Chapter Twenty-Three-Evie
The path was covered in that same glowing green ooze, and I swear it was bubbling.
Gross.
A ghastly howl filtered through the branches of the seasonably multicolored trees and shrubs that dotted the cemetery landscape, like fall had joined a horror movie shoot without getting a script.
And still I pressed forward, because I knew exactly where I was going.
I was angry. Confused. And okay—maybe a little queasy.
But mostly mad. Because this?
This could not be happening.
A Castor—my family—behind this supernatural slime-fest?
No freaking way.
We were the caretakers of this town. We ran the damn place.
Five minutes later, I was standing in front of the Castorini mausoleum.
The ancient stone bore the original name of my family—before the Castorini-to-Castor rebrand had taken place somewhere between Ellis Island and the great American assimilation circus.
The air was thick with rot and nostalgia.
Generations of my people were laid to rest behind those marble doors.
One day, I was supposed to join them.
Cue dramatic shudder.
Yeah, not today, Satan. Or slime. Or whatever this was.
My eyes flicked over the plaque that read Alfonso Castor—my grandfather—and yep, just as I feared, that nasty, glowing, minty slime was now oozing out of the engraving and forming trails that reached out like evil fingers across the cemetery.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. “The mausoleum has a supernatural leak.”
The rot was spreading fast now, seeping into the grass, curling around tree roots, and creeping toward the other headstones.
Something deep in my gut twisted, and not just because I had downed that day-old banana muffin for breakfast.
Whatever was happening here, it was bad.
Like capital B, bolded, underlined BAD.
And somehow, it tied back to Grandpa Al.
My mostly fond memories of him—the peppermint candies, the pineapple gifts, the always-too-strong cologne—felt like they were about to get kicked in the metaphorical nuts.
Speaking of.
Time for a little magical clarity.
And I was hoping like hell since this had nothing to do with personal gain, that it worked.
I closed my eyes, steadied my breath, and chanted:
“In this hour,
I ask of thee,
Gaia of all powers that be,
That the sight increaseth in me,
Blood to blood, I call on family,
Today to see and nevermore,
Bring the ghost of Al Castor.”
I waited. Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth.
My rhyming was objectively terrible, but I was polite and I had passion—surely Gaia would count that for something?
I glanced down at my peach dress and matching sweater. The only reason I wasn’t gagging more was because my cute little one-inch t-strap pumps were keeping my feet just above the thick puddles of magical snot collecting on the ground.
I really hoped they survived this encounter. Anthropologie wasn’t cheap, and I had a budget to maintain.
Then, I heard it.
“Is that you, Evelyn?”
The voice boomed right in my ear.
I shrieked like a banshee and spun so fast my balance went bye-bye. I slipped, butt-first, into the slime with a sickening SPLURCH.
“Oh, come on!” I wheezed as green goo oozed into places it absolutely did not belong.
My stomach rolled.
The muffin? Officially regretted.
A deep chuckle rolled through the air.
Floating above the gravestones, with all the dramatic flair of a Vegas magician on acid, was my very dead grandfather.
And he was pants less.
Or—more accurately—he was see-through where most of his pants should have been.
And in place of, ahem, manly bits, was a giant red “NO” sign.
Like the Ghostbusters logo.
But just for Grandpa’s, um, junk.
Oh my Goddess!
It all clicked into place.
The junkless wonder.
It was him. My dearly departed Grandpa Al!
“Evelyn, bellissima! Is that you?”
My eyes widened. My breathing increased.
“Uh, yeah, it’s me,” I murmured. “Um, hi, Grandpa. You, uh, look good. Except for the whole decaying and disembodied thing,” I said, forcing a smile while discreetly trying to wipe goo off my ass.
He grinned wide, cigar ghost-flickering in his mouth, his massive square shades tinted brown like an old-timey mob accountant.
Dressed in the world’s most offensive 1970s golf ensemble—lime green shirt, banana-yellow and brown plaid pants (well only part of the pants were visible, just the belt loops, then nothing, and more ugliness from the knees down)—he was the embodiment of every bad fashion choice ever made.
“You look just like your Nonna. A real knockout,” he said proudly.
“Thanks, I think,” I muttered, flicking a slime-glob off my shoulder.
“Is she here?” Grandpa Al asked, peering around. “That woman! Even dead, she drives me wild. She literally killed me, you know.”
“Wait, WHAT?” I shouted, slipping again as my foot squished in a puddle. “Nonna killed you?”
“Well, technically, heart attack,” he said with a shrug. “But what’s a man supposed to do when the love of his life zaps his manhood to the Netherworld?”
I blinked. “She what?”
“Magically castrated me,” he said, beaming. “One minute I was at poker night with the guys. Next, poof! No more meatballs.”
My stomach did a full gymnastic routine.
“Grandpa, please stop talking.”
“She caught me sleeping with her two best friends—classic misunderstanding, really—but boy, that temper! Loved that about her.”
“You CHEATED! On Nonna?”
“Only a little,” he said, crossing ghostly arms over his see-through crotch. “I had needs, Evelyn.”
“You unbelievable son of a—”
A piercing howl cut through my outrage.
I looked up just in time to see a giant gray Wolf barreling toward me, teeth bared, followed by a mountain-sized Grizzly and a Python as thick as a water main.
“Holy fuck,” I whispered, scrambling to my feet.
“Friends of yours?” Grandpa asked, tilting his head.
“Shut up, Grandpa!” I yelled.
The Wolf skidded to a stop, placing himself between me and the ghost, snarling like he was ready to eat the afterlife.
“Oh, for Gaia’s sake,” Grandpa sighed. “Who brings a dog to a séance?”
And that was the moment I knew this day was going to get even weirder.