Chapter One

Phoebe Wilson settled into her electronic recliner and sighed. Heat from the newfangled contraption’s warmer soothed her lower back. Such a minor bit of comfort, but she needed it for her nightly ritual of watching the nine o’clock news.

Though why she bothered…

“What’s Salem coming to? I just don’t know.” The camera view expanded to show crime scene tape surrounding a path in Arrowhead Park. Phoebe used to walk her late poodle, Miss Fluffkin, through that very stretch. “Oh, Miss Fluffs, if you could see what’s happened to the world.”

Muggings at gunpoint. Robberies. Family members attacking each other. Murders and arsons, even. Violence at every turn. It seemed the only thing reporters covered now. It also gave her a serious case of the creepy-crawlies every night when she sat down in her chair. Her back was to the front room windows.

Even with the curtains drawn, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, and she worried about someone throwing something through the window.

“Nothing but bad, bad, bad, and it makes you think the worst.” She frowned at the television, adjusting her glasses. Maybe she’d write a letter. Ask them to cover something happy for a change. “That’s silly, Phoebe Wilson, and you know it. Who’s going to listen to an eighty-four-year-old woman with a quivery voice?” She used to have a voice that carried, back when she was a schoolteacher.

I’m glad my dear Albert isn’t here to see me like this. I suppose I could’ve called Howard earlier and asked him to come by. We could play chess or do a crossword.

Howard Blackwood was a neighbor a few streets over. Since Albert had died, Howard had been coming around to make sure Phoebe wasn’t lonely or in need of anything.

He wasn’t the only gentleman who offered support, but he certainly was the kindest.

A knock interrupted the reporter, who was still rambling on about violence.

“At this time of night? Too late for those blasted solar panel salespeople.”

Whoever it was, they knocked again—and hard. Four pounds of a fist. Phoebe’s heart sped up. Had violence found its way to her door?

She levered herself forward and turned sideways toward the chair Albert used to sit in. She’d left it where it was, unable to move it herself and seeing no reason why she should.

When Albert was alive, that was his spot to watch television. And if anyone knocked on the door, he’d just flick the curtain aside to see who it was.

Now Phoebe struggled to see through the slim gap between the curtains. She got a glimpse of red hair as the person shifted back and forth.

Looks like Damien. Wonder what’s gotten a bee in his bonnet this time of night.

Her neighbor from two doors down had been an even bigger help than Howard, if Phoebe was being honest.

Howard was great for fun and games, but he was too old to push a lawn mower or haul the garbage cans up and down the driveway on trash days.

Damien could do that for her, and he never asked for much in return, though she did counsel him about wearing sunscreen when he mowed her lawn.

The poor man’s pale as a ghost, and that red hair means he’s at risk of skin cancer.

Damien might not have had the most receptive ears for her motherly advice, but Phoebe still thought he was sweet, a lot like the son she and Albert raised.

He knocked again, louder this time.

“Hold your horses, Damien! I’m coming!”

She pushed the button on her chair and waited for the footrest to lower her legs. When her feet hit the floor, she took care to stand so she wouldn’t lose her balance.

If she had to have a late visitor, Damien Knight wasn’t a bad one. He’d probably gotten it in his head to worry about her over something, or maybe he finally met the right woman and was here to tell her he was getting married.

At the front door, she peered through the peephole to be sure it was him. Used to be, she hadn’t even kept this door locked, but things had changed in Salem.

She took in his brawny physique, which might’ve looked intimidating to some, but the boy was a gentle giant. Bushy red hair and a thick beard gave him a teddy bear aura.

There was no good reason he was still single.

“Hang on. Give an old woman a second!” She worked at the dead bolt, wondering if she should ask him in for some tea. She’d just see what he wanted to tell her first. Could be he was just there to say she’d forgotten to take her mail in again.

Opening the door, she leaned against it and squinted at the young man before her.

Something felt off. A sinister vibe rolled off him, but she couldn’t put her finger on what the change was. He kept his eyes directed toward his feet. She took a step back before she stopped herself.

It’s Damien. Calm down.

But his eyes were focused on something beyond her, and he had his fist raised to knock again. He mumbled something about spirits. Clearly, he was in his cups. Hopefully, it was only alcohol.

Maybe he met the wrong woman and is just drowning his sorrows.

His mouth moved and sounds escaped, but his voice was little more than a mutter. She couldn’t make out a word of it.

“Damien, what’s wrong? Your words are getting lost in that beard of yours.”

He worked his lips, finally dropping his fist, but it remained clenched. Finally, he looked at her…or, rather, toward her.

His normally warm brown eyes were now a haunting, featureless white. Devoid of irises, they reflected nothing but a strange emptiness.

She blinked. It had to be the light. She wasn’t seeing things right.

Damien looked down again, and Phoebe convinced herself she was imagining the whole scenario.

“It’s a pact, Phoebe,” he finally got out. “Me, the spirits, and her.” He swayed where he stood, and Phoebe’s heart ached for him.

“Damien, you poor soul. You know drink won’t solve your girl problems.”

When he lifted his strange white eyes from the floor to her face, she staggered back, gripping the door for support.

Whatever had gotten to him tonight, it wasn’t grief, and it wasn’t alcohol.

“You’re on something. You need a doctor.” She kept her voice low, gentle, but channeled all her teaching years into it. “You go on home now. It’s too late to be bothering an old woman. You can come over for tea tomorrow.”

Damien’s arm shot out in front of him, blocking the closing door.

“What are you doing?” Phoebe fell backward, catching herself on the entryway table. The little dish Albert always put his keys in crashed to the floor, sending fragments of ceramic in every direction. “Damien!”

He pushed inside and loomed over her. His mouth gaped like a ventriloquist’s dummy, and his eyes were truly and decidedly all white. Not a single sign of his warm brown irises remained.

“What’s happened?” Her throat was dry, and her voice cracked. She put one hand on her chest, willing her heart to slow down. “What did you take? I’ll call poison control.”

His meaty hand came up and hovered between them. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. The limb appeared to hang in the air as, one by one, his fingers stretched out toward her like the legs of a spider.

“What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

His hand shot forward, catching her around the neck. She gulped against it, fighting for air just as his other paw came up to anchor her against the wall.

She gripped at his forearms and tore at his fingers, trying to speak a single word that might get through to him.

He lifted her from the floor. Her feet beat against the wall as something in her neck cracked and heat shot down her spine.

She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were going to explode. No matter how wide her mouth opened, how she fought him, not a touch of air reached them.

His hands were like steel cords around her neck as she dangled in his grip.

This isn’t Damien. He wouldn’t do this. He…

The thought dissolved with her breath. Frozen in a silent scream, she stared into his empty eyes, her pleas for mercy swallowed by the darkness around her.

Chapter Two

FBI Special Agent Emma Last never expected the trip to Salem to be short, but it was taking about three times as long as it should’ve, given her partner in law enforcement, Leo Ambrose, had insisted on driving. Special Agent Mia Logan had seemed happy to let him take the wheel. Emma supposed she couldn’t blame her friends and colleagues. She drove like a maniac at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.

Salem was Emma’s hometown. But last time she’d recently driven through it—on the way to Boston for another case with Leo—she’d been overcome by a gripping sensation that threatened to crush her. Ice-cold tendrils had raced up and down her spine and through her body, locking her in their grasp.

And that had happened as they drove past the city, never leaving the freeway. Today, they were heading into the heart of Salem.

Their exit was coming up in a mile. So far, she’d only experienced mild chills…nothing so traumatic as last time.

Mia gripped Emma’s shoulder, giving her a squeeze. When Emma twisted in her seat to glance back at her friend and fellow agent, Mia offered her a hesitant smile.

“You looked tense. It’ll be okay. We’re here, and we’ll figure things out together.”

On the surface, their reasons for heading into Salem sounded ridiculous. Esther, a fortune teller whose ex-husband had been involved in their previous case, had told her that “Salem will run red with blood.”

Only this past week, their Violent Crime Unit had resolved a particularly heinous case involving a cannibal who had set up booby traps in the wilderness to ensnare his victims. While they’d been too late to save Esther’s husband, they’d managed to save her son.

“According to these police reports, our fortune teller friend is right.” Mia leaned forward from the back seat and held up her tablet so Emma could see. “Salem’s going through quite the crime wave.”

Emma scanned reports and newspaper headlines, her breath catching in her throat as she read about the recent uptick of violent crimes. “Listen to this. ‘The Truth behind Salem’s Unprecedented Rising Crime Rate.’ ‘Where Are Police amid Crime Wave?’ And a favorite here, ‘Salem Prefers Hauntings over Real Terror.’”

Mia huffed. “The way the papers talk, you’d think we’d have been hearing about it all the way in DC. Was it really that quiet here before?”

Emma scrolled through the reports. “When I was growing up, it was. Now it sounds more like Gotham City. Four unrelated arsons last month? Over a dozen muggings in broad daylight. Vandalism, carjacking, home invasions…”

“That’s a lot of violent crime.” Leo glanced over.

Emma pointed at the windshield. “Eyes on the road, grandpa.”

With a huff, Leo looked back out the windshield.

She gestured at the tablet. “You’re not kidding. Looks like a lot of these were committed by people without any prior criminal background too.”

Mia inhaled sharply as she pulled up the most recent report. “Did you see what happened last night?”

Emma took the tablet back and read the report out loud. “‘A woman in her eighties, Phoebe Wilson, was allegedly murdered by her longtime neighbor, Damien Knight, who was known to help with yard work, groceries, and other household chores. The suspect had no prior history of criminal behavior, and other neighbors described him as extremely kind.’”

Damien Knight’s mug shot showed a young man who looked more confused than malevolent.

A chill ran down Emma’s spine, but this had nothing to do with the Other changing temperatures on her. She shivered and handed the tablet back to Mia.

“You good? Is it the cold again?”

“No. I’m fine. A few little chills, but not like last time. I think something or someone is getting in the way.”

Mia had known Emma could see ghosts for a few months now. But the newest twist on her ability had happened during their previous case. She’d been overwhelmed by the Other while entering their killer’s shack in the woods.

Emma had passed out, and when she’d come to, she’d been in the Other with a woman who claimed to be a friend of her mother’s. The woman introduced herself as Monique Varley.

While in the Other, Monique told Emma she’d placed a protective spell on her before she was born, which would last as long as Monique herself was alive. She also warned Emma that another old friend of her mother’s would try to remove the protective ward. Emma could only assume she meant to kill her.

When their case wrapped up, Emma knew she needed to come to Salem, and the escalation of violence in the city strengthened her resolve. As they approached the city limits, she sensed a supernatural element swirling around them, raising the question yet again if the escalation was connected to Emma’s personal history.

A freezing wind raised instant goose bumps on her arms, overwhelming her. Emma jerked back in her seat, tugging down the sleeves of her button-down.

Leo clearly saw her trembling. “Hotel’s on the other side of the city. Want me to stop and get you a winter coat?”

“Ha.” Emma hugged herself to keep warm. “Maybe we could swing past my parents’ house, and I’ll grab one of Dad’s old sweaters.”

“You’re kidding. You have a house here in Salem that you never told us about?”

“Yeah, over near the Salem State campus, a gated community.”

Her friends just nodded. They were kind enough not to make remarks about silver spoons, one more reason that Emma took comfort in their presence. Growing up, everyone who knew about her home life had to make some joke or sarcastic remark.

Another chill racked her body, but as Leo moved toward a stoplight on Salem’s main drag, the cold receded.

He cocked his head toward her. “Same as last time?”

Emma swallowed, nodding. “Not as bad. It’s been hitting in waves, but…”

“This isn’t natural, Emma. I’m worried about you.” Mia’s voice was shaky. “Can’t we at least throw a coat over you or something?”

“I appreciate the thought, but that won’t change anything. None of this is natural.” She met Mia’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Which is why I can’t tell the two of you how much I appreciate you being here for me.”

“Hush.” Mia squeezed her shoulder again. “But I hate seeing you shivering like this.”

As they traveled farther into the city center, the normal trickle of occasional ghosts multiplied. It was as if the floodgates of the Other opened wide, and into this world, they rushed. Denizens were visible to her everywhere. Some of the ghosts wore contemporary clothing, possibly victims of the newest crime wave.

I don’t know if they have anything to do with what Esther was talking about.

Emma had first met Esther in January, at the circus where Esther worked, when she warned Emma about wolves and blood. Esther’s most recent predictions had been more specific and far more unsettling.

“The streets of Salem will run red with blood.” She had ended her prophetic mutterings by claiming Salem was “only the beginning.”

Suppressing another shiver, Emma focused on the ghosts she was seeing now, looking for anything that might help her understand what was happening in her hometown. “Just so you two know, there are lots of ghosts here.” She watched as an armless ghost, with blood pouring from its severed shoulder joints, sauntered by between lanes. “Like, everywhere.”

Mia raised one eyebrow. “More than in DC?”

Emma stared straight ahead. “Way more.”

As they kept driving, she described what she saw. Wounds and clothing ranging from the twenty-first century all the way back to the seventeenth or sixteenth centuries. The spirits were more plentiful than the living. Men with gunshot wounds, women beaten bloody, a few with strangulation marks, and more with gruesome wounds Emma could only imagine had been caused by serious lunatics or industrial accidents.

When a ghost with catastrophic burn scars ran ahead of their car, naked and screaming, Emma stopped narrating the scene and pulled out her own tablet.

“Looks like you’re not as cold now, though?” Mia rubbed her shoulder, then sat back in her seat as Leo continued to edge them through the stop-and-go traffic.

Emma kept her focus on the tablet. “It’s better now that we’ve left the freeway. I’m just glad Jacinda gave us time off.” She turned and smiled at Mia, then Leo. “Seriously, it means a lot that you two are here instead of taking some well-deserved rest. That’s more than anyone could ask of you after days spent fighting a real-life cannibal and escaping those woods. Nobody would’ve blamed you if you’d wanted to retreat to a spa or just lay in bed for a week. Least of all me.”

“This is too important for us to put off, what with the way it’s been affecting you.” Leo took another turn, following the dashboard GPS. “Like we said, we’re here for you. And hell, after we faced a wild Hannibal Lecter, the least the Bureau could do is give us some therapeutic leave.”

Mia smirked at Emma via the rearview mirror. “And it’s none of their business if we use it to, um, do more work.” She waved her tablet, rotating the Salem crime reports to vertical on-screen, then horizontal, then back again. “Or handle your ghosts.”

Emma relaxed her shoulders. Her body was warming up again. “We have to talk to Monique Varley face-to-face. Get the full story. Because I’m still not sure she can be trusted.”

Whatever was happening in Salem, they had to get to the bottom of it. If the crime wave and the ghosts were tied to Emma, they might be the only ones in a position to help.

Leo extended his right hand for a fist bump. “All for one.”

Emma and Mia met his fist with theirs. “And one for all.”