Ghost in the Cupboard (Silas Erie Paranormal Cozy #1)

Chapter 1

Dear Mr. Silas Eerie,

Thank you for applying for the Waterson Altruism Grant.

Waterson Corporations is pleased to be in a position to extend assistance to organizations helping those in need in our communities through our grant program.

Thousands of applications are received yearly, and this year was no exception.

While we find your cause to be worthy of one of our prestigious grants, we regret to inform you that—

Crumbling up the single sheet of white printer paper, I didn’t bother to read the rest of the letter.

A rejection is a rejection whether you read the entire thing or not.

Besides, I’d known that my application was denied the moment I saw the way my last name had been spelled in the greeting.

If someone can’t be bothered to get the spelling of your name correct, you’re obviously of no importance to them.

Hence, you are not worthy of one of the grants they bestow upon charitable organizations yearly, and the matter is closed.

Though I wanted to believe that The Lunch Counter simply couldn’t compete against other charitable organizations for a Waterson Altruism Grant, I knew the truth.

The misspelling of my name wasn’t simply an oversight or the mistype of a harried office assistant.

The folks at Waterson Corporations had known all about me and The Lunch Counter already.

We’re common knowledge to anyone in the Midwest. Or anyone who stays up late, doom-scrolling on social media, and finds themselves in a YouTube black hole.

This marked the third year—and third rejection—from the Waterson Corporation for one of their grants.

Two rejections in the first two years of applying might have been easily written off as a poorly written grant application.

Or maybe the Waterson Corporation waiting to see how dedicated I was before giving me, and The Lunch Counter, a grant.

However, with this third rejection—and the obviously intentional misspelling of my name—I knew continuing to apply for the grant was a waste of time going forward.

Sighing, I tossed the ball of paper in the bathroom waste basket and returned my attention to the mirror.

Grinning like an insane clown, I checked my teeth and gums. I’d flossed, brushed, and rinsed with mouthwash.

Sparkling and not a speck of leftover food.

I was going to ruin that. I tilted my head back and checked both nostrils.

No wild hairs. Titling my head down to look at my brows, I found nothing wild in need of my attention there, either.

Twisting my face back and forth, I reached up and rubbed at my neck, cheeks, chin, and upper lip.

I was never great at growing facial hair, but a shave was needed from time to time.

Tonight was not going to be one of those times.

So, I washed my face and used witch hazel after drying my skin gently with a terry cloth towel.

Every day magic is found in rituals. Routines.

Having a nightly routine before sliding into bed helps one settle mentally and prepare for slumber.

That’s what I tell myself.

Sleep would come whether I went through my routine or not, but settling my mind beforehand simply makes my sleep more restful.

Rinsing away the grit of the day helps the body transition from one state to another.

A bedtime routine is like the Last Rites at a hospital bed…

except you usually wake up the following morning.

After I’d made sure my hygiene and grooming were taken care of, I gave the waste basket a final glance.

The ball of crumpled white paper mocked me, but I wasn’t going to let it bring me down.

I shook my head clear of bad thoughts and forced a smile to my face as I slapped off the lights.

A positive attitude and a smile can change anything.

Fake it ‘til you make it.

Out of the en suite and back in my bedroom, I turned down the covers on my bed.

It was early autumn, so it was a cool, crisp evening.

Still not cold enough to bust out the winter blankets, but not warm enough to sleep with merely a sheet and light blanket as I did during summer.

I fluffed my pillow and checked to make sure my phone was plugged in and charging on the bedside table.

Then I made sure my alarm was set accurately.

After that part of my routine, I checked the windows on the other side of the bed. Both latched. I touched all four corners of the wood trim around each, checking for the cold silver discs. Satisfied with my findings, I left my bedroom and checked the windows in the guest room.

Next was the kitchen and backdoor, then the living room windows and front door.

I checked the tiny little window in the hall bathroom and even looked up and checked for the silver discs at all four corners of the panel where the pulldown ladder for the attic is located.

Lastly, I went to the end of the hall and checked the lock and corners on the door that led into the atrium—my workroom.

Everything checked out.

Sighing with relief, the anxiety that I hadn’t realized I was holding in my joints released its grip on me. I rolled my shoulders and took a few deep breaths. The house was secure for the night. A good night’s rest was ahead of me.

Having done my necessary nightly checks, I headed back to the kitchen and popped open the fridge.

I leaned my hip against the edge of the fridge door as I stared in at its contents.

Eventually, I’d have to get to the grocery store.

I’d been putting off a shopping trip for over a week, and the fridge before me was slim pickings.

Refusing to be disappointed, I bent down and grabbed the storage container that held cubed watermelon.

I set it on the kitchen table before pulling up my pajama bottoms and retying the drawstring.

Recently having lost a few pounds—and not having much booty to begin with—my pants were making the loss known.

Considering the action I’d just committed with my pants, I reopened the fridge and grabbed the container that held cubes of different cheeses.

After setting the cheese next to the watermelon, I rummaged in the pantry and extracted one of the few remaining bags of extra buttery microwave popcorn.

It was quickly unfolded and popped in the microwave.

Four minutes later, I was propped up in my easy chair, my feet crossed on the ottoman, surrounded by my snacks.

Though the brown leather Chesterfield chair and ottoman had seen better days, the wear and tear had been done lovingly.

One leg was a little wobbly and the leather needed a good cleaning and conditioning—and there was probably years’-worth of lost pocket change in the crevices—but I loved the set dearly.

Like most of the items in my home, the chair and ottoman had come to me lightly used.

Not in perfect condition—yet perfect for my needs—lightly used items that cost little or nothing are my favorite kind of items. Furniture with a history, and pieces that were obviously loved by their previous owners, simply feel more comfortable and integrate into different spaces easily.

You just have to be careful from whom you choose to accept used items. No one wants surprises. Like bed bugs.

Or worse.

My nightly hour-long sci-fi dramedy went by in a flash, as did the snacks I’d prepared for myself.

The watermelon container was empty, only kernels of popcorn were left, and the cheese was all but obliterated.

As the credits rolled, I patted my belly, wondering if I didn’t need to finish the evening strong with something sweet.

However, it was announced that a program about unsolved murders was about to begin, right before Victor Grimm’s advertisement started, and I rushed to flip the T.V. off with the remote.

The picture on the screen evaporated, as my appetite had, when the ad began.

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts of murders and missing people and fame-chasers, I gathered up my items and exited the living room, using my elbow to get the light switch on the way.

I cleaned up in the kitchen quickly and washed my dishes, deciding to leave them in the drain tray for the night. A few water spots never killed anyone.

Impulsively, I checked the kitchen windows, the living room windows, and the front door.

Turning the lights off on my way to my room, I couldn’t help but check the guest bedroom and the hallway bathroom again.

Since I was on a roll, I checked the attic access and the door to the workroom once more.

Everything was locked and all the silver was in place.

Standing before the workroom door, I went over the schedule on the white board hung at eye level to the left of it.

With my favorite purple dry erase marker, I’d written out the schedule I’d made for myself for the week.

If I didn’t keep myself on track, work easily got away from me.

Having something to remind me where I needed to be and when ensured that life ran as smoothly as possible.

Chewing at my lip, I mentally calculated how much money all the upcoming clients on the schedule contributed to the budget.

If I kept up the same pace for the rest of the month, neither my personal budget, nor that of The Lunch Counter, would suffer any.

Of course, if I made more time for in-person clients—the ones that really brought in the cash, things would be easier, money-wise.

Of course, that would mean more travel, as many clients didn’t want to come to Sage Grove.

So many of my online clients wanted an in-person appointment, but they simply couldn’t—or wouldn’t—come to me.

Most of them didn’t want to wait until I did a tour, either.

If I committed to more travel, I could take more clients.

However, that would mean reorganizing my entire personal life and the system we had worked out at The Lunch Counter.

Knowing there was no way I was going to solve my problem before bedtime, I gave up. Tomorrow was a brand-new day and things always seemed to find a way to work. Keeping a positive attitude and a willingness to do what needed to be done, eventually I’d figure something out.

Relieved, I returned to my room, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

I turned and checked all four corners. Silver.

Silver. Silver. And silver. Subconsciously, I ran a finger over the painted wall next to the door.

The green paint felt gritty under my flesh—as would all the walls, ceilings, and floors in the house if I felt of them.

I flipped the light switch, leaving the room cast in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp.

Intending to get into bed, I couldn’t help myself.

My feet led me directly over to the windows first. I checked all of the corners and all the locks.

Everything was secure and the silver was in place.

Sighing with relief once more, I started to turn back to my bed.

As I turned, movement in the yard beyond caught my eye. Turning back to the windows, I stared out at the yard, but mostly saw my reflection staring back at me. I reached over and pulled the cord on the bedside lamp, and the reflections from the room disappeared from the window glass.

Outside, under the moonless black sky, the yard was nothing more than dark shapes.

The trees surrounding the property were skeletal hands reaching up out of the earth.

The bushes under the window shimmied in the brisk autumn breeze, the rustling a symphony.

I was convincing myself that I had simply been mistaken when my eyes landed on the thing that had caught my eye.

The figure stepped out of the tree line twenty feet beyond the windows, and into the yard.

He was staring down at his feet, walking across the yard towards the house.

Dressed in out-of-style worn jeans, brown leather shoes too big for his feet, and a sweater that had likely been knitted for him by an older relative, his shaggy mop of hair hung like vines around his face.

Halfway across the yard to the house, he stopped in his tracks, lifted his head, and looked directly at the window. Our eyes connected, but I could barely see his in the darkness and through the tangles of hair that hung from his head. He grinned widely as he stared across the yard at me.

Black viscous slime oozed from his gums, over his teeth, and down his chin, dripping to the yard below.