The Ghost Hunter by Lori Brighton

for Ashley to return to her room. Thirty extremely long minutes. He’d sensed her consciousness even before he’d heard her tiptoe down the hall, then the floorboards above in the attic began to creak, indicating she’d gone upstairs. What the hell she was doing up there, he hadn’t a clue.
    Finally, when he could wait no longer, he’d tossed his sheet aside, pulled on shorts and made his way into the hall. Murmured voices drifted from the attic door. He jerked his head that way and narrowed his eyes. Ghostly voices. Slowly, Cristian made his way toward that door, careful not to make a sound. What the hell was she doing? She might deny her abilities to the entire town, but apparently she made it a practice to interact with the ghosts when she was alone.
    His bare foot hit the first step, then the next. Crouched low, he peered through the railings. The attic was large, running the length of the house. Ashley stood between piles of boxes. She was wearing a large blue dress and had powdered her hair white, looking like something that had sprouted from a fairy tale.
    Had she finally gone daft?
    “My ass looks huge. This is ridiculous,” she murmured the obvious.  
    To anyone else it would have looked like she was talking to herself, but Cristian knew better. A soft murmur whispered through the attic. The sound of wind through the windows that lined the eastern wall, or a response to Ashley’s statement? Definitely a ghostly response. He hadn’t a clue what the spirit had said, but he had no doubt Ashley had understood quite clearly.
    The dress had to be something her Aunt Clare had worn to a costume party. As if having a huge ass wasn’t enough, her hips were miles wide, and her chest was threatening to spill from the incredibly low neckline. He loved that bloody dress.
    “Aunt Clare,” Ashley whispered, shaking her head. “You naughty, naughty old bat.”
    Cristian narrowed his eyes, focusing on that familiar soft shimmer beside Ashley, an energy field that interrupted the already odd scene. The shimmering faded, then reappeared a few feet away. A ghost. Cristian’s hands curled as he resisted the urge to surge forward and get rid of the spirit for good. It was too soon. If he reacted now, she’d never trust him.
    “You want me to what?” Ashley demanded, staring hard at that shimmer. There was a long pause, then a soft murmur. “Oh hell, fine. All hail the Magistrate,” she called out, her voice laced with sarcasm.
    Cristian stilled as he felt the distinct chill that announced more spirits arriving. A shimmering wave floated from the wall beside him.
    “Shite,” he whispered, ducking low behind the stairwell.
    Another shimmer followed, and another. They swept across the room, taking their cold air with them. Ashley curtsied low next to a Baroque style chair that was apparently posing as some sort of throne.
    Frantically, Cristian tried to remember which ghosts resided in the pub. Clare had told him years ago, before the spirits had been a threat, but he’d barely paid attention. Why would he? They’d been nothing but a shimmer of awareness back then.
    “Kind Sir,” Ashley started to rise.
    Cristian rolled his eyes.
    There was a soft murmur of conversation that Cristian couldn’t understand. He could sense ghosts, but not hear or actually see them. The good Lord had made sure of that. Nothing could be easy.  
    Ashley sighed, then dropped into a curtsy once more, staring at the dusty wooden planks. “Kind Sir,” she said loud and clear. “I am a humble poet and greatly admire your home. Please share tales of your life so that I may add them to my sonnets and honor you wide and far.”
    “For the love of God,” Cristian muttered.  
    “Yes,” Ashley said. “that sounds amazing, but I’d really like to know about—”
    More soft murmuring. Cristian sighed, frustrated with his lack of understanding. How many had there been? Three, or was it four adult spirits that resided here? A maid from the