll trap your spirit, too. Do you really want to be responsible for giving the demon that kind of strength?"

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. The boy wasn't even a teen yet, and he was already too smart for his own good.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "We'll try this one more time. But if anything happens..."

"Nothing will happen to me," Emmett said firmly. "I promise you, I'll be safe." The rest went unspoken. Emmett might have been safe, but the rest of them certainly were not.

Chapter Ten

"We have to hurry," Emmett said. "They're telling me things. I'm not sure... it sounds like it's not a real demon."

That confused Peter. "It's not a demon."

"That's good news," the priest said.

"Not exactly." Emmett frowned. "It's a shadow of itself. Kind of like a double to save it from something."

"Oh, my," Melody said. "It's a bloody horcrux."

Peter shot her a bemused look, shook his head, and addressed Emmett. "So we can't exorcise it?"

"I think we can. It's more like... a piece of a demon." He looked around him. "It's confusing, but I think it's gathering enough power to summon its true self." He paled. "And we'll be right here to feed it. We have to hurry, Dad!"

"Get out while you can," Peter said. "Hurry."

"No, I'm helping." Emmett ran, up the stairs and away from his father.

Peter followed, begging him to stop. He barely noticed the ease in which he moved upstairs. Nothing stopped him. But then the pictures on the wall began to rattle as though fighting their restraints.

"Emmett, duck!"

The pictures flew across the air, right for his son. Before Peter could reach him, they battered against an invisible force. The paintings fell harmlessly to the ground and stilled.

"They surrounded me." Emmett turned around and beamed. "I told you they wouldn't let me get hurt. They love me."

The hidden accusation in the words made Peter's chest hurt. Did the child not understand that he loved him as best he could? That he was too broken to love like a normal person?

"Emmett," he whispered, but the boy was already moving toward his old room. He moved as though he had no worries, but Peter saw fragments of his own memories filtering through reality.

Not his memories. The memories of the spirits trapped in the house. Violence and pain. Dead bodies and blood. The point at which he had broken irreparably. Next would come the part when he saw his baby in the arms of a monster. He pushed ahead of Emmett, trying to shield him from that, as though it would make up for letting him be taken all of those years before. But the door wouldn't open, not for him.

"Let him do it," Melody said softly. "That's why we're here. So he can help us. Now let him."

Peter allowed Father Ryan to pull him out of the way. Emmett stepped up to that bedroom door and laid his fingers on the handle. Small hands, slender fingers like his mother right down to the curve of his nails. A lump settled in Peter's throat.

Emmett opened the door and revealed the shadow of a monster in his dead aunt's clothing.

Peter wanted to throw up. She was Yvonne. But not. Her hair was the same, as perfectly styled as ever, and her smile was one she hadn't given him much even in life, but her eyes glowed gold, a terrible, haunting image of otherworldliness, and her fingers ended in claws. She was more than a spirit now, visible to all of them. If he squinted, he could plainly see waves of energy surround them all and run out of the room and down the hall. The demonic thing was leeching from everything.

Yvonne's jaw sagged as she opened her mouth to speak, but a harsh sound emitted from her throat instead. Her hands went to her neck, and she tried again, but those demonic eyes glowed.

"Tell me his name," Emmett said firmly. "Tell me the demon's name. Right now."

Yvonne was suffering. Her face creased with pain, but she opened her mouth and gurgled. Her eyes flickered from golden to a more natural hue, but the pain remained the same.

"She's hurting," Peter said in a panicked voice. "You're hurting her, Emmett."

"I don't have a choice," the boy said fiercely. He couldn't have sounded any less like a child, and another crack formed in Peter's damaged heart. "Fight harder!"

The priest rested his hand on Peter's shoulder. "We've come this far. Let him see it through."

It was easy for them to say. Emmett was all he had left. If he lost him...

"I can't understand the message," Melody whispered. "I've no idea what she's trying to say."

"I can. She's saying Abaddon's Shadow," Emmett said, his eyes still locked onto his aunt's. "She's trapped by Abaddon's Shadow. He hides in the land of the dead, so his Shadow needs the dead to summon him. That's the name to use. Abaddon's Shadow. We need to banish him, get him as far away from spirits as possible, or he'll call Abaddon here, tonight."

Father Ryan immediately launched into the exorcism rite, dashing holy water at the haunted figure before them. Yvonne expelled an earth-shattering scream. Peter pressed his hands against his ears, but Emmett seemed unaffected. Yvonne pushed them aside with a great deal of power and ran into the hallway.

"Stop her!" Emmett shouted.

Peter was about to ask how when he realised the boy had been commanding the rest of the spirits. He almost saw them clearly as they surrounded Yvonne's figure. Their bodies flashed in and out of existence as they pushed her against the wall and pinned her there. She begged for help, for mercy, but Emmet remained unflinching.

After a brief moment's hesitation, the priest continued. The walls vibrated. Glass shattered somewhere in the house. The lights shut on and off until a headache attacked Peter's temples. The creature moaned, sounding like Yvonne at first, but then the sounds grew darker, deeper, unholy.

Father Ryan's voice raised into a shout. Peter could see the spirits of his old family clearly. They were hurting too, struggling to contain the demon's shadow.

"Don't let go!" Emmett shouted as a gale rose about them.

Peter gripped hold of his son before the child was flung against a wall. Emmett's eyes never moved from the spirits. The priest repeated the same phrases, using the last of his holy water. The foundation of the house itself rocked as though it might hurtle upward and crush them all.

"Leave here!" Emmett bellowed in a voice that wasn't his own.

Peter flinched, feeling a cold fear creep over him. The golden eyes flickered, and a dark shadow flew from Yvonne, darting down the hall and behind a door. Yvonne stared at Emmett, unspeaking and distraught. She reached out for him, then faded out of sight. Peter couldn't see the others anymore, but the house still rattled. The floor grew uneven, making it hard to stand.

"She was fighting back," Melody cried over the howling wind that still lashed at them. "The demon fled. We have to find the thing before it gets its claws into another spirit."

"Get Emmett out of here then," Peter shouted. "Father Ryan and I can—"

"It's too late! The spirits will protect him." She gave him an accusing glare. "Why didn't you tell me what he can do? He commanded the dead, Peter. We need him now. It's the only way we'll be able to pin this demon down."

"Dad, I'm staying," Emmett piped up. "My family is here."

"I'm your family."

Emmett stared back at him, defiance in his eyes. "Prove it."

With a heavy heart, Peter let his child follow him after a demon. Ava Delaney was going to kill him.

Chapter Eleven

Peter's stomach turned. Relying on a child to force ghosts to help beat a demon. What were they doing? But the sounds of laughing children passing by the window made up his mind for him. He couldn't let this shadow demon call forth its true self any more than he could let it roam the streets. If Emmett was somebody who could stand between the demon and the dead it fed from, then he would be its first target once freed.

"It's hiding in the big room," Emmett said in a quiet voice. "It thinks we won't find it there."

Melody glanced at the priest. "Be prepared, Father. The exorcism needs to—"

The pages flew up in the air and out a broken window.

"Ah, crap," Peter said, his stomach lurching as he reached out too late to grab empty air.

"It'll still work," the priest said determinedly. "I just need the intent. We'll banish this creature. Don't you worry." But his hands were trembling.

"It's time." Emmett ran ahead.

Peter raced after him. He made it into the master bedroom a split second after his son. The demon was literally a shadow now, hanging from the ceiling. Distorted, the only part of it that didn't look transparent was its glowing eyes. It gazed at them, hissed, and then headed for the window.

"Stop it!" Emmett screeched. "Keep it still!"

The demon fought, but something shielded it from leaving. As Peter stared, listening to Father Ryan begin his Rite anew, he thought he saw forms appear around the shadow. It was hard to make out in the darkness, but they were there. Three, no, four spirits fighting a demon to protect a boy. A brave boy. Emmett's entire body trembled, but he stood firm, his gaze unmoving from the scene at hand.

The demon hissed and snarled and croaked out words in a dead language, but it was caught. Like a trapped animal, it fought and fought, a never-ending cycle of movement.

Father Ryan kept going, but his words grew desperate and weak, and his voice began to crack on the words. The demon made a move, and the priest was thrown off his feet. A crack said a bone splintered, but the priest carried on despite the injury.

Peter knelt by him and gripped his hand as the priest's face turned white and sweaty. He was losing consciousness. Peter listened to the words and repeated them with the priest. A liturgy of prayer and banishment that continued even after the priest passed out. Melody murmured along with Peter.

But Emmett shouted the words, roared them with more conviction than any of the adults. He was fighting for his family, Peter realised.

The demon moved faster, more anxiously, but somehow, somehow they did it. A well of energy seemed to grow around them, protecting them, pulling the demon forth. A whirlwind of power spun, trapping the demon within. Emmett's voice grew louder, and Peter joined him, following his son in an act of absolute faith. He felt it. The magic in the words. It was working.

The demon screamed, a long, aching sound that pierced their ears, and then it was gone. All of the lights in the house came on as one.

Peter checked the priest's pulse as Melody rang for an ambulance. "You okay, kid?" he called out, but Emmett was gone.

Panicked, he left the others and ran out of the room, desperate to find his son. "Not again," he whispered in a panicked voice.

"He's here," Lisa's voice said. "With Yvonne and my parents. They're saying goodbye to him."

"Goodbye?" Peter couldn't bring himself to look at her. He stared at the floor, his heart pounding in his chest.

"We stayed to warn you. For years, I tried to tell you about Emmett, but you blocked us out. I knew you could hear us, but you purposely blocked us out, and you never heard what I had to say."

"I'm sorry."

"And I'll forgive you. But you won't forgive yourself if you keep blocking Emmett out."

He looked up at her then, and his heart threatened to stop. She looked the same. Exactly the same. Real enough to touch. He reached out his hand, and she smiled.

"Thank you for coming back to help her. We got stronger when the light went away, but then the demon came home with Yvonne and took from us. Now that it's gone, we have the strength to move on."

"Move on to where?"

"We'll see when we get there."

"Emmett—"

"You'll take care of him, and he'll grow into a man. He'll live his life, and so will you."

"I let him walk right into danger. What do I do, Lee?"

"He was safe with us. Never in danger. And now this house will be empty again. You'll go on as you were always supposed to, Peter. Just live your life and forgive yourself. You tormented yourself for so many years, but it's over. Let it go."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there that night, that I didn't save you, that I didn't save him."

"You could have died with us, and then he wouldn't have any family at all." She looked sad as she reached out and touched him. It was a feather touch, warm and soft. "I have to say goodbye to him now."

An ambulance siren sounded outside. Peter looked twice, and Lisa was gone for good. He rubbed his arms and ran downstairs to show the paramedics were to go.

"What happened here?" one of them asked when he took a look at the priest.

Peter sighed. "It's a long story."

"I'm going in the ambulance with him," Melody said. "You should take Emmett home when he says his goodbyes." She gripped his sleeves. "But it's worse than I thought, Peter. He desperately needs a guide."

"I'll help him," he said.

"No," she replied. "I will."

And he didn't have any fight left in him to argue about it.

***

Outside, the trick or treaters were out in full blast. Emmett looked wistfully at a group passing by who stared at the broken glass and ambulance in wonder.

"We still have time to do a quick whip-around," Peter said hopefully.

"No costume."

"Here," Melody said before she got into the ambulance. She rummaged through her bag then circled Emmett's eyes with black eyeliner. She added some red to his lips. "There," she said. "Now you're a vampire."

"Vampires don't look like that," Peter said. "At all."

"Shut up, Peter," she said in a sing-song voice. She took her keys and phone out of the bag and handed it to Emmett. "Carry the sweets in that."

"Thank you," he said.

She looked up at Peter and held his gaze.

He held out his hand. "Thank you, Melody Riordan."

Her hand in his was soft and warm. "Just call me Melody Love. That's who I am, whether I like it or not. And I'll be back for the bag." But she really meant his son, he could tell. "See you soon, Emmett."

Emmett grinned at Peter and held out his hand. Peter took it, and a spark of hope inside his chest flickered anew.

Chapter Twelve

After Halloween, Peter went to see Father Ryan in hospital. His leg had been broken, and he had cracked a couple ribs, but other than a bout of high blood pressure, the priest was going to be okay.

"Ah, Peter," Father Ryan said, surrounded by cards and flowers and what smelled like freshly made doughnuts.

"How are you doing, Father?" He handed the priest his own offerings, fish and chips from the takeaway closest to the church.

"Can't you see I'm spoiled?" The priest smiled as he poked through the bag. "Oh, lovely. How did you know about my fried weaknesses?"

Peter grinned back. "Moses told me you're a frequent customer."

"He would know. He's one himself. And he's paid me a visit. Half the parish have, and all bearing gifts. It's almost like a holiday."

"I'm just sorry you got hurt because of this."

"I'm not sorry. Not for this. What kind of priest would I be if I abandoned my flock in their time of need?"

Peter smiled. "I keep telling you I'm not your flock."

"I'm responsible for those who need my help. In fact, I have a lot to thank you for."

"Me?" Peter frowned. "I haven't done anything for you."

"Are you sure?" Father Ryan patted his stomach with a satisfactory smile. "Aside from the food, you and your friends are responsible for helping my parish. Not because you were scared of punishment from God if you didn't, but because it was the right thing to do. Despite that, not many would have been brave enough to do it."

"You mean the time the vampires sent those... monsters into the flats? More stupidity than bravery. Besides, that wasn't even my idea."

"Do you know why I wanted to become a priest, Peter?"

Unsettled by the apparent change in subject, and the priest's probable close relationship with some kind of strong painkiller while in the hospital, Peter shrugged. "I can honestly say I have no idea why anyone would choose that life. No offence intended."

The priest rolled his eyes. "And I suppose I shouldn't take any. No, it isn't for everyone. It's not for most people actually. When I was young, I didn't plan on getting married or having children. I didn't become a priest because I was disinterested in women, mind you, nor was I the aimless youngest son. It wasn't to impress my elders either."

"Then why? Why give up so many opportunities for this?"

"For far more opportunity," he said slowly, as though waiting for Peter to catch up. "I wanted to make a difference. I didn't have the brains or money to become a doctor, didn't have enough heat in my veins to fight as a soldier in wars I didn't believe in, but I knew I didn't want to grow up and live on the same street as my parents and never leave. I wanted to travel, and I wanted to affect people's lives. I wanted to help them be better, and I was arrogant enough to think that was my responsibility."

"Isn't that kind of your job?"

"Not exactly, but I didn't realise that then."

Peter felt the conversation drift off into territory he wasn't comfortable with. "Maybe I should—"

The priest grabbed his hand. "I had faith. I was raised on faith and tradition, but the understanding? That came later."

With a sigh, Peter settled next to the priest. "Did you get to travel?"

"Some. I learned a lot in those days. Humility came to me in the depths of human despair. There have been two moments in my life when my faith has wavered. Only two. And I think myself stronger for it. I can see that look in your eyes, you know. You think faith a weakness."

"You're not weak," Peter said, staring at the palms of his hands. "It's not that at all. I just can't do that. I can't throw myself all-in. I can't have that much faith and trust in something that might not exist."

"But we know what exists now."

"Okay, in something that might not care."

"That's the big question, isn't it? That and, does goodness exist?" Father Ryan murmured. His eyes had half-closed again. "Does pain? It's comforting somehow, to know something for sure. But there's something delicious about never having proof other than what you see with your own eyes."

"You're tired. I should let you rest."

The priest reached out and gripped Peter's arm, harder this time. "Wait. I want to talk. I want to... confess."

Smiling, Peter patted the priest's hand. "I'm not a priest."

"No, but you might understand. Two moments, Peter. Two moments when I was shamed by my lack of faith. Can I tell you about them?"

And suddenly, Peter found he was curious. "If it makes you feel better."

"I was in... a dark place. I hid the children. Guns outside, and... there was a storm. The kind that rips roofs away from houses. The men who came had a different belief than I do, and their belief led to them hurting the girls I had promised to protect. I couldn't stop them, couldn't move. They pinned me as they pinned the girl next to me, and as one of the soldiers hurt her, I despaired. I thought, how could any kind of god let this happen? There's nothing out there. The universe is as dark and empty as these men's hearts. There's no hope. And this girl, this child, looked at me and started praying. Words I had thought her. And her gaze went elsewhere. She was in another place, Peter." He swallowed hard, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. "She used her faith as a shield, shamed me by my own weakness. They couldn't take that away from her. But they took it from me. And that's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"I wasn't supposed to help anyone become better," he said bitterly. "They were the ones teaching me how to be a better man. They were the ones giving me lessons. I learned from them, from all of them, and I shed that arrogance." He waved his hand. "But then I got old."

"Happens to the best of us."

"I got old and fat and complacent. Coming back here, settling down in a parish like mine felt like giving up. The end of my dreams. But I told myself to make it work. To make a difference."

"And did you?"

The priest waved his hand. "Ah, well, that. I tried and I tried to make this community heal itself. I tried to make them see that working together would help them all. But I never stopped to notice that they did help one another, just in ways I couldn't comprehend. I shouldn't have tried to change them. I should have worked with them. Of course," he opened his eyes and grinned, "sometimes I have to put my foot down. No limos and expensive outfits for the communion ceremony."

"You're a hard man," Peter said, echoing the smile even though his stomach was in a turmoil.

"The worst," Father Ryan said with a snort. "Where was I? Oh, yes, the second time. That was in the flats when the beasts came. It all seemed so hopeless. I tried to have faith, but Moses..." He tutted and shook his head. "That boy was always a pain in the arse. He is absolutely terrified of religion. Allergic, even." He burst out laughing. "Oh, I just remembered. His mother used to bring him to mass every weekend—there was one awful week when he tried his hand as altar boy—and he was one of the few children there. He would sit there, scowling, always scowling. He would paint spots on himself and pretend he was sick, but his mother dragged him through those doors no matter what."

"He's still an awful eejit," Peter conceded.

The priest chuckled, genuinely amused by his memories. "Oh, once, he really was sick, spewed across four rows. Women ran screaming from the church that day, and he sat there laughing his head off, even though his face had gone green. That was the last time I saw him in the church for a long time." He paused for a breath. "I doubted everything the night those beasts came. Doubted Moses's tenacity, doubted the community's strength, doubted my own faith. And you and your friends came and protected us."

"If I can remember right, you did some protecting of your own."

The priest smiled again, this time falling closer to sleep. "I saw you—the emptiness in your eyes was chilling, yet you stood with us without reward—and I thought, this is yet another lesson. And it was. You not only fought back, but you won. Not just that fight, but the war that was being raged on our country. Do you know how rare it is in this day and age to find people willing to do what it takes?"

"Lots of people fought," Peter said, feeling uncomfortable. He had mostly helped because of Ava, and then Emmett. He hadn't yet reached a place where he did something because it was right. Not yet.

"Nobody else fought for us. For a forgotten community in a place most people had already given up on. Moses has become a better man. I have become a better man. And that community has been brought back to life. Melody spoke about atmospheres, but there was a dark atmosphere over those flats. The worst of the despair has been lifted, and I thank God for that."

Peter avoided his eyes.

"I know you don't believe," Father Ryan said softly. "And that's quite all right. I'm not supposed to convert anyone to my way of thinking. But I feel a kinship with you, Peter. You might not have faith in my god, but you have faith in something other than yourself, and that's special. And I see your determination to change, for your son's sake. It's important for me to remember that everyone is redeemable. So that's why I helped you. I knew you would help me become a better man, too."

"But I'm not a good man, Father."

"He's in there. You'll meet him again." He squeezed Peter's arm, his eyes closing. "You just need to find some faith in yourself. But we'll get there. We'll get there."

The snoring started almost immediately, but Peter sat there for a lot longer, moved by the words of a man he would likely never understand.

***

Peter opened the first box, grabbed a handful of photos and passed them over to Emmett. "These are all from before you were born."

Emmett pushed the bag of Halloween goodies his way. "You look so different."

"Yeah, well, I got old."

Emmett giggled. "Of course you did."

"So how was it?" he tentatively asked. "Seeing them, saying goodbye to them."

"It was good. We were the heroes, Dad. We saved them and got rid of a demon. How cool is that?"

"Still, I'd rather if we kept it quiet a while longer."

"We did get rid of the demon, didn't we?"

"Let's hope so." But he had no way of knowing, and according to Melody, there could be other parts of Abaddon hanging around. He really hoped she was wrong.

"It was nice to meet someone who's kind of like me," Emmett said slowly. "Do you think we'll see her again?"

"Most likely," Peter said. "The thing is, Melody reckons that everyone like you needs a guide. To help you control your gift. And to stop you making any big mistakes that you can't take back."

"Like what?"

"If you're okay with it, I'll let Melody tell you all about that. She knows more about this stuff, and she's asked to be your guide. She wants to help you."

"They told me that you see things, too."

Peter sighed. "Not like you. I can block them out."

"With alcohol."

"That's what I did for a long time, yes."

"So I could do that."

Peter grinned. "Not until you're eighteen, boy."

"I don't want to block them out. I like hearing their secrets. I hear whispers all of the time, Dad. I think I'm getting stronger."

"Maybe you are. And Melody will help you if you let her."

"She's okay. I want to know more. I'll let her guide me if you don't want to."

Peter sat up straight. "It's not that I don't want to. But I don't know what it's like, not really. Melody knows the rules. She's been through this before. It'll be interesting for you to learn more about how your gift works."

"But I'm stronger than her."

"That doesn't mean you have nothing to learn." He flicked through a handful of photos. "We never stop learning, Emmett. And just because you have a gift doesn't mean you don't need to control it. I might not have the skills to help you, but we'll figure it out together. Is that okay?"

"Yeah." To his surprise, the boy leaned against his side and handed him a photo. "Tell me about this day, Dad."

Something in Peter's gut shifted and warmed. Maybe Halloween wasn't so terrible, after all.

Thanks for reading Ghost Moon Rising. If you enjoyed Peter's story, you might want to check out Zombie Moon Rising, another Halloween story.

For more information, check out Claire Farrell's blog or email the author.  Sign up to be notified of new releases or like the Facebook page for more regular updates.

Books by Claire Farrell:

Chaos Series:

One Night with the Fae (Free Companion Prequel)

Soul (Chaos #1)

Fade (Chaos #2)

Queen (Chaos #3)

Ava Delaney Original Series:

Thirst (Ava Delaney #1) – Free

Taunt (Ava Delaney #2)

Tempt (Ava Delaney #3)

Taken (Ava Delaney #4)

Taste (Ava Delaney #5)

Traitor (Ava Delaney #6)

Awakening (Ava Delaney Volume I – Books 1-3)

Uprising (Ava Delaney Volume II – Books 4-6)

Ava Delaney: Lost Souls Series

Tainted (Ava Delaney: Lost Souls #1)

Cursed Series:

Verity (Cursed #1) – Free

Clarity (Cursed #2)

Adversity (Cursed #2.5 – Free

Purity (Cursed #3)

Cursed Omnibus (Entire Cursed Series)

Stake You Series:

Stake You (Stake You #1)

Make You (Make You #2)

Short Story Collections:

Sixty Seconds

A Little Girl in my Room

Other:

Death is a Gift (A banshee novel)

Zombie Moon Rising (A Peter Brannigan Novella)

Upcoming Releases:

Usurper (Chaos #4)

Break You (Stake You #3)

Demon Dog (V.B.I. #1)

Tethered (Ava Delaney: Lost Souls #2)

