“That’s it. I’ve been wanting to reread it ever since this show I did a couple months ago. A guy had this car that he swore was possessed, just like in the book. I don’t do private consultations, but my prodco was filming the show, and they thought it’d be cool if we checked out his car in the parking lot. Oh, here’s the map.”

I scanned the map. “Aha. Here’s our problem. King gets his own shelf in the Popular Authors section.”

As we walked to the section, Jamie continued her story. “So this kid—he’s maybe your age—has this gorgeous 1967 Mustang convertible. First thought: ‘Uh-oh, call DEA.’ The kid didn’t look like any trust-fund brat, so where’d he get a car like that? When I ask him, he gets all nervous. Says his grandpa left it to him. And sure enough, it really is haunted. Guess who by?”

“The grandfather,” I said.

“Bingo. The old guy jumped me the second I got within sensing distance, so spitting mad he could barely communicate. Seems he did leave the car to the kid. But on one condition. He wanted to be buried in it. No one else in the family would listen, but the kid promised to do it.”

“And then he stiffed him.”

Jaime laughed. “Yeah, the kid stiffed the stiff. Took the car, took the money, and plopped Gramps into the cheapest casket he could buy.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Told the kid the truth. Either he buried Gramps in the car or he had to live with a permanent pissed-off hitchhiker. Oh, here it is.”

The King section took up two eight-foot-long shelves, and the books weren’t alphabetized. As I skimmed the titles, I glanced at my watch.

“We can skip this,” Jaime said. “No biggie.”

“Another minute or two won’t matter. Oh, I forgot to call Lucas. He can help.”

“Why don’t I just grab something else.”

As if one cue, a book tumbled from the top shelf and landed between us. Jaime picked it up.

“Salem’s Lot.” She shook her head. “Not one of my faves. You ever read it?”

“I started to, because I thought it was about witches. When I found out it was vampires, I stopped. Not keen on the vamps myself.”

“Who is? Damned parasites.” Jaime stood on tiptoes to put the book back. The moment she released it, it jolted out and fell to the floor.

“I think it’s lonely,” I said with a laugh. “Looks like it’s gathering some dust up there.”

Again, Jaime put the book back. This time, before she could let go, the book slammed into her palm hard enough to make her yelp. Then it tumbled to the floor.

“Maybe there’s some kind of catch up there,” I said. “Here, I’ll find a new place for it.”

AsI bent for the book, it spun out of my reach. Jaime grabbed my arm.

“Let’s go,” she said.

A book flew from the shelf, hitting her side. Another book sailed from a lower shelf, then another and another, pelting Jaime. She doubled over, arms wrapped over her head.

“Leave me alone!” she said. “Damn you—”

I grabbed her arm and propelled her out from the hailstorm of books. As we moved, I looked down at the novels strewn across the aisle. They were all copies of Salem’s Lot.

The moment we were out of the Stephen King section, the books stopped flying. I speed-dialed Lucas and told him to meet us at the door.

“Ghost?” I whispered to Jaime as I hung up.

She nodded, gaze tripping from side to side, as if ready to duck.

“I think it’s over,” I murmured. “But we’d better scram, before someone notices the mess.”

Again, Jaime only nodded. I rounded a corner, and looked down the unfamiliar aisle.

“Classics,” I said. “Wrong turn. Let’s back up—”

A book shot straight out from the shelf and clipped Jaime in the ear. More flew out, pummeling her from all sides. I shoved her out of the way, catching a few books myself, each striking harder than one would think possible for a slender paperback. One hit me in the knee. As I pitched forward, the book flopped to the floor. The Iliad…the same as every other book flying from the shelves.

I righted myself and kept propelling Jaime forward until we reached the front door. Lucas took one look at my expression and hurried over.

“What happened?” he whispered.

I motioned that we’d tell him outside.

On the way to the car, I told Lucas what had happened. Jaime stayed silent. Strangely silent, not chiming in with so much as an “uh-huh.”

“Seems the bookstore had a resident ghost,” I said. “I’ve heard of things like that happening. A necromancer is sitting in a bar, having a drink, minding his own business, and all of a sudden a spirit realizes there’s a necro in the house and goes wild, trying to make contact. Like a shipwreck survivor spotting a rescue boat.”

Jaime nodded, but kept her gaze straight forward, walking so fast I could barely keep up.

“It certainly does happen,” Lucas said. “But I suspect that’s not what we had here”—he shot a pointed look at Jaime—“is it?”

She nibbled her lower lip and kept walking. Lucas tugged my arm, indicating for me to slow down. When Jaime got about twenty feet ahead of us, she glanced over each shoulder, realized we weren’t with her, then turned to wait.

For a minute we just stood there, looking at each other. Then Lucas cleared his throat.