22. Freddie #3
Floating three inches off the floorboards is Noah, an eighty-five-year-old ghost who’s been haunting this block since he passed. He’s wearing his usual faded tweed trousers, a wool vest, and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his translucent elbows.
I grin, resting my hands on my hips. “Right on time, Noah.”
Noah floats in like he always does—eighty-five years old and translucent around the edges, wearing the same slightly wrinkled plaid shirt and high-waisted trousers he’s worn for as long as I’ve known him.
His paperboy cap sits at a jaunty angle, the kind that looks like it belongs on a newsie from the forties.
He tips it at me, expression already mid-complaint.
“Got held up by traffic,” he grumbles, voice crackling like an old radio. “This town is getting way too damn big. Used to be you could cross Main Street without nearly getting run over by some idiot in a Subaru.”
Then his gaze lands on Callum, still halfway through the singles bins, and his bushy brows climb. “Who the hell is he?”
Callum’s eyes go a little wide, and I bite back a laugh.
“This is, ah, my friend Callum,” I say, waving a hand between them. “Callum, this is Noah.
Noah reaches up, snags the paperboy cap off his head with a flourish that would’ve looked dramatic if he weren’t already slightly see-through, and gives a short bow. “Noah Abernathy. Pleasure. Or at least it will be if you’re not about to start moving my favorite table.”
“There was no table moving in my plans today, sir,” Callum says, his Scottish drawl smooth and completely untroubled as he holds up his hands in surrender. “Your spot is entirely safe.”
I lean on the counter. “Noah comes in at the same time every day.”
“And Freddie here lets me listen to my favorite album,” Noah finishes, settling the cap back on his head. “Twistin’ the Night Away. Sam Cooke. The only way to start a proper morning.”
I already have the record in my hands. The sleeve is soft at the corners from years of this exact ritual.
I slide the vinyl free, set it on the turntable, and lower the needle.
The soft crackle fills the shop first, then that unmistakable opening groove.
Noah drifts over to the little round table by the big front window—the one with the best view of the town—and unfolds his usual copy of the Amberhollow Herald.
I duck behind the counter to dig out the sticky notes I use for price tags. Callum sidles up next to me, close enough that his bicep brushes my arm when he leans in. The contact is warm, solid, and I pretend not to notice the way it settles under my skin.
“What’s Noah’s deal?” he asks, voice low so it doesn’t carry over the music. “Why this album every day?”
I peel a sticky note free and press it onto a used copy of Hotel California.
“It was him and his wife’s favorite,” I say softly.
“Wendy. They were high school sweethearts, born and raised right here in Amberhollow.” I glance over at Noah, who’s already muttering at the crossword in the paper.
“When she passed, this just…became his spot. Same table, same time, same record. I think the routine keeps a little piece of her here with him.”
Callum’s quiet for a second, watching Noah turn a page. “Isn’t it easier for him to just stay home and listen to it?”
I shrug, stacking a few more 45s that need re-pricing. “I think he gets lonely. Floating around an empty house all day gets old, even if you are dead. He likes being out and about with people.”
Callum smiles faintly, a subtle crease forming between his brows. “It’s sweet. What he does for her.” He pauses, quiet for a second before looking back at me. “Why isn’t Wendy around? In ghost form, I mean.”
“It doesn’t work like that for everyone,” I explain, leaning my hip against the register.
“In Amberhollow, you only stick around as a ghost if you’ve got unfinished business, or if you’re just stubborn as hell and refuse to leave.
Wendy was at peace when she passed. She moved on.
Noah…well, Noah wanted to stick around a little longer. ”
Callum looks around the shop like he’s seeing it for the first time again. “No matter how long I’m here,” he says, almost to himself, “I’ll never not be in awe of this place.”
I’ll never not be in awe of you.
The thought hits me out of nowhere. My breath hitches, and I mentally slap myself. Jesus, Freddie, where the hell did that come from? Get it together.
Shaking the sappy thought out of my head, I turn toward the back hallway and raise my voice. “Grimm!”
Nothing.
I try again, louder, with the full force of annoyance. “Grumpy St. Grimm, get your ass out here!”
A second later, a heavy, leather-bound book comes floating lazily through the air from the back room, its worn brass clasps clinking softly as it hovers a few feet off the ground.
The ancient leather cover is scuffed at the corners, and the gold lettering along its spine glimmers faintly in the morning light.
Must you yell? Grimm’s dry voice flows straight into my head. Some of us were attempting to nap off the utter indignity of your loud antics last night. Some people have no respect for delicate bindings.
I let out a snort, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s nice to see you too, buddy.”
We spend the next few hours caught in a strange, rhythm-driven dance.
I prop Grimm open on the counter, but the old book grumbles continuously, complaining about “greasy thumbprints” and “unrefined light.” Between flipping through his delicate, yellowed pages searching for any scrap of lore on Veil portals, I step away to ring up local regulars, stock crates, and recommend old jazz records.
In the slow stretches I wander the aisles, fingers trailing over album spines.
My magic reaches out, brushing against the memories that cling to some of the older records like static.
A battered copy of Rumours carries the ghost of a couple slow-dancing in a kitchen, bare feet on linoleum, arguing softly about whose turn it was to do the dishes.
A first pressing of The Dark Side of the Moon holds the memory of a teenager lying on a bedroom floor in 1973, headphones on, staring at the ceiling and feeling infinite for the first time.
A scuffed Born to Run still smells faintly of cigarette smoke and summer nights spent driving with the windows down.
Eventually, my feet carry me back toward the electronic keyboard. I rest my hands on the keys, pressing a soft chord. My magic reacts instantly, purring in a happy harmony that feels terrifyingly similar to how it behaves whenever Callum is standing close to me.
I take a breath, keeping my power settled and calm, and let my fingers move. Softly, slowly, I begin picking out the melty, nostalgic intro melody to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears. I don’t sing out loud, though the lyrics run automatically in my head.