Through a Glass, Darkly

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Chapter Twelve will arrive next Wednesday. Don’t want to wait? Get the book!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 10

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 14:02:44 GMT

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As days went, this one probably qualified as one of the weirdest in Derek’s life. It definitely made the top five.

Standing against the wall of a jail cell, doing his best not to make eye contact with any of the other inmates, Derek reflected on the trajectory that had gotten him here. Discovering he was haunted by his long-dead brother, having to eat crow and get on Chris’s good side, learning about a whole world full of spirits that existed alongside his own, drinking too much Scotch and making a complete fool of himself by trying to kiss a woman whom he’d tried to ruin— twice, even—and then capping it off by getting himself arrested for assault.

On second thought, he was pretty sure this day had secured the number one spot for strangest day ever.

The arrest was bad. He’d be lucky if his boss didn’t suspend him as soon as he learned of it. And with all the witnesses who’d recorded the incident, his boss was bound to find out. The whole thing was probably already posted online.

There was a good chance that his career was toast. That bothered him, but surprisingly, not as much as it bothered him that he might have thrown away his only chance to tell his viewers he’d been wrong about Chris.

Of course, what bothered him even more than that was that stupid kiss. Or, rather, his embarrassingly and spectacularly botched attempt at one. Derek closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose as the memory of how she’d dodged him flooded back. What on earth had possessed him to do that?

It was easy to blame the booze, but he’d only been on his second drink and he was no lightweight when it came to fine Scotch. He could also blame the way she’d been looking at him, the connection he’d felt that had been impossible to ignore. That had certainly tempted him in the moment.

But the truth was he’d been thinking all day long about what it would be like to kiss her.

He wasn’t sure when exactly that had started— wait, yes, he was. It had been at her place, when she’d handed him her card. Even after everything he’d put her through, all the things he’d said to her—not to mention all the things he’d thought and said about her. She didn’t know the half of what a jerk he’d been—she’d been willing to forget it all, and to help him. Or at least, to help Jimmy.

He’d realized two things at that moment. The first was that he liked her. Not just that he found her physically attractive—heck, even back in college he’d thought she was incredibly cute, even though he’d believed she was either a fraud or a deluded flake. He even remembered briefly hesitating to write that story for the college paper because it would destroy his chances of ever asking her out.

But that morning, in her kitchen, he had also learned that she was smart and sweet and funny and someone he’d be happy to go on talking to for hours.

The other thing he’d realized was that if he didn’t get out of there fast, he was either going to have to kiss her then and there or his head would explode.

So it was inevitable, really. His humiliation had been sealed in that moment.

“Brandt!” someone called. Derek looked up to see a guard waving him over. “You made bail.” The portly guard let him out of the cell, then led Derek down a corridor. “So how’d a crime reporter end up in the tank?”

“If you want to know, watch the news. I’m sure you’ll see the whole thing.”

The guard chuckled as he opened the door into a waiting room. “No need. Already saw it on YouTube.”

“Great,” Derek muttered as he moved past him into the room. Uncle Jim stood up from a row of hard plastic chairs lining one wall and came to meet him.

“Are you okay, son?”

“I’m fine.” Derek signed for his personal effects. “Nothing damaged but my ego. Well, and probably my career.”

“I saw what happened.”

“Yeah, you and the rest of the world, apparently.”

“Why’d you hit that guy?”

Derek thought about trying to explain. Instead, he shook his head and checked the envelope they’d given him to make sure all his stuff was in there. “He had it coming.”

“Well, he’s pressing charges for assault. But don’t worry. I already called Steve. His lawyers are already on the case, and—”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.” At Jim’s surprised look, Derek added, “I appreciate it, and I appreciate you coming down here to bail me out. But I don’t want to get Steve involved.”

“Nonsense. You’re family to us, and we help our own. Anyway, he might also be able to pull some strings to save your job.”

Derek didn’t say anything. He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

“Anyway,” said Jim, “it’s late and I’m sure you’re tired. Let’s get you home.”

Derek nodded and started to follow him outside, but then he remembered why he’d been out that night in the first place. “Hang on.” He went to the front desk and found the desk sergeant, a harried-looking woman somewhere in her forties. “Is Detective Hanson on duty tonight?”

“Name?”

“Derek Brandt. He’s the lead investigator on my brother’s murder case.”

“Hang on, I’ll check.” The sergeant picked up a phone.

While Derek waited, Jim came over to him. “What are you doing?”

“I want to talk to the detective on Jimmy’s case.”

“Why? Have you found something?”

I found Jimmy, he almost said, but he shook his head. “It’s been a while since I checked in. I want to see if the police have found anything.”

The sergeant hung up the phone and nodded to Derek. “He’ll be out in a moment.”

They didn’t wait long. After about a minute, a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties came through the door. He wore a dark blue Polo shirt tucked into rumpled Dockers and held a mug with the Tulsa PD logo wrapped around it. Derek had taken an instant dislike to the guy the first time they’d met after he’d taken over Jimmy’s case, although he couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was because he reminded Derek a little too much of the evil karate instructor in The Karate Kid.

“Mr. Brandt,” he said. He looked a long time at Jim, as if sizing up the old guy, then nodded to him. “Sir. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Just checking to see if there have been any new developments,” said Derek.

“I’m afraid not. Like I’ve told you, unless someone comes forward with new evidence, or we discover a new lead—”

“What if I’ve got one?”

Hanson’s brows shot up in surprise. He looked at Uncle Jim, who matched his expression. “What do you have?”

Derek sighed. “Nothing yet. But I might have something in the next day or two.”

“What are you up to, boy?” Jim asked. “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

“No, nothing like that. But I might have found a new witness.”

Again, the two men looked at each other in surprise. “If you give me the name of this witness,” said the detective, “I can bring them in for an interview.”

“Not yet,” said Derek. “I need to be sure of what they saw first.”

Hanson nodded. “Well, as soon as you have something—
if you have anything—let me know.”

“That goes both ways.”

Detective Hanson eyed Derek as he took a long sip of his coffee. Then he nodded. “Of course it does. If any new evidence turns up, I’ll be sure to give you a call. But I should warn you not to get your hopes up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”

“No, that’s it for now,” said Derek. “Thanks.” After an exchange of nods, Derek ushered Jim out to his truck.

Once they were shut inside, Jim turned to him. “Tell me about this new witness. I thought you boys were home alone when it happened. The neighbors all said they didn’t see anything. Did one of them change their story?”

“No, nothing like that.” Derek sighed and looked out the window as Jim started the car. He knew what Jim’s reaction would be to any suggestion that Derek was seeking help from the supernatural, and it wouldn’t be positive. “We need to pick up my car. I left it at the restaurant.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Derek sighed. “It’s too soon to be sure. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

They were both silent while Jim navigated the truck through downtown and onto the freeway. Then, with uncanny insight, he said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that psychic, does it? The one who told you she had a message from your brother?”

Derek was too startled to deny it.

Jim made a sound of disgust. “Tell me you didn’t fall for that, boy.”

“I didn’t ‘fall for’ anything.” Derek sounded a bit defensive, even to his own ears. Jim gave him a sidelong look. He sighed. “Let’s just say I think it’s worth following up on. That’s all.” That was far from all, in truth, but Jim didn’t need to know that. Besides, that answer seemed to satisfy him.

“That girl’s a looker,” Jim said after another long silence. “I hope you’re doing all your thinking up here.” He reached over and tapped Derek’s temple.

That also wasn’t entirely true, but Jim didn’t need to know that either. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Let’s hope so.” They reached their exit, and Jim turned toward the restaurant. “After all these years, I don’t know why you can’t just let it go.”

“You mean just let Jimmy’s killers get away with it?”

“I mean get on with your life, son. You’re still young. You’ve got plenty to look forward to. But you’re too busy looking behind you.” He pulled into the parking lot and parked next to Derek’s Mustang. “It’s time to lay your brother’s ghost to rest.”

Derek nodded, thanked him for his help, and got out. As he fished his keys out of the envelope, he thought, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

Chris’s car sat in the driveway. Surprised, Derek parked his Mustang next to it and sat there a moment, trying to calm the excited pounding in his chest. He’d expected her to go home after carrying out her favor. He reminded himself that the fact that she didn’t probably had nothing to do with him. She’d probably stayed to keep Jimmy company. The news of Derek’s arrest no doubt upset him.

He let himself inside, locked the door behind him, and punched in the alarm code. As he did it struck him that it was only two days ago that he’d changed it because he thought Chris had broken in. Then he’d given it to her that night without a second thought. Of course, there was no telling who else had heard it, what with the crowd that had been gathering. He’d better change it again.

He fished his watch and wallet out of the envelope the police had given him and set them on the entry table, then turned to go get the alarm manual from the kitchen. That was when he noticed her stretched out on the couch, sound asleep.

Quietly, Derek opened the coat closet and took out an old afghan that his mom had crocheted. He tiptoed to the couch and spread it over her. He stood there a moment, watching her sleep, wondering how someone so haunted could look so serene. A lock of fiery hair had come loose from her bun and lay across

her cheek. It took every ounce of restraint for Derek to keep from brushing it away, to feel the softness of that ivory cheek against his fingertips.

On the coffee table, the ghost box remained silent. Based on what Chris had told him about what would’ve gone on there that evening, he figured Jimmy was probably in his room, recovering. It was probably best not to disturb him. Besides, Derek was badly in need of his own rest.

He debated going to bed but had a feeling that if he did, Chris would wake up and sneak out without saying goodbye. For some reason, he couldn’t abide the thought of waking up to find her gone.

He knew he was being ridiculous. For one thing, she had already soundly rejected him. For another, it wasn’t like he’d never see her again. She’d promised to help Jimmy cross over. As long as Jimmy remained on this side of the afterlife, Christine Wilson would remain in Derek’s life.

A selfish part of him hoped Jimmy wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon, and not just because he seemed to be developing a ridiculous crush on Chris. Derek enjoyed having his brother back, even if it was just in the form of a collection of voices coming out of a souped-up radio.

It was weird—not just the box and the whole paranormal aspect of it all, but also the fact that Jimmy was clearly still a teenager, while Derek was pushing thirty. But Jimmy was still his big brother and it felt good to know that he’d been watching over Derek all this time.

Well, and also a little creepy, if he was honest.

Derek suddenly wondered how many of his potentially embarrassing private moments in this house Jimmy had witnessed. Just as quickly, he decided he didn’t want to know.

A soft sigh drew his attention back to Chris. She turned over on the couch, clutching the afghan more tightly around her.

Derek sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. He should just go to bed already. He could call Chris later that day to touch base.

Instead, he settled himself on the recliner and put his feet up. With one last look at Chris—who, from this angle, resembled a granny-square-covered burrito—he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

He opened them again when a hand shook his arm. Morning sunlight flooded the room. Derek blinked and rubbed his eyes. Gradually, the face of the owner of the hand that had shaken him came into focus.

And a lovely face it was.

“Hey.” Chris smiled down at him. “Sorry to wake you. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. And thanks for letting me crash on your couch.”

“Do you have to go so soon?” Feeling slightly disoriented, Derek got awkwardly to his feet. “Stay for breakfast. I’ve still got those left-over donuts.”

“Wow, that’s tempting,” she said. He needed coffee before he’d be able to tell whether that was sarcasm.

“I also make a mean omelet,” he offered. “And a decent cup of coffee.”

“You had me at donuts,” she said, clearing up the sarcasm question, “but it all sounds good. Especially the coffee part.”

“Coming right up.” He headed into the kitchen. While he made the coffee, he watched her fold the afghan neatly and arrange it on the back of the couch. He liked the way it softened the room a bit. Or maybe it was Chris who did that.

The whole scene had a sense of easy domesticity that Derek could definitely get used to. There hadn’t been many women in Derek’s home since his mom had high-tailed it to Florida, and the few who had passed through had never stuck around long enough to lend their own decorative touch.

Of course, he knew that wasn’t really Chris’s intent. She was simply being neat. Still, he liked it— probably more than he should.

He liked it even better when, twenty minutes later, they both sat at the breakfast bar, picking at day-old donuts and talking about Derek’s downtown adventure like old friends. The fact that he never seemed to discuss normal topics with this woman only made her more interesting. Fueled by sugar and caffeine and still running on too little sleep to exercise good judgment, he told her so.

“Believe me, I can be boring,” she assured him. “Besides, you were the one who got arrested.”

“Yeah, well, something tells me I just beat you to the punch.” He flexed his hand and winced. “Literally.”

“I wouldn’t have hit that guy.”

“Yeah, I know. Clearly, you have more self-control than I do.” Derek sipped his coffee.

“No, I mean I’d have broken a different part of his anatomy.” She grinned wickedly. “I’m more of a kicker.”

Derek almost snorted coffee through his nose, but he somehow managed to avoid spraying it everywhere. When he could speak again, he said, “See, I don’t believe you’re boring for a minute.”

“No? Well, for starters, last night was the first time I’ve gone out on a Saturday night in forever. At least, the first time that didn’t involve sitting in the dark somewhere trying to coax a ghost to talk to me.”

“See? Not boring.”

“But my real idea of a fun Saturday night is sitting on the couch in my PJ’s binge-watching BBC dramas.” She finished that statement with a look that dared him to deny how boring it sounded.

Instead he said, “I could sit here for an hour starting right now and talk about the merits and demerits of Stephen Moffat, so you’re going to have to try harder to bore me.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him over her mug as she sipped her coffee. Then she set it down and said, “All I’ll say to that is, Eleven is my favorite.”

“Really? I’d have pegged you for a Tenant fan girl.”

“I was, but that was before Matt Smith came into my life. What about you?”

“Nine will forever hold a special place in my heart. But Tom Baker is the real Doctor.”

She was grinning. “Wow. You’re actually a closet geek.”

He caught himself grinning back and coughed into his hand. “There is no closet. You should see my action figure collection. I keep it on my desk at work.” He realized as he spoke that he’d probably be boxing it all up to bring home once his boss saw the video of his arrest, but not even that could put a damper on his current mood. In fact, he was almost feeling good enough to try asking her out again, despite the disastrous turn their not-exactly-a-date had taken. But before he could bring it up, her bottom chirped.

Chris’s grin evaporated into a surprised and befuddled look as she pulled a phone from her back pocket. “Well, I know you’re not texting me,” she muttered as she unlocked the screen. “Oh, crud.”

Derek felt his excellent mood slipping away. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just my dad. He’s asking if we can have lunch.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was in town.” She stood up and returned the phone to her pocket. “I should get going.”

“Now?” Derek also got to his feet.

“Yeah. I need to call my dad, and Ron’s probably worried sick that I never came home.” She gestured to the crumb-lined donut box. “Thanks for breakfast. Again. And for the use of your sofa.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just grateful you were able to let Jimmy know what happened.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re okay.” She retrieved her bag from where she’d left it next to the sofa. “I can let myself out. I’ll call you when we have a plan. Tell Jimmy bye for me.”

Derek could barely get out that he would before she was out the door. He sank back onto his stool with a sigh but sprang back to his feet as the alarm panel beeped threateningly at him. He rushed over and punched in the code to silence it, then looked out the window just in time to see Chris backing out of the driveway.

As he watched her go, he knew he was an idiot for letting himself become so infatuated with her. It was true that she was anything but boring, but “not boring” was often a synonym for “complicated.” And wasn’t his life already complicated enough?

“Focus,” he told himself. “She’s not here for you, she’s here for Jimmy. And you need to be here for him, too.” At the thought of his brother he glanced back at the box, but it remained silent. He wondered how long it would take Jimmy to recover from whatever they had put him through last night.

Suddenly, Derek felt lonely. Funny. He’d spent years alone in this house—or so he’d thought—and it had never bothered him. All that time, he’d been focused on righting the injustices of the world—or at least, the ones he could right—and on doing what little he could to get justice for Jimmy. He’d barely given a thought to dating or relationships, and he’d had no time for loneliness.

Now, Jimmy was back in his life, and so was this woman who drove him crazy, who wanted the same thing Derek himself had always wanted: to solve Jimmy’s murder and bring his killers to justice. And all Derek could think about was her.

Even worse, he couldn’t go even five minutes without either her or Jimmy’s company without feeling more lonely than he’d ever felt in his adult life.

Derek blew out a long, frustrated sigh and headed to his room. He needed to shower, and then he’d head down to the news station. He needed to work while he still could. More importantly, he wanted to pull everything the station had on Jimmy’s case while he still had access to the archives.

With a plan in place, he felt a little better as he stripped off yesterday’s clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water both relaxed and invigorated him as it sluiced over his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned into the spray, willing it to wash away the layers of complexity that had been added to his life along with the grime.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Eleven will arrive next Wednesday. Don’t want to wait? Get the book!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 9

Thu, 02 Apr 2026 15:14:09 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

When Derek had suggested going out for drinks to give the ghosts space to do their thing, Chris had accepted without giving it much thought. She knew their presence would only be a distraction. Besides, it had been a long time since she’d sat down to relax in the company of the living. Drinks with Derek sounded nice.

Only while getting dressed for the evening did it occur to her to wonder whether this was supposed to be a date. Did he mean for it to be? Did she want it to be?

She hated these guessing games. It was why she rarely dated to begin with.

Well, that plus the fact that guys never stuck around once they got a full taste of the weirdness that was her life.

In the end, she decided to keep it casual but nice. Nice enough to show him that she could clean up pretty well, but casual enough to convey that their evening held no expectations. At least not on her part. She left the house feeling confident and in charge of how this evening would go.

So naturally, by the time she pulled up in front of the restaurant where they’d agreed to meet, she was second-guessing everything. She saw him standing out front, pacing back and forth near the entrance. He was checking his watch and didn’t notice as she drove by. She had to circle around back to find a parking space, but she wasn’t about to complain. She was too busy being grateful for the extra time and the opportunity to check her appearance where he wouldn’t see.

She flipped the sun visor down to look in the mirror and frowned. She’d put her hair up in a top knot, thinking it had looked sophisticated, but now, it just looked sloppy. She considered taking it down and running a brush through it, but of course, she hadn’t brought a brush and she’d probably only make it worse anyway.

Unbuckling her seat belt, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her blouse and picked off some stray cat hairs. She frowned at her skinny jeans, wishing she’d gone with a skirt instead. Too late to do anything about it now, though. With a sigh, she brushed more cat hair off her jeans and checked the mirror one more time to make sure she hadn’t got any lipstick on her teeth. This was as good as it got, at least for now. Heaving a sigh, she got out of the car.

When she reached the front, she found Derek leaning against the building. He glanced up as she rounded the corner, then straightened up and smiled. “Hey. You look nice.”

“Thanks.” At least he has low standards. She noticed for the first time that he’d cleaned up pretty well himself. She was used to seeing him looking all clean-cut and professional on TV, but in a dark gray button-down and black jeans, he’d struck just the note of nice and casual that she’d been striving for. Was this a date? She grinned, hoping it didn’t look as panicked as she felt. “You look nice, too.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed the back of his head nervously. Chris grew increasingly nervous herself as she watched him fidget. “Well,” he said at last, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for that drink. Shall we?” He made an “after you” gesture toward the front door. She nodded and moved past him, but as she reached the door he hurried to open it for her.

“Do you want to get a table?” he asked. “Or—”

“There’s room at the bar.” Suddenly, Chris felt terrified by the prospect of a private table. It felt way too intimate.

“Okay.” He made that “after you” gesture again. Chris led the way to the bar, where they sat in fidgety, awkward silence until the bartender greeted them. “Talisker and water,” Derek told her, and she turned to Chris.

“And you, ma’am?”

“Same,” she said with a quick smile up at Derek.

He returned her smile, with an appreciative glint in his eye. “So you drink Scotch.”

“On occasion. It’s not like I keep a pint in my desk drawer or anything.”

He nodded, still smiling. “I like that. My last girlfriend would only ever touch white wine.”

Chris felt her eyebrow creep up. “Your last girlfriend?”

His smile vanished. “Oh. I just meant the last woman I spent a significant amount of time with. Socially, I mean. I wasn’t trying to imply—”

“Gotcha,” Chris said, letting him off the hook. The bartender set their drinks down on the counter, and they both picked them up and took a sip. Derek seemed to be as grateful for the distraction as she was. Chris relaxed a little as the Scotch burned its way down her throat and spread a comfortable warmth all through her chest.

Before the silence turned awkward, Derek set his drink down and leaned back. “So, your sister and this other guy—”

“Joe,” she supplied.

He nodded. “Do you suppose they’re at my place yet?”

Chris opened her handbag and checked the time on her phone. “Probably. They were waiting for sundown to head over. Things tend to be easier for them after dark.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I’m not really sure. Something about moving around in daylight seems to sap their energy faster. It’s why most haunted places are more active at night. Anyway, it should make it easier for Jimmy to do what he needs to do.”

“And what is that, exactly? I thought they were just going to talk to him.”

“Well, hopefully, they’ll be able to actually see what happened that night. I don’t actually know how it works, but apparently, they have the ability to project visions and memories. If Ron and Joe can help Jimmy tap into that, they’ll be able to serve as impartial witnesses to his murder.”

“Wait a minute.” Derek turned on his stool to face her. “Does that mean Jimmy will have to relive that night?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Derek swore under his breath and took another drink. He set the glass down and gripped it, fixing his gaze on it. “I should have stayed home. I should be there for him—”

“Hey.” Chris reached over and touched his arm lightly. As she did, she couldn’t help noticing the way his rolled-up shirtsleeve accentuated the lines of a well-sculpted forearm. She caught herself wondering what else about him was well-sculpted and yanked her hand away. “Ron and Joe have both been through this,” she said, ignoring the quizzical look he gave her. “They’ll help him through it. And they won’t force anything if he’s not ready.”

Derek nodded at this, but then he drained his glass. He waved to the bartender to bring him another. “How do you get used to this?”

“I don’t know. This is just my life.”

“It’s always been like this?”

Chris nodded. “Since I was eight.”

His brow furrowed as he considered that. “Wasn’t that around when your mom passed away?”

“Yeah. Actually, it started right after that.”

He studied her a moment before asking, “Did it start with her?”

“I think so. I mean, I didn’t actually see her. But one night, I woke up and it was like I could just feel her there. After that was when the sightings started.”

“Did that scare you?”

“A little,” she admitted. “The first time, Ron and I were staying with our aunt up in New England, and we were visiting a historical cemetery with our uncle. This guy in a red coat and a tri-corner hat came up and started talking to me. At first, I thought he was just someone in costume who worked there, but then I realized he was covered in blood, and also that nobody else could see him. So that was a little intense.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. So what did you do?”

She shrugged. “I asked him what he wanted. He told me his name and said he wanted to go home. I told my uncle about him and amazingly, he didn’t think I was crazy or making things up. He had his friends at the historical society look into it, and it turned out that this unidentified British soldier was buried there. They exhumed the remains and found enough DNA to match him to the name I was given.”

“Wow. So what happened?”

“They shipped him back to England for burial. I never saw him again.”

Derek gazed intently at her, as if wishing he could crack open her head and examine her brain. It made her a little uncomfortable, so she focused on her Scotch. “That’s incredible,” he said.

She sipped her drink and set it back on the counter with a shrug. “I guess.”

Derek sighed. Chris looked up at him, but his gaze had drifted back to his own drink. “I thought I met someone like you before, you know. Someone who could do what you do, I mean.” He gave her a sidelong look. “I’m pretty sure there’s nobody else quite like you out there.”

Chris took a deep breath to calm a raging case of flutters and did her best to ignore his flirtatious comment. “Let me guess. They were faking?”

“Yeah. It happened a few months after my dad died. This guy approached my mom and me, claiming to have messages from both him and Jimmy. He said he could help us solve Jimmy’s murder. Of course, both Jimmy and my dad had been covered pretty extensively in the local news, so we were skeptical. But he seemed to know things, stuff that only dad or Jimmy could know.”

“Like what?”

“Like what sat on the mantel over the fireplace, the name of the dog we had when Jimmy was little, my dad’s favorite food, that sort of thing. Anyway, my mom was still skeptical, so she called the local news and convinced them to investigate the guy. It turned out that he had an accomplice, this sweet- looking middle-aged lady who posed as an Avon sales rep to get into our house and chat up my mom. She managed to get all kinds of convincing details for the guy to use in his scam.”

“Wow. No wonder you thought I was a fraud.”

“Yeah, well. For what it’s worth, I’m still sorry about that.” He let out a bitter laugh. “The funny thing is, I wanted to hear from Jimmy after he died. I wanted to believe that he was still around, watching over me. I even prayed for a sign. But there was nothing.” When his gaze met hers again, it was filled with pleading. “I swear, Chris, there was nothing. If I had known—”

“Hey, no.” Before she even knew what she was doing, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He held onto it and didn’t let go. “It doesn’t work like that. Not everyone has this ability, and the fact is that there are a lot of frauds and scam artists out there making it harder for the rest of us. You never would have been sure without Jimmy himself making contact. It’s not your fault he didn’t know how until now.”

He looked down at their hands, still not letting go. “Thank God your sister decided to haunt me.”

Chris laughed. “Don’t let her hear you say that. But I guess it’s a good thing you goaded her by doing that story on me.”

He cringed and released her hand. “I want you to know I intend to make that up to you, if that’s possible. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to talk to my producer about a retraction.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t think it did too much damage.” Of course, this was the first time she’d been in public since the QuikTrip incident, but so far, it was going well, and her answering machine that afternoon had been full of supportive calls from past clients. “It’ll blow over. Don’t risk your job over it or anything.”

“As long as you don’t sue for defamation, my job should be safe.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re not planning to sue, are you?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Phew.” He mimed wiping his brow. Getting serious, he said, “I mean it, though. I’m going to make it right.”

Chris smiled at him. “I believe you.”

They locked gazes, and his smile made those flutter-inducing crinkles around his eyes. Chris’s heart accelerated from a flutter to a racing engine as a pleasant warm feeling that she was pretty sure wasn’t the Scotch rose up from deep within. She sat frozen, mesmerized, as his gaze drifted down to her mouth. He leaned toward her. In a panic she turned away, grabbing her drink and bringing it to her lips.

Derek leaned back. “Ah,” he said, his voice filled with resignation.

Chris felt her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.” She set her drink down. “It’s just that I—”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m an idiot. I’m still the jerk that might have ruined your career and then threatened to file a restraining order on you for trying to help.”

“Derek, that’s not it. I just… it’s complicated.”

“Are you seeing someone?” He shook his head and picked up his own drink. “Of course you’re seeing someone. Someone like you couldn’t possibly still be single.”

She frowned, not certain whether he’d meant that as a compliment. “Someone like me?”

He glanced sideways at her, and waved a hand up and down like Vanna White showing off a prize. “Beautiful, smart, gifted…”

“Weird, spooky, awkward, complicated,” she finished for him, though his version was much sweeter, and it made her wish they could rewind a couple minutes and do that moment over again.

He gave her a hard look. “I don’t think you’re—”

“Hey, man!” Someone on the other side of Chris cut him off. She turned to see a frat boy type in a Polo shirt pointing at Derek. “You’re that guy.”

“Yeah, I’m him. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“No, man, you’re that reporter guy. What’s his name? Don’t tell me.” He leaned over, practically in Chris’s face, breathing bourbon fumes all over her. He snapped his fingers and pointed. “Brady!”

“Brandt.”

“Right, right! Dirk Brandt! Hey, my mom loves you.”

“That’s great. Give her my best. Listen, we’re trying to have a private conversation here, if you don’t mind.”

“Whoa, hey.” The frat guy leaned back and held up his hands. “So sorry, Mr. Big Shot TV reporter.” He started to turn back around, but then he looked at Chris, recognition dawning on his face. “Hey, I know you too! You’re that lady.” He closed his eyes and snapped his fingers as if that would force her identity to come to him. Apparently, it worked, because he opened his eyes and stuck a finger in Chris’s face. “You’re that psychic with the haunted car.”

“I’m not actually a psychic,” Chris told him.

“Didn’t this guy expose you as a fake? What are you doing here having drinks with him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Hey, now. No need to get feisty.”

Derek got up from his stool and moved between Chris and the frat guy. “She said this is none of your business. But just for the record, I was wrong about her.”

Chris stood up. “Don’t bother with this guy.” She fished some bills out of her handbag and dropped them on the counter, enough to cover both their drinks plus the tip. “I think it’s time to call it a night. We should go see if they’ve finished with Jimmy.”

“All right.” Derek kept an eye on the guy as he backed away. The frat guy remained on his stool. Derek turned to follow Chris out. “For what it’s worth, I was planning to buy the drinks,” he said as he opened the door for her.

“Consider it payback for the donuts.”

He sighed. “At least let me walk you to your car.”

She paused on the sidewalk and looked up at him. “Really? You’re not in a hurry to get away?”

“No. Why would I be?”

“It was kind of a disaster in there, wasn’t it?”

He glanced back at the bar. “I admit, I’ve had better dates.” He looked down at her, and winked. “But I’ve also had worse.”

“So this was a date.”

He seemed taken aback by that. “Or not. Or it could still be…”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, I didn’t get where I am by being someone who gives up easily.”

“That makes two of us.” They stood there a moment. He seemed to be waiting for a cue from her, but she wasn’t sure what she wanted to happen next. Finally, she blew her bangs out of her eyes and jerked her head in the direction she needed to go. “Let’s go.”

They started down the sidewalk, her mind racing as they walked in silence. When they reached the corner, she stopped and turned to face him. “Derek, back there, what I was trying to tel—”

“I know!” Dudebro’s voice shouted at them from down the sidewalk.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” Derek turned back toward the guy. “You know what?”

Chris put a hand on his arm. “Just ignore that guy. Let’s go.”

His face as he looked down at her reminded her of that first morning he’d pounded on her door. He sighed. “Fine. You’re right. Let’s get you to your car.” As they rounded the corner, though, the guy caught up with them. “I know what you two’re doing here together. You’re gonna sleep with him to get him to take back his story.” As they both spun to look at him, appalled, he grinned. “Am I right?”

It turned out that Derek had an impressive right hook. It didn’t flatten the guy, but judging by the blood gushing out his nose, he might be wishing it had. “You broke my nose!” the guy hollered as Derek shook out his hand and winced.

“Yeah, well, I think your nose broke my hand.”

Chris took hold of his hand and examined it. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I can’t either. But you can’t tell me he didn’t have it coming.”

“There’s a cop!” the frat guy shouted. “Don’t you move. I’m pressing charges. Officer!” He flagged down a passing patrol car.

Chris stared after him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

“Great,” Derek muttered as the car stopped and a uniformed officer got out. “This is all I need.”

As the cop conferred with the other guy, Chris leaned in. “For future reference,” she said, keeping her voice low, “I don’t need you to go around punching idiots for me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t all for you. I got a lot of satisfaction out of decking that guy.”

“You also got a bruised hand.” She released his hand. “I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure it’s not broken.”

“Good. Then it won’t hurt as bad when they cuff me.”

“Surely they won’t—” she began but was cut off by a shout of, “Hey, it’s that guy from the news!” A crowd had begun to gather around them. People pulled out their phones and pointed their cameras at her and Derek. “Oh no.”

“Looks like I’m about to be the news,” said Derek. “My station manager’s going to love this.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Chris, and he gave her a quizzical look.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just feel responsible somehow.”

“Don’t. It was my own idiocy.”

Just then, the officer came over, pulling a pair of handcuffs off of his belt. “Sir, could you please turn around?”

“I don’t believe this is happening,” Chris muttered as the officer put the cuffs on Derek. “I’ll follow you to the station and post bail. They won’t be able to keep you for long.”

“No, you should go. I’ve got someone I can call.”

“But—”

“I need you to do me another favor. Let Jimmy know what happened. Tell him I’ll be alright and I should be home by morning. You’ll find a spare house key underneath the sunflower urn in the flower bed. The alarm code is 4810.”

“Okay.” She watched the cop give Derek a quick pat down. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I will be.” He glanced around at all the active cameras. “Can’t say the same about my job.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again.

“Stop it. Get out of here.” With that, the cop led him over to the squad car and stuffed him inside. Chris watched, feeling stupid and helpless. Then she looked over at the guy who’d started all the trouble, watching with satisfaction, recording Derek’s arrest on his own phone.

She was suddenly overcome with an urge to march over there and slug him herself, square on his broken nose. But the cop was going back over to him. With one last look at Derek looking humiliated in the back of the patrol car, she huffed a sigh and turned down the alley that led to the parking lot.

If this night could’ve gone more wrong, she was hard pressed to think how. She only hoped Ron and Joe had gotten something useful out of Jimmy. Maybe then, this disaster of an evening would have been worth it.

Thanks for reading!

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It's Launch Day for Sleep, Dearie, Sleep!

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 14:02:48 GMT

Welcome to Through a Glass, Darkly’s regular update!

Through a Glass, Darkly is the fiction publication of horror and supernatural thriller author Jean Marie Bauhaus (that’s me!), where I’m publishing my new fiction for you to read free for a limited time before it makes it into book form (paid subscribers can access all the fiction I post here all the time and read at their leisure). If you’re new here, first, HI! Second, check out the About page and the Roadmap to learn more, and go here to update your subscription preferences.

Today’s the day! The official, final version of my gothic epistolary horror novella, Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, is now out in book form, both electronic and paperback. Links below.

Some foundations are built on stone. Others are built on bones and blood.
South Carolina, 1792. Archibald Craig is a man of singular ambition. A junior partner to the famed architect of the President’s House, Archie is tasked with conquering the Yadkin River by building a bridge to the Southwest Territory. But the river is unyielding, and the land itself seems to rebel against the intrusion of “progress.”
As freak storms and mysterious tremors topple the masonry, the project spirals into a nightmare. Archie’s workmen—Scottish Highlanders steeped in the “old ways”—whisper of threshold covenants and the ancient blood-prices required to appease the spirits of the earth.
“Let it be finished, and I will pay whatever you ask.”
In a moment of feverish desperation, Archie utters a prayer that should never have been spoken. The bridge finally stands firm, but an unrelenting shadow of tragedy has fallen over the Craig household. The horrific truth remains just out of reach, buried beneath the weight of the stone.
Told through a haunting collection of diaries and letters, Sleep, Dearie, Sleep is a slow-burn epistolary journey into the heart of folk horror, where the price of success is higher than any man can afford to pay.

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Kindred Spirits: Chapter 8

Wed, 25 Mar 2026 14:02:21 GMT

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This time, Chris parked in the driveway next to Derek’s Mustang. She still felt some trepidation as she approached his front door. Sure, she’d been invited, but she never knew what she was going to get with this guy. Her fears were put at ease before she could even reach over to ring the bell when Derek opened the door to greet her.

“You came.” He sounded relieved.

“I said I would,” she reminded him as he waved her inside. “Is everything okay?” She paused to look around. The house looked homey, if a bit on the masculine side. She took in Derek’s appearance as he took her purse from her and hung it in a nearby closet. He’d showered and shaved since this morning. He looked a lot less rumpled in a fresh pair of jeans and a University of Oklahoma t-shirt, but he still looked worn out.

“He’s not talking.” Derek went from the closet to the coffee table in the living room, upon which sat the ghost box. “Either that or this thing’s not working.” He turned to her, his face anxious. “Is he here? Can you see him?”

Chris looked around. A breakfast bar was all that separated the living room from the kitchen, and Jimmy wasn’t visible in either room. “Is there a place he might go to rest? A place that’s just his?”

“His room.” He led her into a hallway and paused at the first door. “I’d always planned to turn it into a home gym or something, but I never got around to it.” He placed his hand on the knob and paused, seeming to consider what he’d just told her. “Or maybe, on some level, I just knew that was a bad idea.”

He let that thought hang there as he opened the door to reveal a typical teen boy’s room. The posters on the wall were straight out of the late ‘Nineties. Chris felt transported back to junior high. Scanning the room, she stepped inside and smiled. On the bed, stretched out amid scattered Scrabble tiles, lay Jimmy, sound asleep. He was barely visible—just an outline, really—but easy to see if you knew what to look for.

And if you had a knack for seeing that sort of thing.

“He’s here,” she whispered.

“He is?” Derek matched her whisper as he looked around.

She put her fingers to her lips in a shushing motion and backed out of the room, motioning for him to follow. Back in the hall, she shut the door quietly before leading Derek back to the living room.

“Why are we being quiet?”

“He’s sleeping. You must’ve really worn him out last night.”

“All we did was talk.” He sounded defensive.

“Yeah, but he had to use Scrabble tiles,” she reminded him. “That takes a lot of effort. And he’s still new at this.”

“Of course.” Derek blew out a sigh and raked his hand through his hair. “I should’ve realized.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was probably the best night of Jimmy’s afterlife. He just needs time to recover.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He stood there a moment, apparently lost in thought. Then he gave a little start as if remembering he had company. “Oh, um, sorry.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Make yourself at home.” He rubbed his face vigorously, as if trying to wake himself up. Then he announced, “I could sure use a beer. Would you like one?”

“No thanks.”

“Anything else I can get you?” he asked as he went into the kitchen. “Coffee? Water? I’ve still got those donuts.”

“I’m good,” Chris assured him as she took a seat on the leather sofa. She took a moment to admire his decor. “You have a nice place. Not quite what I expected.”

He shut the fridge door and glanced back at her. “What did you expect?”

The question was punctuated with the hiss of escaping air as he pried the lid off his beer bottle. He tilted it to his lips as he padded back into the room. Only then did she notice his bare feet. Chris suppressed a smile. She’d gotten used to seeing him on television in his tailored suits.

She realized that, despite their history, she’d come to think of him mainly as Derek Brandt the Local Celebrity Reporter. Seeing him standing in his own living room, shoeless, disheveled and chugging a beer, served as a nice reminder that he was just a guy—and a charming guy at that—when he wasn’t deliberately antagonistic.

She realized he was watching her expectantly, apparently waiting for an answer. She shrugged. “I would’ve pictured you in a high-rise loft, or maybe a McMansion in a gated community.” He wrinkled his nose as if she couldn’t have pegged him more wrong. “This,” she added, taking it all in with her gaze, “is just so homey.”

“Yeah, well, it’s home.” He settled into the Eames chair next to the couch and propped up his feet. “I inherited it from my parents. Well, technically, my mom signed it over to me when she moved to Florida. So I guess that’s not quite the same. Still,” he said, looking around the room as she had, “it’s always been home, except for the years I spent at college.”

“That’s really nice.”

He looked at her as if trying to ascertain whether she meant it. “Some would call it pathetic.”

“Well then, those people are pathetic. I would’ve loved getting to stay in my childhood home.”

“Did you move around a lot?”

“No, but my dad couldn’t stand it there after my mom died, so he sold it and moved us to an apartment across town.”

He took a thoughtful sip, then nodded. “That’s understandable. God knows it wasn’t easy coming back to this place every day after what happened to Jimmy.” His gaze drifted over to the entryway as he spoke.

“Is that where it happened?”

He nodded, his brow furrowed and his eyes far away. Watching him, Chris realized that he hadn’t needed an awareness of Jimmy’s presence in order to feel haunted all these years. Shaking himself back to the present, he said, “So how old were you when your mom passed away, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t. I was eight.”

He winced at that. “Man. That’s a rough time to lose your mom.”

Chris nodded, but gave a slight shrug. “I’m not sure there’s ever a good time to lose your mom.”

His eyebrows lifted at that, and he nodded. “How’d it happen?”

“She fell down the stairs.”

He frowned. “Isn’t that the same way your sister died?”

“Sort of. Technically, Ron was pushed. After her neck was already broken. Mom slipped on a toy and hit her head too hard.”

Derek seemed to consider all of this, then leaned forward, planting his feet on the floor and dangling the beer bottle between his knees. “Wait, so you’re saying your sister was murdered?”

Chris felt her mouth twist into a grim half-smirk. “It’s a long story.”

“So? We’ve got time. If you feel like talking about it, that is.”

She opened her mouth to thank him, but just then, the ghost box lit up. The phrase, “What’s going on?” came from it in a mix of staticy voices. Derek jumped to his feet and stared in startled wonder at the box. Chris looked around the room, then turned to see Jimmy standing behind the couch.

“You’re awake!”

Derek looked from the box to where Chris’s gaze was focused. “Say something else.”

Jimmy looked down at the box on the coffee table. “What is that thing?” Chris heard the question in stereo as the box echoed his words.

Derek set his beer on the table and knelt on the floor before picking up the box. “This thing is amazing.”

At Jimmy’s confused look, Chris explained, “It’s a way for you to talk to Derek. It should be a lot easier for you than pushing tiles around.”

“Cool.” Jimmy and the box spoke simultaneously.

Derek laughed, his face lit up with delight. “You said it, big brother.”

His reaction drew a grin from Jimmy. Chris realized she was smiling as well. They were apparently both so busy watching Derek that they both lapsed into silence until his grin faded and he shook the box. “Is it still working?”

Jimmy looked at Chris, and she motioned for him to say something. “So, uh, you guys are good now, right?”

Derek’s features melted into relief. With a sigh, he set the box down and got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said, addressing the box. Then he glanced uncertainly at Chris. “At least, I think so.”

She smiled. “We’re good.”

He returned her smile. “Good.” His eyes crinkled up at the corners in a really appealing way as he met her gaze. Flutter. Chris coughed and tore her gaze away.

“Hey, so is that drink offer still on the table?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. What would you like?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Sure. Hang on.” He started toward the kitchen, then turned back and said, “Jimmy, don’t go anywhere. Okay?”

“I won’t,” Jimmy said, laughing. The box echoed his words but not his laughter. He met Chris’s gaze and shook his head, smiling in amusement.

After a moment, Derek returned and handed Chris a bottle of water. “Thanks,” she told him. After a sip, she asked, “So, Jimmy, why do you think you’re still here?”

“Getting right down to business.” Derek perched on the Eames footrest.

Jimmy looked at her in confusion. “Because Derek just asked me not to leave?” It came out as a question, and Derek grinned at the box.

“No, I mean, why haven’t you crossed over? Is there still something you need to say to Derek?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “I think I already said it.”

“So what’s still holding you here?”

“I don’t know. I guess… I mean, I had a great time last night, talking to Derek. And look at him.” He jerked his head toward his brother. “He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.”

Derek’s eyebrows drew together at the accusation, but the smile didn’t quite leave his face. “That’s not true.”

“It is. I’ve watched you all these years. I’ve seen how sad you were. How angry. And how driven you were by it.”

“Yeah, well.” He leaned forward to retrieve his half-drunk beer from the table. “You’d have been the same way if our situations had been reversed.”

“You’re right about that. Except I’m the big brother. It was my job to keep you safe, and I did. If I hadn’t, if those guys had killed you instead of me…” He trailed off into silence. Derek frowned at the box. He started to reach for it, but Chris reached out and stayed his hand, letting him know with a look that he should wait.

“Anyway,” Jimmy resumed at last, “it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, it was,” Derek insisted. “I had Dad’s gun. I could’ve stopped them. If I could’ve just…if I hadn’t been so scared…”

“That gun almost got you killed. You think I could’ve ever forgiven myself for that?”

Derek sighed. “No, I guess not.”

“You were just a kid. Maybe Dad should’ve trained you on how to use the gun, or maybe I should’ve, so you would have known what to do if you ever needed to use it. But we didn’t, and that’s not your fault.”

Derek sat silently, contemplating the bottle in his hands. Chris watched him, picturing the boy he’d been, holding the power to protect himself and his brother in his small hands and not having the proper ability to use it. This time, she didn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch him on the arm.

He glanced up at her touch and gave her a little smile. It looked somewhere between embarrassment and appreciation. She offered him an encouraging smile in return. Then she straightened up and pulled her hand into her lap, drowning another stupid flutter with another sip of water. When her composure returned, she set the bottle on the table and stood up.

“Okay. So as I understand it,” she said, moving around the couch to stand next to Jimmy, and not at all to put a safe barrier between herself and Derek, “Jimmy can’t leave until he knows you’ll be okay.”

Derek also got to his feet. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“You think I can’t tell that you’re not?” asked Jimmy.

His shoulders slumped in defeat, Derek looked down at the box. “What’s it going to take to convince you I’m okay?”

Jimmy looked at Chris. Leaning on the back of the sofa, she leveled her gaze at Derek. “What will it take to make you okay?” He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a finger to stop him. “Be honest.”

He closed his mouth and looked at her in frustration, but then he seemed to really think it over while they waited. After a long moment he said, “I need to see justice.” He glanced at the box, then looked at Chris. “I need to know who killed my brother, and that they didn’t get away with it.”

Chris straightened and stared at him. “Is that all?” Derek just blew out a little puff of air, signifying that he knew it was a tall order. “Well then.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I guess we’ve got a murder to solve.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. I’ve been trying to do that since I graduated journalism school. The police sure haven’t been any help.”

“Yeah, well, you and the police don’t have what I have.”

“What’s that?”

She smiled. “My secret weapon.”

“Are you ready?”

Ron and Joe stood on the front porch, where Joe took his time savoring the view. He’d been on the porch before but his new awareness that he could go beyond it apparently made this visit extra special. Finally, he tore his gaze away from the street. “I am, but you might want to wipe that smug look off your face before we go.”

Ron felt her jaw drop in disbelief. “What smug look?”

“The one you’ve been sporting ever since Chris asked for your help.”

She realized she was grinning and forced a sober expression onto her face. A moment later, she was smiling again. “Okay, maybe I’m feeling a little satisfied. Can you blame me?”

He gave her a stern look, but the wrinkles around his eyes betrayed his amusement. “This is serious business. What we’re about to put this boy through isn’t something that ought to be greeted with a smile.”

That got her to sober up for real. “Well, he’s waiting for us. We should go get this over with.”

Joe nodded and took her outstretched hand. In an instant, they both stood in the middle of Derek’s living room, where a light had been left on for them.

“Well, how ‘bout that.” Joe looked around. “This looks like a right comfortable abode.”

“Who’s he?” asked a voice from behind them. They both turned to see Jimmy seated on a footstool next to the coffee table.

“This is Joe,” Ron told him. “He’s here to help.”

Jimmy got up and came over to them, appearing to size Joe up on the way and not bothering to be subtle about it. Of course, Ron reminded herself, subtlety was pretty much a lost art among seventeen-year-old boys. As if to prove her right on that point, he asked unabashedly, “Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“I’m her fella,” Joe affirmed, moving closer to Ron and settling a hand on the small of her back. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the old-fashioned territorial display.

“That’s cool,” said Jimmy, seeming to take the hint. “I mean, I didn’t know people like us could…you know.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Have good, clean fun together?” This time, Ron did roll her eyes as she thumped him on the chest.

“Date,” Jimmy clarified. “I kinda figured once you died, that was the end of romance.” He sighed, and Ron wondered how many young hearts were broken when he died.

“I guess it depends on the circumstances,” she said softly. “Anyway,” she said, putting more command into her voice to steer them in the right direction, “that’s not something you’ll need to worry about once we solve your murder. So, let’s get down to it.”

“Okay, sure. So, I guess you want me to tell you about what happened that night.”

“Actually,” said Joe, “we were hoping you could show us.”

Jimmy looked up at him. “What, you mean like a reenactment?”

“More like a vision,” said Ron. At his confused look, she explained, “It’s another untapped ability we’re going to help you tap into.”

“What, having visions?”

“Projecting them, actually. I know it sounds weird, but during my first few weeks of deceased…- ness, other ghosts were projecting grizzly visions on me left and right.” She jerked a thumb toward Joe. “Including this guy. So he can show you how.”

“What? I can?” Joe looked at her in surprise.

“What do you think I brought you for?”

“Moral support?” At the look she gave him, he sighed. “I don’t actually know how I did that. It just sort of happened.”

“Well, something had to trigger it. Think. What was going on in your head when it happened?”

His brow furrowed, and his mouth drew into a thin line. “Hard to say. I know I was desperate. Angry. Scared. And everything that happened was still fresh, thanks to Sarah. Forgetting it all was never an option.” He looked sorrowfully at Jimmy. “You’ll have to relive that night, what happened to you. Can you do that?”

“I guess.” He sounded uncertain. With more conviction he said, “If it’ll help Derek put it all behind him, then yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” said Ron. “Let’s try this. Close your eyes, and picture that night. How the room looked, what you and Derek were both doing. Think about how you felt when they broke in.”

“I was confused at first. Then scared. Then angry.”

“Don’t tell us. Feel it.”

Jimmy nodded and closed his eyes. They waited. And waited.

After a few minutes, Ron was about to call it a bust when suddenly, the room transformed. It was no longer Derek’s leather and chrome bachelor pad but a suburban family home straight out of a 1990s-era sitcom. Jimmy and a young, gangly kid who looked a lot like Derek sat on a yellow brocade sofa watching Jeopardy! on a console TV. A bowl of popcorn sat between them, and they took turns eating from it as they tried to beat each other at shouting out the correct questions.

And then a loud pounding came from the front door. Two men dressed in black came crashing through.

Both boys jumped to their feet. “Derek, go to your room!” Jimmy shouted. Young Derek did as he was told and disappeared down the hall as Jimmy moved between him and the two goons. They shouted at Jimmy to get on his knees, and he complied, holding his hands out in a placating gesture as he did. “Just take what you want and leave us alone.”

“Shut up!” said the larger of the two men. He hit Jimmy in the face, hard. Ron winced at the sight of it, resisting the urge to tell Jimmy to stop.

The guy hit him again, in the stomach this time. As Jimmy doubled over, the goon’s partner joined in, kicking him in the ribs, but his kicks seemed feeble, as if his heart wasn’t in it. They soon had Jimmy laid out on the floor, moaning and clutching his ribs, trying but failing to block their blows.

The assailants, dressed in black from head to toe, both wore ski masks that hid their faces. The one doing all the yelling and most of the hitting and kicking was big—much bigger than Jimmy, who wasn’t exactly small for his age—and his voice was deep and angry.

The accomplice wasn’t much taller than Young Derek and looked about as skinny. He stopped kicking and stood back. “Come on, Ke—” he started to say, his voice higher and shaky with fear.

He was cut off as the big one wheeled around and shouted, “Shut up! Do not say my name, you idiot!”

“You don’t need to beat him senseless,” he said, and then stopped talking as Derek emerged from the hallway. With shaking hands, he held a large revolver, which he pointed at the big man.

“L-leave my brother alone! Get out of my house!”

“Just shoot ‘em, Derek!” Jimmy’s words came out slurred. Derek froze, looking for all the world like a young deer caught in headlights. At that moment, the big one lunged at him and snatched the gun out of his hands. The guy let out a laugh as he looked at the gun, then reached out and tousled Derek’s hair, as if they were playing a game. Then he pistol whipped the kid with the butt of the gun.

In spite of his injuries, Jimmy struggled to his knees. “You son of a—” he shouted as he tried to get his feet under him. Somehow, he found the strength to lunge just as the gun fired. Jimmy dropped lifelessly to the floor.

All around them, the room returned to normal. The men and Young Derek vanished. Jimmy still lay on the floor, looking conscious but dazed. Joe knelt beside him. “Take it easy, son,” he said as he helped him sit up.

Jimmy looked from Joe to Ron. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed his chest where the bullet had struck. “Not gonna lie,” he said, his voice raw. “That sucked.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe helped Jimmy to his feet. “Steady now.”

“Are you okay?” asked Ron.

Jimmy shot her a look. “I’m dead.”

“Right. But other than that?”

He sighed. “I’m fine. You don’t look so great, though.”

Her mouth grew tight as she folded her arms. “Yeah, well, watching kids get beaten and murdered isn’t really my favorite pastime.” And yet it happens surprisingly often. She kept that thought to herself.

“Did we get what we need?” asked Joe.

“I don’t know. Jimmy, did you notice anything familiar about those guys? Anything at all?”

“No. But I was kind of distracted with the getting pummeled.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his face wearily, but then he paused mid-rub. “But now that you mention it, yeah. One of the voices did sound kind of familiar. The skinny guy. I can’t quite place the voice, though.” He looked from Ron to Joe and back again. “You think it was someone I know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, they didn’t take anything. It seemed like they just wanted to beat you.”

“That was the impression I got,” said Joe.

“Why would somebody do that?” Jimmy asked.

“I don’t know,” said Ron. “Did you have any enemies? Someone your parents or Derek didn’t know about, so they couldn’t tell the police?”

“No. I mean, I guess I was kind of popular, being the team quarterback and all, but I tried not to be a jerk to the other kids. Do you think it might have been someone from a rival team? We were on our way to the championship. Maybe they wanted to take me out.”

“We’ll check into it,” Ron told him. He was starting to fade. She moved closer to Joe. “You get some rest. We’ll let Chris and Derek know how it went.”

Jimmy nodded. “Thanks.” He disappeared, presumably to his room to sleep it off.

“Poor kid,” muttered Joe.

“What about you? These visions are pretty intense.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he pointed out. Then added, darkly, “I’ve done worse.”

Ron took his hand. “Ready to get out of here?”

“We gonna track down your sister?”

She considered it, then she gave him a wry smile. “Something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that. Let her and Derek take their time.”

Joe lifted an eyebrow. “So now you’re matchmaking?”

“No. Maybe.”

“Speaking of things Chris wouldn’t appreciate…”

“Hey, you both told me not to interfere.” She held up her hands. “This is me not interfering. Let whatever happens between her and Derek happen.”

Joe seemed to consider this. “I actually can’t argue with that.”

“Good. Let’s go home. We can watch TV while Chris is out.” She held out her hand to Joe but he didn’t take it. “Something wrong?”

“I was just wonderin’…do you think I could do it myself? Get myself back, I mean?”

She lowered her hand and shrugged. “Won’t know unless you try.”

“Okay then.” He stood up straight and closed his eyes, appearing to concentrate really hard. After a moment, he shimmered out of sight.

Ron smiled, proud of her big lug. Then she followed him home.

Thanks for reading!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 7

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 14:01:24 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

Ron didn’t find Joe in his usual spot on the attic sofa. The scowl she already wore grew deeper as she looked around. “Joe?” she called, and was immediately greeted with a bark from the back of the attic.

“Back here,” he called. She followed the sound of his voice and found him standing at a small gable window, gazing out at the back yard. Buster wiggled and spun in a circle next to his feet as she approached them. She knelt to give the dog some ear scratches. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Thinkin’. Not much else to do these days.”

She knew the correct response was to ask what he was thinking about. She also detected a certain amount of edge in his tone that reinforced that notion. But she still smarted from her little spat with Chris, and she needed to vent before she could properly deal with his sudden turn to broodiness.

“So Derek Brandt was downstairs.” She gave Buster one last pat before straightening up. “He came to apologize. Apparently, Jimmy got through to him.” She didn’t mean to sound so smug, but it was hard to help.

“That so?”

She ignored the disinterest in his voice and the fact that he didn’t even glance in her direction. “It is indeed. Score one for the big sister. Seems I knew what I was doing after all.”

Joe scoffed. “Just ‘cause stickin’ your nose where it wasn’t wanted worked out the way you wanted, doesn’t make it right.”

Ron folded her arms and glared at him. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t got a problem.” He sounded resigned. “So now, I s’pose you’ll both be going over there to spend the day gettin’ Jimmy fixed up.”

“Not me. Chris doesn’t want me to come.”

Finally, he looked at her and showed some interest. “Why not?”

Ron shrugged. “She’s still mad at me.” And she thinks you are, too, she almost added, but it was becoming clear that Chris was right on that front, and Ron wasn’t ready to confront that just yet. “She’s acting like she doesn’t need me.”

Joe turned toward her and leaned against the wall. “Need I remind you again that your sister’s a grown woman? Would it be so terrible if she didn’t need you?”

“No,” she said, a bit petulantly, while her mind screamed, Yes!

“And would it be so awful for you to spend the day here with me? Or am I the one ghost you can’t fix, so you’ve given up here?”

“What are you talking about? Joe, you don’t need fixing.”

“But you sure need something to fix, don’t you?”

Ron looked at him like he’d sprouted a second personality. She felt tired and disappointed, not to mention irritated. Clearly, she wasn’t going to find any sympathy here. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not happy unless you’ve got a project.”

“That’s not true!” He eyed her until she broke down and admitted, “Okay, that’s a little bit true. But is there anything wrong with that?”

“Only when you plow over the people around you to get to your goals.”

“I don’t do that! How many times do I have to tell you and Chris that I’m helping?”

A short, angry laugh erupted from him. “If you have to explain to someone that you’re helping them, then maybe you ain’t bein’ so helpful.”

“But I only got involved because I knew Chris needed me to!”

“Well, Chris ain’t the only one in this house that’s got needs!” he shouted and immediately seemed to regret it. He closed his eyes and held up placating hands. “Just… slow down and think about the people you affect before you go chargin’ off.”

Ron stared up at him, completely at a loss. Where was this anger coming from? “This is between me and my sister. How does it affect you?”

Again, that angry laugh. He gave her a disbelieving shake of the head before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning back to the window. And she knew she’d been an idiot. Of course it affected him. He was part of this family now. Part of her. She sighed. “Joe.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Of course it matters to you what goes on with Chris and me.”

He shrugged away from her. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He huffed through his teeth and shook his head at the window. Ron swallowed her rising irritation and said slowly, “No, really. Explain it to me as if I were a small child. A slow one.”

He looked over at her for a moment, seeming to consider his words, then turned back to the window. “What do you see out there?”

Ron looked out the window. “I see the back yard, and more houses.”

“You know what I see?” She waited, and after a moment, he went on. “I see a whole world that’s cut off from me. And you get to go out in it, and I don’t begrudge you that.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “I sincerely don’t. I’m glad you have that freedom. I wouldn’t wish this purgatory on you for anything.”

Ron started to get it, and to feel more like an idiot and a jerk as a result. “Joe, I—”

“But have you ever even once thought about what it’s like for me to be stuck here while you go off and have some kind of… of…” He seemed to struggle for the right word. Finally, he said, “Of life?”

Honestly, she hadn’t. And she felt terrible for it. Joe had been here for nearly a century, and since she’d died, he’d become more of a home to her than the house itself. He was always here, dependable, safe. He couldn’t move on, like the others, but it had never even occurred to her that he might want to leave. At least not until…

Her hand flew to her forehead and she closed her eyes. “I was supposed to help you try to leave the house.” She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten. No wonder he was so upset.

He merely shrugged. “It’s not like we had set plans or anything.”

“I’ve been so distracted. You should have reminded me.”

“I shouldn’t have needed to.”

She swallowed—she knew deep down that the lump forming in her throat was just a physical memory, as much a phantom as she was, and that she was only going through the motions of swallowing, but still, it helped. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She fell silent a moment, following his gaze out to the back yard. “Anyway, why not now?”

Joe looked at her in confusion. “Why not what now?”

“Let’s go out.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Was it fear? “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been able to.”

“None of us could, not with Sarah around.”

“You could.”

“Yeah, but I’m a special kind of stubborn.” That drew a smile from him. “You might not be able to cross over into the light until Judgment Day or whatever, but why does being stuck on this plane of existence mean being stuck in this house?”

He opened his mouth as if to answer, but then closed it and frowned. Then he said, “Huh.”

“Sarah kept you prisoner here. But with her gone, I think maybe this has been a prison of your own making.” She tugged at his arm until he freed his hand from his pocket, then laced her fingers with his. “So what do you say we bust you out?”

He squeezed her hand appreciatively. “You might be right. But what if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong. And if that’s the case, then I promise to be more considerate of your limitations in the future. But we won’t know unless we try.”

“But what if—” He hesitated, seeming to chew on his words. “What if we try and I get punished?” The flicker of fear she thought she’d seen before solidified into a look of sheer terror. “What if I get zapped out of existence?”

Ron wrapped both of her hands around his. “That’s not going to happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. The universe, or God, or whoever, can’t be that cruel.”

His mouth tightened. “I ain’t so sure about that.”

Ron studied him a moment. It was true that fate had been especially cruel to this man. But it had generally been pretty good to her, if you didn’t count that whole “getting killed at twenty-nine” thing. Besides, she loved Joe. Taking him from her after she gave up the afterlife for him would be a special kind of cruel. It just wouldn’t happen.

It couldn’t.

“I’m sure.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis. “But it’s up to you. Whenever you’re ready to try, just say the word.”

He pulled her close and wrapped her in his arms. They stood there a long time, gazing out the window. After a while, Joe relaxed his grip and leaned back a little, tilting her face up as he smiled at her. “Maybe fate wouldn’t object too much to a stroll around the back yard.”

Ron returned his smile. “Then let’s go.”

They stood on the back porch at the top of the steps with the sun shining down on them. Joe couldn’t feel its warmth, nor could he feel the breeze that made the trees gently sway, nor breathe in the fresh air, although Ron told him that the air these days wasn’t anywhere near as fresh as he remembered.

And he did remember. Though the memory was distant, if he thought real hard, he could recall how it felt to be warmed by the sunshine, to breathe deeply and fill his lungs with clean air, to smell the scents that mingled in it—which, in his day, had included a lot of manure and other barnyard smells, but also clean hay and newly-mown grass and the honeysuckle and milkweed that grew along the fence around the yard where his girl had played. And that was almost as good as feeling it.

The lot was small, about a fraction of the size of the original house’s yard, bound by a chain-link fence and crowded by other such yards and houses on every side. Ron stepped down onto the grass and looked back at him. “You coming?”

He followed her as far as the bottom step. Looking down at his feet he slowly—very slowly—scooted his boot over the edge. When his toes didn’t disintegrate or otherwise disappear, he took the plunge and stepped into the yard.

Nothing happened.

He stood there a moment, letting that sink in. So he was allowed outside of the house. Good to know.

Ron watched him, poorly-hidden amusement pulling the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Well, you didn’t go poof.”

“I sure didn’t.” He looked around. He might not be able to feel his surroundings but he could still see just fine, still hear the leaves rustling in the wind, the birds singing. He could also hear muffled traffic coming from the major street located a few blocks over. Somewhere, a dog barked. Then several more dogs joined in.

Sounds of life going on all around him.

“When I died, this whole area was a working farm with about a hundred acres of land. If we assume that I can go anywhere within the bounds of that property, that gives me quite a bit of room to roam.”

“Yeah, well…now, it’s a crowded urban neighborhood in a seedy part of town. I don’t know how much roaming you’d want to do here.”

Her description of the neighborhood surprised him. “Why on earth would your sister fix this place up and live here if it’s not a good neighborhood?”

“Because we’re here, mainly. But there’s an urban renewal project going on in this part of town. Real estate investors are buying up houses like this and flipping them.” At his confused look, she explained, “Fixing them up and then selling them for a profit. So the neighborhood’s on it’s way up. It’ll take a few years to get there, though. Anyway, now that we’re over the first hurdle, are you game to try leaving the property?”

“I don’t know about that.”

She moved closer and took his hand. “We won’t know unless we try. Do you really want this”—she waved her free hand to indicate their current view— “to be your whole world?”

“It’s already bigger than it was a minute ago. As long as you’re in it, that wouldn’t be so bad.”

That got a smile. She didn’t give up, though. “I’m willing to bet that the way this works is, if the powers that be—who or whatever that is—don’t want you to leave, then you simply won’t leave. I’ll go and you’ll stay behind. I don’t think you’ll get blasted into oblivion just for testing your boundaries.”

He turned that over in his mind and nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Good. So where do you want to go? I’d take you to meet Jimmy, but Chris already laid down the law where that’s concerned.”

“Maybe she just wants the chance to get her own take on the situation. Don’t mean she won’t want your help when she’s ready for it.”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, is there anywhere in particular you’d like to visit?”

He didn’t have to think too hard to know that there was. He told her where.

“Close your eyes and picture it,” she told him.

“I don’t know what it looks like.”

“It’s okay, I do. So just focus on me.”

He followed her instructions, and after a few seconds he felt the tingly, shimmery feeling that he got whenever he transported himself from room to room.

“Open your eyes,” Ron said. He did. The first thing he saw was her smiling face. “It worked. You’re a free man.”

He broke into a grin as he took in his surroundings. It was a peaceful place. Sturdy oaks far older than he was cast shade over cement pathways lined with wooden benches. The monuments looked mostly modern to his eyes, tall squarish things made of granite and engraved with the epitaphs of those who lay beneath. The one before him was simple and low to the ground. The image of a praying child was engraved above a name. The dates below it told of a life cut far, far too short.

His expression grew somber. “So this is it.”

“Yeah.”

Joe released Ron’s hand and crouched at the foot of his daughter’s grave.

“Of course,” she went on, “this isn’t where she was originally buried. But you know that already, seeing as how you were there the day they buried her. They paved over that cemetery decades ago and built on top of it. I can verify that they actually moved the bodies first, though.”

He waved a hand over the plot. “This is where you and Chris dug her up, to get her ball back?”

“Well, technically, Gus did all the digging, but yeah.”

Joe nodded. He reached down and laid his hand on the well-manicured grass. “No flowers,” he noted. “I s’pose that shouldn’t surprise me, seeing as how anyone who’d care to bring any is long gone by now.”

“That can change. I’m sure Chris would be happy to—”

“Nah.” He stood up. “She ain’t here, anyhow. She’s far past where flowers’d do her any good. Still…” He looked around and nodded, satisfied. “This is a nice place. I’m glad I got to see it.” He allowed himself a moment to feel an odd mix of emotions until they grew so powerful they threatened to choke him. When he spoke next, he had to force the words out. “Wherever you are, Clarice, I hope you’re happy. You and your ma.”

They stood there a moment in silence. When he was ready, he turned to take in the rest of the cemetery. “So where are you buried?”

Ron blinked. “Oh! Um…” She looked around and pointed. “Over that way, next to my mom.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure, why not? It’s quite a walk from here. Would you rather pop over?”

“Nah.” He took her hand. “I’m feeling like a stroll.”

She smiled and they started down the path. It was a large cemetery, not like the little church graveyards from his day. He figured half the city’s dead was buried here. As they went, he noticed that a lot of the figures milling about appeared not to be just visiting. “There’s a lot of dead folk here, aren’t there?”

Ron looked at him sideways. “It is a cemetery.”

“I don’t mean bodies. I mean like us. You see ‘em, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “A lot of spirits haunt their graves.” Her mouth turned down in a cute little frown. “Which I suppose is technically something I’m about to do.” Looking around at all the other spirits, her frown deepened. “I wonder if they even know they don’t have to be stuck here.”

“Hey, focus.” Joe squeezed her hand. “One mission at a time.”

She gave him a guilty look. “Fine. Maybe once this business with Jimmy’s done, we can both come back here and see—” She abruptly stopped both speaking and walking. Joe followed her startled gaze, which was fixed on a man who stood at the end of a grave, looking thoughtfully at the headstone. He looked to be one of the living, oblivious to the two of them.

“What’s wrong?”

Ron’s look of astonishment fell into one of dejection. “It’s my dad.”

Joe looked again at the man, more closely this time. They were still some distance from him, but he could recognize Ron’s jawline on the man. Anger flooded Joe, clenching his hand into a fist as he remembered how the man had treated Ron, blaming her for her mother’s accidental death. But, for Ron’s sake, he kept it in check. “At least he’s visiting your grave,” he offered by way of encouragement.

“No,” she said, her voice lacking anger or bitterness or anything other than tired resignation, “that’s my mom’s grave. I’m the next one over, on the left.”

“It’s pretty. And it looks like he put flowers on it.”

“My Aunt Judy probably put those there. Chris says she visits every week.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was in town. Chris didn’t say anything.”

“She’s been a little preoccupied lately.”

“Yeah.” She grew still as her father turned his head and looked at her grave. Joe leaned in and put his arm around her. She clutched the front of his shirt as she watched. Her father stared at her grave for a good, long moment. Then he turned his back on it and walked down the path toward a dark gray automobile.

Ron relaxed. “Coast is clear.” She kept her voice light, but Joe could hear the disappointment she tried to mask. “Come on.”

He followed her as far as her mother’s grave, where she stopped to examine the flowers that had been left there. “I’m over there.” She pointed at the next headstone over. Joe left her to have a minute with her thoughts while he examined her headstone.

“Veronica Jessica Wilson,” it read above her birth and death dates. “Beloved daughter and sister.” Below that it said, “She’s gone to the place that’s the best.” Joe read that part out loud, and looked back at Ron. “Is that so?”

She smiled as she came over to join him. “It’s a song lyric. And Chris’s sense of humor.”

“But is it true?”

She grinned and stood on her toes for a kiss. He happily obliged. Afterward, she leaned into him and snuggled her head against his chest with a contented sigh. “You bet it is.”

He held her a moment at the foot of her grave, taking in the signs of life around them. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but when she pulled back, she wore a slight frown. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to have these fantasies that I would die and at my funeral, my dad would be so sorry that he’d throw himself on my casket and cry and wail about how he wished he could take it all back and do it all over.” She glanced up at his furrowed brow and shrugged a shoulder. “You know how kids are. Anyway…” Her voice trailed off with a sigh.

“Maybe he is sorry. He’s just not so good at showing it.”

“Yeah, right. He couldn’t even stand the sight of my grave.”

“That’s not exactly a sight most fathers would look gladly on,” he pointed out. “Maybe it hurts him too much.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you give him too much credit.” She stood up a little straighter, setting her jaw in a way that made Joe flash back to her father. “So, have you seen enough?”

“I have.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s go home.”

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March Update: Sleep, Dearie Pre-order and Release Date! Plus a today-only sale, new music and bunny woes.

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 18:11:23 GMT

Welcome to Through a Glass, Darkly’s regular update!

Through a Glass, Darkly is the fiction publication of horror and supernatural thriller author Jean Marie Bauhaus (that’s me!), where I’m publishing my new fiction for you to read free for a limited time before it makes it into book form (paid subscribers can access all the fiction I post here all the time and read at their leisure). If you’re new here, first, HI! Second, check out the About page and the Roadmap to learn more, and go here to update your subscription preferences.
What you’re reading now is my semi-regular newsletter.

Happy March!

We’re just a week away from spring, hallelujah! Today is actually very spring-like. The weather’s warm, the sky is blue, the redbuds are in bloom, and the honey bees are buzzing.

Winter’s going to get one last hurrah this weekend, so I intend to get out there later and soak up enough sun to get me through to the other side.

This is a light month for me as far as creative work goes, as we focus on final projects that are needed to allow us to move onto our property. We’ve had a lot of rain that put us behind a bit, as well as other distractions, such as dealing with a sick bunny.

The poor guy wasn’t eating and had lost a lot of weight, so we took him to the vet, where we ended up having dental work done. Things went well and he started eating again, but somewhere along the way of his recovery, his hind end stopped functioning. We have no idea what happened, but can only guess that he somehow injured himself whilst trying to get around with his post-surgical collar on. We’ve been keeping him confined and rested in the hopes that he’ll recover on his own. For now, he seems to be content to hang out on the couch next to me and munch on his noms.

Otherwise, I’ve been working on putting the finishing touches on Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, which is releasing into the wide world on March 31st and is now available for pre-order!

Some foundations are built on stone. Others are built on bones and blood.
South Carolina, 1792. Archibald Craig is a man of singular ambition. A junior partner to the famed architect of the President’s House, Archie is tasked with conquering the Yadkin River by building a bridge to the Southwest Territory. But the river is unyielding, and the land itself seems to rebel against the intrusion of “progress.”
As freak storms and mysterious tremors topple the masonry, the project spirals into a nightmare. Archie’s workmen—Scottish Highlanders steeped in the “old ways”—whisper of threshold covenants and the ancient blood-prices required to appease the spirits of the earth.
“Let it be finished, and I will pay whatever you ask.”
In a moment of feverish desperation, Archie utters a prayer that should never have been spoken. The bridge finally stands firm, but an unrelenting shadow of tragedy has fallen over the Craig household. The horrific truth remains just out of reach, buried beneath the weight of the stone.
Told through a haunting collection of diaries and letters, Sleep, Dearie, Sleep is a slow-burn epistolary journey into the heart of folk horror, where the price of success is higher than any man can afford to pay.

The e-book is currently available to pre-order for just $2.99 (the price goes up to $4.99 on launch day)!

If you prefer futuristic sci-fi over historical gothic horror, Barnes & Noble currently has Ripples in Space, the anthology that features my short story “Out of Silence,” marked down to $3.99. Today is the last day to get the discount, so grab it now!

Get it on sale at BN!

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Kindred Spirits: Chapter 6

Wed, 11 Mar 2026 14:01:44 GMT

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Chris was about to start the coffee maker when the knocking started. She looked around the kitchen and sighed. Except for Miss Kitty, she was alone for once—Ron and Joe were apparently either sleeping in or enjoying some alone time of their own. Chris had looked forward to a morning of peace and quiet to catch up on some work without any distractions.

Frowning at the lost opportunity, she flipped the switch on the coffee machine and went to answer the door, pushing past the sense of dread that accompanied her suspicion of who it would be.

It had been a week since her confrontation with Brandt. She hadn’t heard a peep from him, despite Ron’s daily visits with Jimmy and her certainty that Derek was about to crack. That was, of course, unless you counted the late night phone calls. When they started, she’d had her suspicions, which Ron had confirmed. Chris had gone along with it, but after getting woken up in the middle of the night for a solid week, enough was enough. If he called again, she was going to tell him she knew what he was doing and to knock it off.

A peek through the curtain told her she might not have to. Chris bit her bottom lip as she grasped the door knob, pausing to consider what she might say. Preferably, it would be something clever and disarming that would diffuse his anger, throw him off balance, and give her the upper hand. But all that came to mind was, “What the heck do you want?” and she didn’t quite think that would do the trick. Taking a deep breath to brace herself, she opened the door.

Any greeting she might have come up with would’ve died on her lips anyway at the sight of him. He stood there with a hang-dog expression, balancing a box of donuts and two coffees in his hands, and suddenly, she was the one who was disarmed.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

Chris looked him up and down warily, taking in how tired and haggard he looked. And yet he exuded a sense of energy and excitement as he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, a look of hope hiding behind his contrition. She caught herself smiling. Jimmy must’ve finally cracked him.

She stepped back and opened the door more widely to admit him. He paused in the entryway as she shut the door, then she motioned wordlessly for him to follow her to the kitchen. Once there, he set his bundle on the table.

“I didn’t know how you like your coffee,” he said, setting a cup in front of her, “so I got black. I figured you could doctor it here.” He stood back and motioned to the donut box. “I couldn’t find any humble pie this early in the morning. But I can assure you that the cream-filled ones are chock full of humility.”

“So I take it Jimmy finally got through to you?”

He blew out a long sigh. “Yeah.” He pulled out a chair but hesitated before sitting down. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He sank into the chair and sat there a moment, drumming his fingers on the table. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again as if not knowing what to say. Finally, he said, “I owe you an apology. Actually, I think I owe you several, going all the way back to college.”

Chris took up the cup of coffee, removed the lid, and blew on it. “So you do remember.”

“Yeah. Although to be fair, you looked a lot different back then.”

She smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess I was going through my Avril phase at the time.”

“Anyway, I know I behaved like a jerk. Then and now. Although, for what it’s worth, I had good reason to be skeptical.”

“There’s skeptical, and then there’s willfully blind to what’s right in front of you. Not to mention refusing to give good people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yeah, well, I’d already given someone like you—who claimed to be like you, at any rate—the benefit of the doubt, and it backfired. Big time. I know that’s no excuse for how I treated you, but it’s my only defense.”

Chris considered this. She knew there were a lot of phonies running around out there, giving people like her a bad name. They would’ve seen Derek as a prime target. She wondered what they’d done to him to make him so distrusting.

Making up her mind, she reached over and flipped back the lid on the donut box. She took out a glazed and took a bite. It was still warm and fresh, and she closed her eyes and savored the sweet, melty, doughy goodness. Then she opened her eyes and nodded.

“Apology accepted,” she said before washing it down with a sip of coffee. She caught him watching her and suddenly felt self-conscious. She set her cup down and went to grab some plates and napkins, making sure she didn’t have donut glaze stuck to her face once her back was to him. Returning to the table, she sat across from him and said, “So.”

He sat up a little straighter and fiddled with his napkin. “So, I also came to ask for your help. For Jimmy.”

“I kind of figured. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

She finished her donut slowly as he told her about the night before. “Scrabble tiles,” she said appreciatively when he finished. “That’s inventive.”

“I was up all night, but only part of it was spent talking to him. He seemed to run out of strength after a couple of hours.”

Chris nodded. “It takes a lot of energy for them to communicate like that. They get spent and need time to recover.”

He seemed to let this sink in. “Anyway,” he went on, “of course, I wasn’t going to get any sleep after that, so I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out what I’d say to you.”

She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. “Yeah, that donut line sounded a little rehearsed.”

A grin flashed across his face. She only caught a glimpse of it before he ducked his chin to hide it, but it was enough to make something deep down inside do a little flutter. Or maybe that was just the sugar and caffeine at work. She took another drink of her coffee.

“I know you’ve already spoken with Jimmy. You and somebody named Ron?”

“My sister. It’s short for Veronica.”

Derek nodded, but his face screwed up in confusion. “I thought your sister died last year.” At her quirked eyebrow, he admitted, “I did some digging. For my story,” he added hastily, giving her a sheepish glance.

“She did,” Chris said. “Hence how she was able to speak with your dead brother.”

“Oh. Right.” He still looked confused, or maybe he was just wigged out by all the dead people. For Chris, talking to the dead was simply her life. She had to remember that this was new territory for him, and probably not a little mind blowing. “Anyway, Miss Wilson—”

“I think, by this point, you can just call me Chris.”

There was that grin again. And there was that flutter. It felt familiar. Frowning, she grabbed another donut, with sprinkles. Sprinkles would make anyone’s insides flutter, right?

“I guess if we’re on a first name basis, that would make me Derek. So, Chris—”

“Yes, Derek?”

He laughed. There it went again. It definitely wasn’t the sprinkles. She put the donut down and stared accusingly at it.

“How much do you know? About what happened to my brother, I mean?”

“I know that he was murdered in a home invasion, and they never found who did it. And I know you were just a kid when it happened. That must’ve been really hard.”

He shrugged. “Not as hard as getting killed and stuck in limbo for fifteen years without anyone to talk to.”

“No, I guess not. I know that you were the main reason he stuck around, though.”

“Great. More guilt.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” She sat up straighter and suppressed a sudden urge to reach across the table and touch his hand. “He just didn’t want to leave when he knew you were so vulnerable. He didn’t want you to blame yourself. He still doesn’t.”

“Yeah.” Derek rubbed his face, but the weariness clung to it. “He told me all this last night.”

“And he’s still here?”

“Yes.” He frowned and amended, “At least, I think so. We talked for a while after that before he had to stop. I didn’t hear or see anything else from him after that.” He looked at her with an alarmed expression. “Do you think he might be gone? I mean, forever?”

“I don’t know. Probably not, if he didn’t say goodbye.” He relaxed a little and stared thoughtfully at the table. The silence stretched out between them. Before it could become too awkward, she offered, “I could come over later and make sure. If he’s still there, we can all talk and figure out what he needs to move on.”

“Move on? You mean, like, to heaven?”

“If that’s what you like to call it.”

“I never really thought about it,” he said. “I mean, our parents took us to church and all that, but after what happened that night, I kind of gave up on the idea of God.” Suddenly, he scooted his chair back and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Man. This is all so . . .”

He shook his head, letting the sentence hang in the air. Chris mentally filled in the blank with what he must be thinking. Bizarre. Insane. Hard to believe. Scary. Finally, he finished by simply saying, “Much.”

She nodded. This was true. “I know. It takes some getting used to.”

He leveled his gaze at her. “I’m really sorry I thought you were a fraud.” His sincerity caused something inside her to melt a little, but then she remembered how publicly he’d made those thoughts known.

“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s all the other people you convinced who are the problem.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word as he sat upright. “I plan to do something about that.”

“Really? What?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure something out.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, then added, “Hopefully, something that won’t damage my career too badly.” Then he glanced guiltily at her. “Although I suppose you think that’d serve me right.”

“Not now that you’ve plied me with sugary confections,” she said and smiled. “Seriously, I don’t want you to lose your job over it.” She realized as she said it that she really meant it. “I’m sure it will all blow over.”

“If it makes you feel any better, our ratings have been flagging lately. So not everyone in town watched my segment.”

“Good to know.” Though it was still enough of the population for her to get told off by a random stranger while in line to buy coffee. She decided to keep that part to herself for now. Derek already seemed to have enough guilt on his plate. She didn’t want to add to it at this point. Which, if she was honest, surprised her a little. And also made her feel a little proud of herself.

Before she could break an imaginary arm mentally patting herself on the back for her maturity, Derek stood up. “I guess I should be getting back. I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”

“But you haven’t eaten any donuts.” She motioned to the box.

“That’s all right. You enjoy them.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Do I look like I can pack away an entire dozen all by myself?” Not that she couldn’t, under the right circumstances, but she hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“What? No, I didn’t mean—you look great.” He put a lot of emphasis on the last word, then stopped and cringed. “I mean—”

“Relax. I was kidding.” She couldn’t help smiling at the compliment, even as she took pity on him. “Here.” She took an old-fashioned out of the box and placed it on the napkin next to the half-eaten chocolate sprinkle. “I’ll keep one for later. Take the rest home.” She closed the box and handed it to him.

He still looked embarrassed as he took the box from her. “Thanks.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, then she remembered she had something that could help him and snapped her fingers.

“I have something else to send home with you. Follow me to my office.” She started out of the kitchen, and Derek followed right behind. As they reached the doorway, Ron suddenly appeared right in front of her, startling her and causing her to jump backwards into him. She felt the corner of the donut box dig into her back right before lukewarm coffee splashed against her arm.

As she tried to straighten herself back up, she somehow tripped over her own feet and stumbled sideways. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her as Derek’s voice spoke into her ear. “Whoa there. You okay?”

Back on her feet, she put a safe distance between herself and Derek before she had time to think too much about how his arm felt around her, or consider whether her heart’s escalation from a flutter to a full-on pounding had more to do with that or the near fall. “Ron!”

“Sorry!” Ron looked from Chris to Derek and back. “Everything okay down here?”

“Ron?” asked Derek, his gaze darting around the room. “Your sister?”

Chris took a breath to compose herself and released it in a long sigh. “Yes. Derek, meet Ron. Ron, you’ve already met Derek.” As Derek furrowed his brow in the direction she’d motioned in, Chris supplied, “Just imagine a perky blonde in plaid capris standing next to me.”

Ron gave her a sharp look. “Perky? Really?”

Chris shrugged. “That’s the impression you give at first glance.”

“Um,” said Derek.

Chris turned to him. “Sorry about this. Hazards of living in a haunted house.” She pointed him down the hall. “My office is right down there, through the French doors. I’ll just clean this up,” she said, indicating the spilled coffee, “and be right there.”

With a nod and another furtive glance in Ron’s general direction, he carried his donuts off down the hallway. Chris went to grab a paper towel and wipe off her arm. “Darn it,” she muttered, examining her sleeve. “It got on my clothes.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Ron. “I guess you were distracted.” She looked down the hall in the direction Derek had gone, then at the table, and raised an eyebrow. “He brought donuts?”

“He apologized for everything. Jimmy finally made a connection with him last night. He’s here to ask for my help.”

“And your forgiveness, I hope.” Ron gazed longingly at the donuts on the table.

“That, too.” Chris grabbed another paper towel. “Good,” said Ron, an annoying amount of satisfaction creeping into her voice. “Everything is working out.”

“Don’t think this lets you off the hook for meddling,” Chris said as she crouched next to the spill on the floor.

Ron rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. Where would you be now if I hadn’t meddled?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe actually enjoying a quiet morning all to myself?”

“You’d be sitting and stewing over that story. And Jimmy would still be on his own. And you wouldn’t have donuts.”

“You give yourself a little too much credit,” Chris said as she went to toss the used paper towels.

“Pfft. You know I’m right. Besides, I think you like him.”

Chris halted on the way to the trash bin. “What? Who?”

“The hot reporter waiting in your office.”

“His name’s Derek.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up. I just got on non-shouting terms with the guy.”

“Uh huh. And he likes you, too.”

Chris chucked the towels and leveled a look at her sister. “Now you’re just insane.”

“Hey, I’m a romance writer, remember? I can tell about these things.”

“I think that fall down the stairs damaged your brain before it killed you.”

“That’s sweet,” Ron said, her grin matching the tone of sarcasm in her voice. “Anyway, what happens now?”

“Now, I’m going to my office where Derek is waiting. You are going to stay here.”

“I meant, what’s the plan to help Jimmy?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I’m going over there later to survey the situation and figure out what he needs from me.”

“Cool. I’ll come too.”

“No, you won’t.”

Ron blinked at her. “What? Why?”

“You stay here. I’ve got this.”

“But I told Jimmy—”

“I said I’ve got this,” Chris insisted, ignoring her sister’s pouty look. “I’ll let you know if I need your help. Besides, you should spend some time with that hot guy you’ve got upstairs instead of taking off and leaving him high and dry.”

Ron folded her arms. “What are you talking about?”

“You should talk to Joe, is what I’m saying.”

“About what?”

“About how neglected and left out he feels.”

She glanced up at the ceiling, and frowned. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh, sure. He just loves being stuck here all alone, twiddling his thumbs while you go out and make new friends.”

Ron frowned. “It’s not like that. I was helping.”

Chris closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. “Ronnie,” she said, opening them again, “trust me. Just spend the day here with him, okay?”

She gave a little shrug as if to indicate she didn’t care much either way. “Fine.”

“Good.” Chris left her there and made her way to the office, where Derek perched on the edge of her desk, still clutching the donut box. “Sorry that took so long.”

“No problem,” he said, standing up. “Is everything okay with your sister?”

“It’s fine. She’s fine. Anyway, I wanted to give you this.” She went to the shelves at the back of the room, where all of her equipment was stashed. After a bit of rummaging, she took down a hard plastic box that resembled a radio and brought it to him. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s called a ghost box. Jimmy can use it to talk to you.”

He set the donut box down and took the device. “How’s it work?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s pretty simple. Just switch it on here,” she said, showing him the power button, “and set it in the room where you think Jimmy might be. It cycles up and down along radio frequencies, and as Jimmy speaks, it will pick up words that match what he’s saying.”

His eyebrows crept up, signaling that he was apparently still skeptical in spite of everything. Stubborn guy. “How is that even possible?”

“I have no idea,” Chris admitted. “I just know it usually works.”

“Usually?”

She gave him a small shrug. “This isn’t exactly science. Nothing is absolutely certain. But when a spirit is willing and able, this thing”—she tapped the box with her finger—“can give them a voice.”

“Well, at least we know Jimmy’s willing. If he’s still around.” He retrieved the donuts and started for the door. Chris followed to let him out. When they got there, he stopped short. “I almost forgot. When can you come by?”

“What time’s good for you?”

He glanced at his watch—a Seiko, she noticed. Nice, but not flashy. “I should probably try to grab a nap and a shower. What about after lunch?”

“I’ll be there. Oh! Just a sec’.” She ducked back into her office and retrieved a business card. Returning and holding it out to him, she said, “My cell number. If you run into trouble, just call or text or whatever.”

He balanced the ghost box on top of the donut box and took the card. As he did, his thumb grazed hers. The contact was purely accidental, but it sent a little frisson of something shooting through her.

Suddenly, she was eighteen again, a gawky freshman hiding behind pink hair and heavy black eyeliner, trying to keep her cool as she explained paranormal investigation tools to the cute junior from the college paper. Her flutters had been off the charts that night. Of course, that was before he’d eviscerated her and her club in his article. Remembering Ron’s accusation, and how history had repeated itself, she jerked her hand away.

He eyed her a good, long moment, the expression on his face inscrutable. Note to self: never play poker with this guy. Tucking the card in his jeans pocket, he asked, “Only if there’s trouble?”

She shrugged. “What else would you want it for?” That came out more clueless than flirtatious, and she wasn’t sure she’d intended it to be either.

He cocked his head a tiny bit to the side, as though considering the question. Then he shook his head. “I guess we’ll see what happens,” he said, and Chris wanted to ask exactly what he meant by that, but instead, she was opening the door and he was walking through it and heading down the steps.

She just stood there and watched him walk to his car, juggling his load as he unlocked it and put everything inside. He gave her a little wave before getting in. She returned it before shutting the door and leaning against it, her mind racing to decipher his words. And failing.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “I guess we’ll see.”

Thanks for reading!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 5

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 15:02:40 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

The line at the coffee station was long, and Chris wished she’d gone to Starbucks instead. She’d pulled into QuikTrip on an impulse after being hit with a sudden craving for a breakfast pizza. Holding said pizza in one hand, she worried that it would turn cold before she got her coffee and made it back to the car. She was debating eating it while she stood in line, but the old couple in front of her kept glancing back at her, and it made her self-conscious.

Finally, the couple reached the coffee dispenser. As the white-haired woman became focused on filling her cup, Chris raised the pizza to her mouth. Just as she was about to take a bite, the old man turned to look at her full on. Chris’s appetite cooled faster than the pizza at the sight of the gunshot wound that had ruined one side of his face.

She gasped, and the woman turned to look at her as well. Chris took in the couple before her. The woman appeared lively enough, giving Chris an angry look as she pushed the button to dispense half and half into her cup. She didn’t appear to notice the man’s presence. Chris forced herself to smile at the woman and nod politely. As she did, the man leaned in to scrutinize Chris with his good eye. “Do you see me?”

Chris gave another nod as the woman moved over to finish doctoring her coffee. As Chris stepped up to the coffee dispenser, the man asked, “Will you tell her something for me?”

She sighed. “Sure.”

The woman looked at her. “Excuse me?”

“I was, um, talking to myself,” Chris said, but the woman didn’t turn away. Neither did the man, whom Chris was beginning to suspect was the woman’s late husband. “Tell her for me,” he said, and detailed his message as the woman scrutinized Chris. “You were on the news last night,” she said, her voice accusing. “You’re that psychic.”

“I’m not a—” Chris started to argue, but sighed, realizing it was futile. “Yeah, whatever.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, convincing people you can talk to their loved ones.” She stood there, shaking her head disapprovingly. At the same time, her husband stood next to her, watching Chris expectantly.

She looked at him and said, “You realize this is, like, the worst possible timing, right?”

“Excuse me?” said the woman again. The ghost shrugged as though it couldn’t be helped.

Chris sighed again, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “He’s sorry,” she said.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean you’re sorry?”

“He knew about you and Stephen,” Chris blurted. The haughty look vanished from the woman’s face as though someone had slapped it off her, and she turned pale. Chris kept going. “He wanted to punish you, but now he’s seen what he put you through, and he knows you really loved him. He forgives you, and he wants you to know he’s sorry.”

The woman just stood there, staring at Chris in shocked silence. “Thank you,” her husband said, a weepy smile spreading across his ruin of a face. “Thank you.”

Chris said nothing. She set the coffee and pizza on the counter and hurried out of the store.

Back in the safety of her car, she sat there, gripping the steering wheel with an iron grip as she blinked back hot tears and concentrated on her breathing. Her encounter inside had left her feeling both humiliated and deeply sad.

She also felt angry. Angry at Derek Brandt for putting her in this position of having something to prove. Angry at the old man and the rest of the dead for always being present, always needing her, never leaving her in peace. Never just letting her get coffee. Not giving her the option to just quit and live a normal life.

The woman came out of the store and stood on the front walk, scanning the parked cars. Chris put on her sunglasses and started the car, backing away before she could be spotted. Or at least confronted.

She had half a mind to go back to Derek Brandt’s house and tell him off for how much more he’d complicated her life with his story, which was already pretty dadgum complicated. But he’d probably be glad to hear it, and he’d likely make good on his threat to call the police. And then he might take out a restraining order. And don’t forget how he could report it all on the evening news, which would make things about a million times worse.

In the privacy of her car, Chris let out a scream of frustration and pounded on the steering wheel. Feeling only slightly better, except for a raw throat, she pulled out into traffic in the direction of home.

Joe was alone in the house. Again. Except, of course, for the pets, but they were asleep and indifferent to his presence. The cat was pretty much like that even when she was awake, anyway.

For more than a century, he’d been in that house—or at least on that property—and in all that time, he’d always had company. Sure, they’d all been murdered and enslaved by the twisted, vengeful spirit of the girl he’d accidentally killed, but at least he’d always had somebody to talk to.

Not that he wasn’t glad they’d all been set free to move on. Still, he missed them. He was grateful to still have Ron, but when she was on a mission, even when she was there, she wasn’t all there. And it never seemed to occur to her that he might miss her, too.

He tried—unsuccessfully—not to dwell on all of this as he sat at the kitchen table and flipped through a home decorating magazine that had been left there. He’d already looked at this one, but at least it was something to look at besides the furniture.

He was re-reading an article on the pros and cons of paint chips versus paint samples when he heard the front door open and close. That sound was followed by footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Joe shut the magazine and shoved it back in its resting place as Chris appeared, carrying a paper bag with a pair of golden arches on the front.

“Hey,” she said at the sight of him.

“Mornin’.” He eyed the bag. “You know, one of my biggest regrets about dyin’ when I did is that I never got to know the joys of a McDonald’s breakfast.”

“You never got to know the joys of clogged arteries, either.” She set the bag on the table. “I’d say you broke even.”

“So how’d it go?” he asked as she went to the sink and retrieved her coffee cup.

“About as well as you’d expect,” she said, filling the mug from the carafe and popping it in the microwave. She leaned against the counter as it heated. “I met Jimmy. He seems like a good kid. I made promises that I probably can’t keep, and then Brandt came home and threatened to call the police.”

Joe winced. “I told Ron she should keep out of it, you know.”

Chris smiled. “I know. Thanks for trying.”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“She stayed behind to work some more with Jimmy. She asked me to let you know, by the way.”

“Of course she did.”

Chris seemed to note the irritation in his voice with a raised eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Wouldn’t know. Can’t get there. Can’t get anywhere that’s not this house.”

“And Ron keeps taking off and leaving you behind.” The microwave beeped, and she brought her mug over to the table. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Joe shrugged. “Got to catch her when she’s in a mood to listen.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

He considered this as she unpacked a considerable variety of wrapped sandwiches from the bag. “Nah,” he said, “but thanks. Is there something you want to get off your chest?”

“Why do you ask?”

He nodded to the pile of food before her. “I’ve been observing your habits for a while now, and one thing I couldn’t help but notice is that you eat an impressive amount of fast food whenever you’re upset.”

Pausing in the middle of unwrapping a McGriddle, Chris looked down at all the food. “I was hungry,” she said, defensiveness creeping into her voice. “Ron was in such a hurry for me to go talk to Jimmy that I didn’t get breakfast. Anyway, I wanted to get a breakfast pizza, but that didn’t work out.” She took a sizable bite of her sandwich and chewed it angrily.

“Okay,” said Joe. “If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong.”

“What could possibly be wrong?” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable. She swallowed her bite, looked at her sandwich as if considering another, then laid it down with a grimace. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said, her voice softer. “Let’s talk about you. I know Ron means well, but she can be pretty dense and needs to have things spelled out for her sometimes. You should tell her how you feel about her taking off and leaving you here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Joe flattened his hands out on the table, for want of anything better to do with them. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. The woman gave up heaven to stay here with me.”

“You’re assuming,” said Chris. He looked at her, surprised she’d suggest otherwise, but she winked and smiled.

“She gave up seeing her mother again. Being at peace. Eternal rest. What right do I have to ask her to spend every minute in this house?”

“None,” Chris agreed. “But you do have a right to express your feelings, and it’s only natural for you to feel left behind. Ron needs to know that and take it into account.” She retrieved her sandwich and stared at it a moment. “Besides, are you sure you can’t leave? I mean, have you tried?”

“I . . .” Joe let his voice trail off as he realized that he had never actually tried to leave the premises.

Sarah had kept him and the others shut up inside for decades. He’d never even been as far as the front porch before they’d managed to defeat her. He’d just assumed that anything further would be off limits. “No. I haven’t.”

“Well, then. If Ron’s so good at teaching others how to ghost, maybe she should start with you.”

“Yeah. That’d really be something.”

“Anyway, you’re kind of being an idiot about something else, too.”

“What might that be?”

Chris folded her arms on the table and leaned closer. “Ron loves you, you big dummy. She stayed because, as great as I’m sure it would be to see Mom, heaven wouldn’t have felt very heavenly without you there.” She leaned back and took another bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully this time. After swallowing, she added, “I sure hope I don’t have to die to find what you two have together.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Trust me, I’m right.”

Joe smiled at her certainty. “Still, it feels selfish. Like I stole something from her.”

“That sounds to me like a century’s worth of guilt talking.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a hard habit to break.”

“So you’ll talk to her?”

“I—”

“Talk to who about what?” Ron’s voice asked from behind him. She slid into the chair between him and Chris and leaned over the pile of food. “Ooh, McGriddles.” The wistfulness in her voice made him ache.

Chris gave Joe a prompting look, but he only shrugged. Rolling her eyes, Chris said, “Joe was just telling me that he’s never even tried to leave the house. I’m surprised you’ve never shown him how.”

Ron sat back and blinked at her sister before turning her stunned expression on Joe. “You know, that honestly never even occurred to me. And you’ve never asked me to.”

“I just sort of figured it couldn’t be done,” he said.

“Well, we’ll never actually know if we don’t try. Not now, though. I’m beat.”

Joe nodded, surprised at how much this pleased him. “Whenever you feel up to it is fine.”

“Anyway, Chris, you should get ready. You’ll probably be hearing from Derek Brandt soon.”

Chris was about to take another bite, but instead, she tossed her sandwich down with the same disgusted look as before. “What now?”

“No, it’s a good thing! I promise you, by tomorrow morning, he’s going to come crawling to you, begging for help with Jimmy.”

Chris looked sideways at her sister. “You guys got through to him?”

“Almost. And Jimmy’s got a plan that’s sure to smash through that stubborn man’s crumbling walls.”

“I hope you’re right, but I won’t hold my breath.”

Joe smiled to himself as the sisters carried on their discussion. The other ghosts—the ones he missed—they’d been good company. But these two women, they were family. In all his years of haunting the place, it had never felt like home the way it did with them there.

Selfish or not, he could hardly remember a time he’d been happier, and he said a prayer of thanks to God—just in case the good Lord still listened to the likes of him—for bringing these women into his afterlife.

And he prayed desperately that He wouldn’t take them away again.

Derek woke up from a sound sleep. Again. He lay there a moment, listening. The house was quiet.

It was always quiet. Except when it wasn’t. He was no longer sure which was worse.

The house was dark. He looked groggily at the clock and saw that it was almost midnight. He’d lain down for a nap after getting home from work earlier that evening, only intending to grab some quick shuteye before dinner. But a whole week of getting woken up every night must be getting to him, and he was even more tired than he’d thought.

His mind raced as he lay there, clutching the covers and waiting for the inevitable. His heart started to pound with anticipation.

Finally, it happened. Something yanked the covers off him.

Derek sat up, his heart hammering. His breath came a little too fast as he squinted toward the foot of the bed. The bedroom windows were hung with blackout curtains, so only the dim light of the LED clock penetrated the darkness. Pushing away thoughts of phantom hands grabbing him and dragging him out of bed, he reached over as quickly as he could and snapped on the lamp.

The room was empty. It was always empty.

Next, he did what he’d done every night since this had begun. He picked up his phone and dialed Christine Wilson’s number. Her landline, not her cell.

It rang. He waited. Then a sleepy voice—her voice—answered. “Hello?”

Derek hung up. He’d known she would be there. He knew that no matter how much he wanted to blame all this on her, it simply wasn’t possible.

And after a week of investigating her, really looking into her methods and practices to the point that he’d almost begun to feel like a stalker, he knew that this wasn’t her style.

He turned the light out and lay back down, pulling the covers stubbornly up to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut—not out of fear, but something else.

Actually, it was fear—not of whatever was creeping in the dark, refusing to let him sleep, but of what would happen if he opened himself up to possibilities he’d laid to rest long ago. If he let himself entertain the notion, even for a moment, that the thing that kept pulling his covers down wasn’t a thing at all—but a who. A who he so desperately wanted to be real.

Again, the covers were torn out of his grip and yanked down to his feet. Derek lay there, feeling exhausted and defeated. He felt dampness trickle down his temples and pool in his ears, and wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself and let it out slowly.

Then he spoke to the empty room. “Okay.” The bedroom door unlatched and swung open. That was new.

Derek sat up. He stared at the open doorway and the dark hallway beyond it, and swallowed. He waited, and wondered, but not for long. After a moment, loud voices and music blared from the living room. He drew his knees to his chest, covered his ears and shut his eyes, and hoped it would go away.

After a minute or so, he uncovered his ears and recognized the voices of his co-workers. Steeling himself, he got out of bed and padded into the hallway, where the flicker of TV light bounced off of the walls.

He made his way to the living room, where he found the TV turned to the nightly news and the volume cranked up to eleven. He found the remote and shut it off, then stood there a moment in the dim lights of the street lamp that filtered through the curtains, slowing his breath and waiting to see what would happen next.

He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a door click nearby and creak open on rarely-used hinges. It was the door to Jimmy’s room.

Derek sighed. Of course it was.

He tossed the remote on the couch and retraced his steps slowly toward the hallway and the open door. Once there, he flipped on the light and examined the room. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He turned the light off and grabbed the door to close it when Jimmy’s old stereo came on. The Foo Fighters sang about their hero on a CD that had been in that player since before Jimmy had died. Derek stood there a moment, listening to the chorus and thinking that it hit a little too close to home.

At last, he crossed the room and shut it off. He closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and then said in a loud voice that, thanks to years of training and practice, sounded bolder than he felt, “All right. You’ve got my attention.”

Something crashed behind him. He hurried back to the light switch, then spun around to see a stack of games from Jimmy’s bookshelf spilled all over the floor. Monopoly money lay scattered everywhere, mixed with Risk soldiers and Scrabble tiles. Out of reflex more than anything else, Derek knelt to pick up the mess. But as he reached for a handful of the letter tiles, they each started to flip over of their own accord, arranging themselves face up.

Derek sat back on his heels and watched in a dreamlike haze as the tiles gathered themselves into a neat pile on the floor. Then, one by one, they rearranged themselves into a message:

HEY LITTLE BRO

Derek’s throat tightened. He put his hand over his mouth to hold in the tidal wave of mixed emotions that welled up. When he was able to speak again, his voice came out in a shaky whisper. “Jimmy? Is it really you?”

The tiles spelled out, YES. Then, after a moment, added, YOU DOOF.

Derek barked out an involuntary laugh, surprising and startling himself. Something wet dripped on his hand, and he realized tears were streaming down his cheeks. He wiped his face with the tail of his t-shirt, then reached down with shaky hands to dig out the Scrabble board.

“You’re the doof,” he muttered, suddenly feeling thirteen again as he arranged the board and tiles on the bed. By the time he finished and took a seat at the foot of the bed, the sense of calm that came with acceptance settled over him. “Where have you been?”

HERE, said the tiles.

“So, that was you who broke my mug?”

SORRY

Derek cleared the board. “Why haven’t you said anything before? Or done anything?”

DIDNT KNOW HOW

The sense of calm turned into a sick feeling as the implications hit him. “Have you tried before?” Derek held up a hand to signal Jimmy to wait a moment before answering. “A few years after you . . . after you were shot, there was this man. He claimed you were speaking through him, and you had a message for me and Mom.”

BOGUS

Derek blew out a breath. “Yeah, that was proven pretty much beyond a doubt. I just wanted to be sure. So you’ve been stuck here all these years? You’ve been here this whole time?”

YES

His throat clenched again. He swallowed hard to force it open. “Oh, man, Jimmy. I’m so, so sorry. But why now? What changed?”

“RON SHOWED ME HOW

“Ron? Who’s Ron?”

CHRISS SISTER

Staring at her name, Derek realized that he’d forgotten about Chris Wilson for the first time since his crew had ambushed her. Suddenly, he felt like a world class jerk. But how could he have known?

The tiles seconded what his conscience was already telling him. YOU SHOULD APOLOGIZE

“Yeah. I’m way ahead of you.”

The tiles cleared themselves from the board, then spelled out, WE NEED HER

“Why? What for?”

SO I CAN REST

Derek stared at those words. Just Scrabble tiles arranged on the board, and yet he could sense the desperation in them. He nodded. “Okay. I’ll make it up to her.” He didn’t know how, exactly, but he wouldn’t be able to start until morning, which gave him all night to figure it out.

Maybe his big brother would have some advice.

Thanks for reading!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 4

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 25 Feb 2026 15:00:27 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

The driveway was empty. “See?” said Ron. “I told you he wouldn’t be here.”

Chris blew out a sigh—she wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment—and started to pull into the driveway.

“No! What are you doing?”

Chris braked and looked at her sister. “Going to the guy’s house, like you said.”

“You should park down the street.” Ron pointed down the block. “I’ll hang out at the neighborhood entrance while you do your thing. If I see him coming, I can pop back here and warn you.”

Chris stared at her. “Were you this devious when you were alive?”

“I’m a writer,” Ron reminded her. “Sometimes, it helps to think like a criminal.”

“Fine.” Chris backed into the street, then drove down the block a bit. Once she parked, she reminded Ron as she unbuckled her seat belt, “You’ve got to go in and tell Jimmy I’m here. Does he even know how to come outside so I can talk to him?”

“If he doesn’t, he soon will. See you there.” She disappeared.

Chris took a moment to compose herself, then got out of the car. She glanced around to make sure no neighbors were watching before approaching Brandt’s home. It was a nice house, albeit smaller and a bit more Leave it to Beaver than she’d expected for a local celebrity. This was a decidedly middle class neighborhood where the ranch-style house was right at home, with a neatly manicured lawn and a privacy fence encasing the back yard. The flower beds along the front walk looked like it had been a while since they’d gotten any kind of attention other than an occasional watering.

When Chris reached the front patio, she found it occupied by Ron and a young man in a varsity jacket. “Is this her?” he asked.

“Yep,” said Ron. “Jimmy, Chris, and vice versa,” she said by way of introduction.

Chris smiled. “Hey, Jimmy.”

“Hey.” He looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. “This is a little weird for me. I haven’t talked to anyone since before . . . you know. And now, I’m having conversations with two people in one day.”

“That must have been so lonely for you,” said Chris.

Jimmy shrugged. “Gotta say, this doesn’t suck.”

“Well,” said Ron, “I’ll get out of here and let you guys talk.” She disappeared without another word.

Jimmy stared at the empty space where she’d been standing. “It’s so cool how she does stuff like that.”

“It sounds like she’s already taught you a lot,” said Chris.

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. I can actually touch things now, and make stuff move.” He looked around at the front yard, his face filled with wonder. “This is the first time I’ve been outside.” He pointed at the neglected flower beds. “Mom’d really hate the way he let those go.”

“This was your parents’ house?”

Jimmy nodded. “After my dad died . . . he wasn’t here when it happened, so I didn’t get to see him.” A shadow of sadness fell across his features but quickly dissipated. “Anyway, Mom moved away and gave the house to Derek.”

“Do you want to see your dad again?”

He seemed to think about this. Then he said, “Well, yeah. Of course. But Derek needs me.” He shook his head and began to pace the front patio. “You don’t know what it’s like for him. He’s obsessed with finding my killer. Sometimes, he stays up all night, going over his notes and files. He hasn’t even had a real girlfriend in years. He doesn’t let anyone get too close. I know it’s ‘cause he blames himself, but it wasn’t his fault.”

Chris frowned at the amount of sympathy she felt at the picture Jimmy had painted of Derek. She could relate, on more than one level. It was tempting to blame herself for Ron’s death. If she had been there on time, if she’d done a better job of getting through to Ron that it was dangerous to go to the Baird house alone . . . but Ron was Ron, and nothing Chris could’ve said or done would’ve stopped her from doing what she wanted.

Her rational mind knew that. But in that painful, grief-filled stretch of days between discovering Ron’s body and finally making contact with her spirit, there hadn’t been any room for rationality. There had only been wanting her sister back and wondering what she could’ve done differently.

And she didn’t even want to think about her own tendency to avoid romantic entanglements. Instead, she said, “Your brother came to see me this morning.”

Jimmy gave her a guilty look. “Yeah, Ron mentioned that. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare him so badly. Or at all, really. I just wanted to get his attention.”

“It’s okay. It’s just that, somehow, he thinks I’m responsible, and he won’t listen to reason. I gave him your message about not blaming himself. But he didn’t believe me.”

“That doesn’t really surprise me. My kid brother’s grown up to be a pretty cynical guy. But at least you tried. Thanks, anyway.”

Chris couldn’t stand how defeated he looked. As much as she hated to prove Ron right, she couldn’t leave things like this. “We’ll keep trying. We’ll do what it takes to get through to him.”

His face lit up with something like hope. “Really?”

“I don’t know how, but we’ll find a way.” The conviction in her voice surprised her, but she went with it. “We’ll get him what he needs to heal, and you what you need to move on. Derek’s gonna be okay, and you’re gonna get to be with your dad. I promise.” She heard those last words come out of her mouth almost automatically, and it made her cringe inside. Too late to take it back.

Jimmy stared at her, unbelieving. Then a smile slowly spread across his lips. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s not going to be easy. I’ve got my work cut out for me, and so do you. You need to keep working on him. Keep trying to get through. Don’t worry about scaring him. I already told him that it’s you, and on some level, he’s got to believe that.”

Jimmy nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am. And Ron will help you. And then, after he’s had a few days to cool down, maybe I can try—” She was interrupted by the sound of an engine revving in the street. She followed the sound and saw a green Mustang pulling into the driveway from the opposite direction than the one she’d driven. “Oh, no.”

“I thought Ron was supposed to be keeping lookout,” said Jimmy.

“She was.”

“He must’ve come in the back way.”

Chris looked at Jimmy. “A back way would’ve been helpful information to have.”

“Sorry. I kind of just remembered it.”

The car came to a halt in front of the garage door. The driver’s side door opened before the engine shut off, and Derek Brandt got out, his angry gaze boring into Chris. He slammed the car door. “Can I help you?”

Standing up straighter, she shoved her hands in her pockets and pasted on a grin. “Hi. I felt badly about the way w—”

“You felt badly?” he cut her off as he stormed up the front walk. “Well, it’s a relief to know you have a conscience, at least. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away.”

Chris’s smile slumped along with her posture. “I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Not you,” she said, folding her arms. She jerked her head in the direction where Jimmy was standing. “Him.”

Derek looked right at Jimmy, not seeing, then back at Chris as though she’d lost her mind.

“Jimmy’s here,” she told him, and pointed. “He’s right there, and he’s desperate to talk to you. Will you just take five minutes and listen? And then I’ll be gone.”

Derek looked back at the spot, and for a second, Jimmy looked hopeful. But Derek’s face hardened, and he moved past Chris, pulling out a set of keys to unlock the front door. “You’ll be gone in one minute,” he said. “If you’re not, I’m calling the police.” He went inside and slammed the door.

She and Jimmy just stood in silence, staring at the door. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m also a little embarrassed. I don’t know why he’s being such a jerk.”

Chris shrugged as nonchalantly as she could under the circumstances. “We’re threatening his whole worldview and daring him to hope. It’s kind of understandable. Anyway, I should go.”

“Yeah. Thanks for trying,” he said again as she started down the walk.

Chris stopped and looked back at him. “This doesn’t change anything. Keep after him. He’ll have to come around eventually.”

Jimmy nodded, then faded from view, presumably going inside with his brother.

Chris blew out a long sigh and headed down the driveway, then walked up the street to where her car was parked. She didn’t waste any time turning the car around and heading out of the neighborhood. She found Ron at the main entrance, perched on a sign that said Stoneygate Terrace, and stopped the car.

Ron looked surprised as she hopped off the sign and came over. “You guys done already?”

“He came in the back way.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “There’s a back way in?”

“Apparently so. And he threatened to call the police.”

“I’m so sorry, Chris.”

“Yeah, well, at least Jimmy’s got some marching orders. Get in. Let’s go home.”

Ron hesitated. “Actually, I think I should check on Jimmy, see if I can be any help. Will you let Joe know?”

“Sure. Just don’t do anything that’s going to make that guy take out a restraining order against me, okay?”

Ron grinned, and Chris found it less than reassuring. “We’ll do our best.” And then she was gone. Chris blew out a long sigh and dug her sunglasses out of the storage compartment between the seats. The sun had risen high enough that she needed them to see. She sat there a moment longer, letting the car idle and feeling awful about the way things had gone with Derek. Then she remembered the news story he did and felt less awful.

She didn’t want to admit it, but part of her hoped they scared the pants off that guy.

Smiling at the thought in spite of herself, Chris put on her sunglasses, turned on the radio, and then pulled the car into traffic. Today might not turn out to be so terrible after all.

Concealed behind the curtains, Derek watched to make sure that woman actually left, debating whether to make good on his police threat if she didn’t. She started to go, but turned back and started talking to the empty patio. He watched in amazement. Was this all part of the show, or did she actually believe she was talking to his brother’s ghost? Was she a con artist, or was she crazy?

The thing that drove him crazy was that when he talked to her—when he stood near her and looked her in the eye—she didn’t really strike him as either. Not deep down in his gut.

But it wouldn’t be the first time his gut feeling, although usually reliable, had failed him. The last so-called medium who’d tried to relay a message from Jimmy had seemed sincere, too. These people would never get any sane person to believe them if they weren’t such good actors.

It wasn’t just her sincerity that bugged him, though. As they’d talked, he’d once again been struck by that feeling of familiarity. He could almost call it deja vu. He’d felt like they’d had that argument before, or one a lot like it.

Where did he know her from?

Finally, she turned and headed toward the street. Derek waited until she drove away before turning from the window. He stood there a moment, wondering what to do. There was still the mess in the kitchen to deal with, but he didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. He still needed to run, but he felt exhausted. What he wanted most was to go back to bed and declare a do-over on this day.

He felt a cool breeze blow by him, and shivered. He glanced back at the door and window and saw that everything was closed up tight. On a whim, he closed his eyes, slowed his breath, and focused his senses. He listened carefully, trying to detect any sense of another presence in the house. Surely, if Jimmy were truly there, Derek would feel it.

After standing like that for about a minute, the only thing he felt was stupid. It reminded him of the time in college when he’d tagged along with the paranormal club on one of their haunted house investigations. In spite of his previous disastrous encounter with that con artist who claimed to speak for Jimmy, he’d tried to keep an open mind, even hoped deep down to encounter something that might give him hope that there was something out there beyond all of this.

But of course, nothing had happened. Nothing supernatural, anyway. A door that slammed on its own turned out to be hung crookedly. A cold spot was nothing more than a draft from a poorly insulated window. Some of the club members got excited about “orbs” in photos that could’ve easily been dust spots and tried to claim that barely-audible noises on their tape recorder were disembodied voices, but try as he might to make something out, all Derek could hear was static.

Only one member of the team had shown any sense, despite claiming to be extra-sensitive to the presence of spirits. This freshman girl had kept insisting that nothing was there.

Realization hit Derek like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

That freshman girl—suddenly he could see her face like it had been yesterday since he’d seen it last. In fact, it had been less than five minutes ago. And they really had done this dance before.

Derek had tagged along on the paranormal club’s outing as an assignment for the school newspaper. They were getting ready to have a membership drive and he was supposed to do a fluff piece reporting on their activities for prospective new members. Instead, he’d turned in a scathing exposé accusing them of being a waste of school funding. He’d almost gotten them shut down.

He remembered Christine Wilson, all right. He remembered how she’d confronted him outside the newspaper office, furious at what he’d written, demanding that he do a retraction. He remembered that same look of hurt and betrayal. Not all of their investigations amounted to anything, she’d told him. What he’d written wasn’t fair.

He only reported what he saw, he’d told her, and had no intention of retracting anything. She’d stormed off in a huff. A week later, the paper ran a letter she’d written in the Opinion column, denouncing his piece.

So she’d had it in for him for a long time. Apparently, simply writing a letter to the editor was no longer adequate payback. She’d decided to hit him where he was most vulnerable.

“Nice try,” he said aloud, as though she could hear him. “But you didn’t fool me then, and you won’t fool me now.”

Shaking his head at the coincidence, and at her audacity, Derek headed for the kitchen, deciding to clean up the mess after all.

But he found it perfectly clean. No egg-soaked paper towels on the floor, no sign of his broken mug. The broom and dustpan were propped up in one corner, the only evidence that anything was different. That, and the absence of his favorite mug. He checked the garbage can and found the mug’s remains there.

“Unbelievable. She actually broke in.”

He went to the drawer where he kept electronics manuals and take-out menus and rummaged for the instructions for the security alarm. He carried it with him to the panel next to the front door. As he changed the security code, he made a mental note to have his locks changed, and debated whether he should call the police after all. What would he tell them? Hello, I’d like to report a break-in. No, nothing’s missing, Officer. A crazy woman apparently broke in and cleaned my kitchen while I was out having breakfast. That was likely to go over well. He was a crime reporter, for crying out loud. He needed the police to take him seriously, not make fun of him around the water cooler.

He finished changing the code and re-armed the alarm. As it beeped in confirmation, he became aware of a hissing sound coming from somewhere in the house. Tossing the manual on the entry table, he headed down the hall to investigate. He paused at the first door—the door to Jimmy’s old room.

Steeling himself—for what, he couldn’t say—he grabbed the knob and opened it. He relaxed as he found nothing out of the ordinary. The room looked the way Jimmy had left it, albeit a lot dustier. His parents had never had the heart to change it. Since taking ownership of the house, Derek had made plans for converting it to a home gym, or maybe an office, but somehow, he never seemed to get around to actually doing it.

The noise seemed to come from further down the hall. Derek closed the door on the time capsule of a bedroom and moved in that direction. He checked the guest bathroom and the guest room. Nothing. As he continued toward his own bedroom, the sound grew louder.

Once in his room, he recognized the sound and knew where it came from. The door to the master bathroom was shut, though he was sure he’d left it open. The noise came from inside. Derek opened the door, and a burst of steam puffed out.

Inside, he found both the sink and the shower running at full blast. It felt like a sauna as he made his way over to the sink and shut the water off. The mirror over the sink was coated with steam. He went over to the shower and turned that faucet off, too. When he turned back around, his stomach dropped and all the hair rose on the back of his neck.

Words began to appear on the mirror as if written in the steam by an invisible finger:

LISTEN TO HER.

Derek swallowed. He lifted a hand to comb his fingers through his hair and realized he was trembling.

This couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. She was still messing with him. She’d gotten into his head somehow. Was making him see things.

Another word appeared: PLEASE.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath to steady himself. When he opened them, the words were still there, though beginning to distort as beads of condensation trailed down the glass like tears. He grabbed a towel from the bar beside the shower and wiped down the mirror, wiping away the ghostly appeal.

He tossed the towel in the hamper and went to change into his workout clothes, doing his best to pretend that nothing had happened. He sang Aerosmith at the top of his lungs because he just felt like singing. Not because he was frightened. Not because he believed he might not be alone.

He tied his running shoes and headed out of the house, grabbing his keys off the table on the way. A run would clear his head and hopefully, provide him with some perspective.

And then he’d be ready to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

Ron and Jimmy watched him go. “This isn’t working,” said Jimmy.

“Give it time,” Ron told him. “It’ll take a while to sink in.”

“I don’t know. Derek’s pretty stubborn. Always has been.”

“Kid, you don’t know stubborn until you’ve messed with me.” She gave him a smile that she hoped was reassuring. “What we need is a more concrete way for you to communicate with him. Something he won’t be able to ignore. He clearly needs irrefutable evidence. And it can’t look like my sister somehow rigged it. Although how she could’ve possibly rigged any of the stuff we’ve done so far is beyond me.”

“He’s pretty freaked out. I guess he’s grasping at straws.”

“Yeah.” Ron looked around, like their surroundings might give her an idea. “We need a game plan.” She spotted a laptop on the coffee table. “Can you type?”

“No. I was taking a keyboarding class when … anyway, I wasn’t very good at it. But I think I might have a better idea.”

Jimmy had a gleam in his eye that piqued Ron’s curiosity. She felt a smile spread across her lips and hoped it didn’t look as devious as she felt. “Do tell.”

He did. And it was perfect. “But we should probably do a trial run while he’s out,” he said. “Make sure I can actually pull it off.”

“No time like the present. Let’s go.” As she followed Jimmy into his room, she felt a surge of pride at how far the kid had come, and how far he was willing to go.

Thanks for reading!

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 3

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 20:35:53 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

At first, she thought the pounding was in her head. It matched the throbbing rhythm of her headache. Chris groaned and turned over, trying to burrow into the couch cushions and willing it all to stop.

But the pounding only became more insistent, and Chris realized sleepily that it was coming from the front door. She sat up and listened, wondering what on earth those ghosts were up to. She also wondered what she was doing on the living room couch. She only vaguely recalled falling asleep there. Her cat got up from the opposite end and came over to head-butt her chest, letting her know it was breakfast time.

The pounding stopped, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief. Then the doorbell rang. And rang. And rang again. “Who in the . . .” Chris muttered, not having the energy to finish the question. She pushed the cat off her lap and pushed herself off of the couch, then padded barefoot toward the entryway, doing her best to smooth her messy hair and rumpled clothes as she went.

She found Ron and Joe standing at the foot of the stairs, staring anxiously at the door. Buster circled near their feet, barking his little head off. Their expressions as they turned to look at her made her stomach turn over.

“It’s Derek Brandt,” Ron said before she could even ask. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Chris stared at her sister as her words, and their full meaning, slowly penetrated her hangover haze. “Ronnie, tell me you didn’t.”

“I swear, I had no idea he’d do this.”

“I can’t believe you! How could you—” The doorbell rang again, cutting her off. Buster let loose another salvo of barks. “In a minute!” she snapped. Then to Joe, “Can you please hush him up?” Joe grabbed the dog and tried to oblige, but Buster only wriggled and kept barking. Chris sighed. None of this was doing anything to help her headache.

With another glare at Ron, she moved past the ghostly trio and went to answer the door. She peered out the window before opening it. Brandt stood there, rocking on his heels, looking ready to pounce. He also looked scared. What exactly had Ron done to him? She wished she had time to ask.

Glancing down at her wrinkled clothes, she briefly considered checking the hall mirror to see if she had pillow creases on her face, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about it if she did. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and opened the door.

“Mr. Brandt,” she began, but before she could finish, he barged past her into the foyer. “Come on in,” she finished, adding a touch of sarcasm. Buster went berserk. Totally unbeknownst to Brandt, the dog leapt from Joe’s arms and started running circles around him, yapping the entire time.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

She let her confusion surface on her face. It wasn’t hard. She had to strain to hear over the dog. “Do what?”

“You know what. Just tell me how you did it. There weren’t any wires. You couldn’t’ve broken in. Was it hypnotism? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Chris closed the door and rubbed her temples. “Okay, first of all, you’re going to have to back up and tell me what the heck you’re even talking about. And secondly, how do you even know where I live?”

“I’m an investigative reporter and you’re not exactly off the grid. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay, I won’t,” she said, trying to hear herself over Buster’s yapping. “But I‘m telling ya, this is going to be a one-sided conversation unless you start explaining.”

“Why are you shouting?” he asked.

“Why are you shouting?”

“I’m not. Believe me, I want to, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job of keeping my tone civil under the circumstances.”

Chris had to give him that. She looked over at Ron and Joe and jerked her head toward Buster. Joe got the hint and scooped up the dog. “I’ll just take him upstairs,” he said, and the two of them disappeared, leaving Ron behind.

Finally, blessed silence. Chris let out a sigh of relief.

Brandt also sighed, but his came out more as exasperation. He looked really tired as he looked around the foyer. For a hair of a second, Chris almost took pity on him. Until he asked, “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

“Oh, sure. Would you also like me to get you some coffee and cook you breakfast while you grill me?” He just stared blankly, as if he wasn’t sure whether that was a sincere offer. “No!” she clarified. “You humiliated me, and then you woke me up at an ungodly hour and barged into my house to tell me off for I don’t even know what! You don’t get to be comfortable while doing it!”

“You’re yelling again,” he said.

“That’s right! I am! This is my house and I’m very tired and confused and I have a headache and I can yell if I want to!”

It wasn’t her most mature moment, but at least it seemed to knock some of the self-righteousness out of him. He slumped and actually looked a little bit shamefaced. But only a little, and not nearly enough for her liking.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said. “I was just—if you did it, I have to know, and I have to know how.”

“Did what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped and looked embarrassed. Finally, he blew out another sigh, and said, “My coffee mug flew around my kitchen. By itself. And then it smashed on the floor.”

Chris’s eyebrows lifted by a fraction, and she looked past him at Ron, who said, “It wasn’t me!” Chris narrowed her eyes and turned her gaze back on Brandt. “Okay. And you think I’m somehow responsible for this?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She snorted. “Typical.”

Brandt narrowed his eyes and appeared to study her. He shook a finger at her face. “There’s that look again.”

“What look?”

“That look like you know me and we’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Well, duh.” She waited for him to react, to show some recognition, but when all he did was stare blankly at her, she threw up her hands in disbelief. “You actually don’t remember me, do you?”

He looked confused. “Should I?”

“Apparently not.” She tucked her hands under her arms. “So then, let me get this straight. Something you can’t explain happens in your kitchen and you just automatically assume that I’m somehow responsible because, why, exactly?”

“Oh, come on. I do a story exposing a psychic—”

“I’m not a psychic. I’ve never claimed to be.”

“Or whatever you call yourself and then suddenly, I’ve got dancing drinkware in my kitchen. How can that be a coincidence?”

Chris couldn’t argue with that, especially since she knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Again, she cast a glare at Ron, who again said, “It wasn’t me. It was his brother.” She glanced at Brandt, then back at Chris. “The kid’s been stuck there, unable to get through to him for years. You need to tell him.”

Chris felt her eyes widen. Oh sure, let’s tell the angry, unreasonable man that his long-dead brother is responsible for the spooky shenanigans. That’ll go over real well.

She didn’t know whether it was her protracted silence or the look on her face that made Brandt re-think his theory, but suddenly, he shook his head and said, “I don’t know. Maybe it really is a coincidence. Maybe I’m being an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Chris allowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding out a placating hand. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should leave.” He started back toward the door, and Chris stepped out of his way.

“No!” said Ron, rushing to Chris’s side. “I promised Jimmy you’d help. Chris, you have to tell him!”

Chris wanted nothing more than to ignore her sister and let Derek Brandt go home and lick his wounds. Actually, what she wanted more was to unleash all of her wrath on Ron right then and there. But the man deserved to know the truth, and she couldn’t in good conscience let him go without being told. Whether he listened or not was none of her concern.

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, heaved a defeated sigh, then followed him out to the porch. “You’re right,” she said. He stopped on the steps and turned to look up at her. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”

His face drew tight, and he put his hands in his pockets. “So how’d you do it?”

“I didn’t. It was—” She’d started to say it was her sister’s ghost, but she realized at the last minute that that wasn’t likely to go over with him any better than the truth. Might as well be straight. “It was your brother.”

He looked at her like she’d physically slapped him, and she immediately regretted her decision.

“Wow,” he said. “You actually went there.”

Ron appeared next to Chris. “Jimmy’s been with him this whole time. He wants Derek to know what happened wasn’t his fault. That given a choice, Jimmy would do it all over again to protect him.”

Chris repeated Ron’s words. Brandt’s face grew stonier and stonier as she did. When she was done, he pulled his hands out of his pockets and actually slow-clapped.

“Impressive,” he said. “You know it was in all the papers when that happened, right? I mean, of course you do, because that’s how you know about my brother’s murder.” He shook his head in amazement. “I gotta hand it to you, I didn’t think you’d actually stoop so low as to exploit something like that. Thanks, though. I’m gonna sleep a lot better after this.”

He turned to go, but on the bottom step, he turned back and pointed up at Chris. “By the way, stay away from me, and stay away from my house,” he said, then continued down the walk and climbed into a green Mustang parked out front.

Chris hugged herself as she watched him drive away. “At least you told him,” Ron said. Chris gave her a look as stony as the one Brandt had given her, then turned and went inside. Ron followed. “Sis?” she asked, but Chris did her best to tune her out as she made her way to the kitchen. “Chris, talk to me.”

Ignoring her, Chris put on a pot of coffee, then took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it at the kitchen sink. She swallowed two ibuprofen tablets out of the bottle she kept on top of the refrigerator, then grabbed a clean mug out of the dishwasher. She paused on her way to the coffee maker and held the mug out to Ron, finally acknowledging her sister. “Would you like to demonstrate what you did to that man?”

Ron came over to her side of the kitchen. “I told you, it wasn’t me. Jimmy’s the one who put on the display with the mug.”

“Yeah, but who gave him the idea? Or for that matter, the ability? You said he’s been stuck there for years. Did he even know how to make objects move before you showed up?”

“No,” Ron admitted. “But isn’t it a good thing that now he can make his presence known?”

“What, so Derek Brandt can keep thinking I’m somehow behind it? He’s just going to keep accusing me. What if he sues me, Ron?”

“Then sue him back! For slander, or libel, or whatever it is when it happens on TV.”

“I don’t want to sue anybody,” said Chris. “And I don’t want to be sued. I just want to get on with my life. But you’ve made that impossible. Thanks, sis. Thanks a lot. Why couldn’t you just do what I told you?”

Ron’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline. “What you told me? Since when are you the boss of me?”

“I’m the boss of my life, Ronnie! Don’t you get that? It’s my life you messed with. Just because you lost yours doesn’t give you the right to take mine over!”

The look on Ron’s face instantly made Chris regret her words. She’d never looked so hurt—at least, not because of Chris. Still, she was too angry to take them back, even if she could.

Ron folded her arms and stared at a spot on the tile. “Is that really what you think?”

Chris closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I think it’s very early, and I have a headache, and what I need now is coffee and time to figure this out.” When she opened her eyes again, Ron hadn’t moved. Chris sighed. “I know you thought you were standing up for me. But I don’t need you to do that anymore.”

“I know,” she said softly. Then, so softly it was barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?”

Ron slumped and dropped her arms to her sides. “I said I’m sorry. You and Joe both told me not to go, and I was too stubborn to listen. And now, I’ve dragged you into this thing. I know it wasn’t fair, and I am sorry, Chrissy, really.”

Chris nodded. “Thanks,” she said, and poured some coffee. As she sat down with it at the kitchen table, Ron pulled out the chair to her right and sat down.

“But you have to help him.”

“Ron!”

She held up her hands in a gesture that said, “Hear me out.” Chris shook her head and blew on her coffee. Ron forged ahead anyway. “Jimmy’s just a kid, no more than sixteen or seventeen. He died protecting Derek from something—I don’t know what. I didn’t have time to get all the details. All these years, he’s been hanging around, wishing he could tell his brother to stop blaming himself.”

“I already passed on that message,” Chris reminded her. “You were there. You saw how the guy took it.”

“I know,” said Ron, “but you have to get him to listen, Chris.”

She let loose a laugh. “How?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should go over there and you could talk to Jimmy. Maybe he can tell you the whole story and give you some insight that’ll help you get through to Derek.”

“Go over there? Are you insane? Didn’t you hear what he told me?”

“Yeah.” Ron waved a hand like that was a minor inconvenience that she could swat away like a gnat. “But we know he’s not home right now, don’t we? If we go now—”

“Now? You are nuts. How do you know that’s not where he’s headed?”

Ron looked down at her hands. “We scared him pretty badly. I kinda doubt he’s in a hurry to go back there any time soon. Besides,” she said, perking up, “we know what he drives. If we get there and see his car in the driveway, we can just keep on driving and come back home.”

“And what if he comes home while I’m there? What will I tell him as he’s calling the police?”

“I can keep watch while you talk to Jimmy. I’ll warn you in plenty of time to clear out before he gets there.”

Chris propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. “I must be the insane one. Why am I letting you talk me into this?”

“Because you’re a superhero,” she said. “And you’re about the only one people like Jimmy have.”

Chris rolled her eyes at the flattery, then leveled a gaze at Ron. “Why do you care so much about what happens to this kid? You just met him.”

Ron sat back and shrugged, and Chris wasn’t sure whether that shrug said she hadn’t really thought about it, or that it should be obvious. She clarified by saying, “I know what it’s like to be trapped and helpless. I only had to endure it for a matter of days. Imagine spending years like that.” She shook her head. “We can’t let this go on. Not if we can end it for him.”

Chris straightened in her chair and took a big drink of her coffee. She closed her eyes as it warmed her and made her just a tiny fraction more able to deal. “Fine,” she said, opening them to look at Ron. “Let me finish this, then I’ll go get dressed.”

Ron grinned big, but stopped short of squealing. “I’ll go tell Joe,” she said, getting up. Then she stooped and planted a peck on Chris’s cheek. It felt more like someone blew on her there, and it gave her goosebumps. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that. “Thanks, sis,” Ron said, before disappearing from view.

“Sure, no problem.” Chris stared into her coffee and pondered her million reservations. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Derek pulled into the parking lot behind Tally’s Cafe. He spotted the silver Tacoma belonging to his Uncle Jim, and smiled. Predictable, as always. His stomach grumbled as he turned into an empty parking spot. He still hadn’t eaten breakfast and he was starving, but that was only one of the reasons he’d headed to the diner. Still too shaken up to return home, he also wanted some company.

He killed the car’s engine—and the radio along with it—and then sat there a moment, fiddling with the keys. He’d blared the car stereo all the way there from the Wilson woman’s house, trying to drown out his thoughts. Still, he hadn’t been able to silence a tiny voice at the back of his mind that kept asking, What if she’s telling the truth?

Now, in the silence of the parked car, the voice became louder and more insistent. Derek knew the voice—that of a scared thirteen-year-old boy who wanted nothing more than to see his big brother again—and he knew better than to indulge it. He’d made that mistake once, and he wouldn’t get suckered like that again.

Jimmy was gone, dead and buried long ago. He wasn’t sending any messages from beyond the grave. That much had already been proven, and to even allow the possibility was to open a doorway to hope that would only end in disappointment and grief.

And in his twenty-eight years, he’d already had more than his fair share of those things.

Derek got out of the car, pocketed his keys, and made his way down the sidewalk to the diner’s main entrance. The place was a shrine to the 1950s and Route 66, with a black-and-white checkerboard floor and sparkly red vinyl covering all of the stools and booths. Buddy Holly sang about Peggy Sue over the restaurant’s speakers, and photos of Elvis and Marilyn adorned the walls.

Derek spotted Jim at the large, circular counter that took up the middle of the main dining room and seated himself on the stool next to him. Jim was reading a folded up newspaper—the sports section, no doubt—as he absently worked on a plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns, taking no notice of Derek.

“How goes the world of sports?” Derek asked. The older man glanced at him, then let out a chuckle as he laid the paper down.

“Well, look who’s here to have breakfast with his Uncle Jim.” He clapped Derek on the back. “What brings you here, boy?”

“The French toast,” he said, and then repeated it to the waitress who hurried over with a menu. The diner’s nostalgic approach apparently ended at the uniforms, which consisted of jeans and red t-shirts sporting the diner’s logo. “And coffee,” he added. “Oh, and a side of scrambled eggs.”

The waitress nodded as she jotted down his order, then bustled away. She came back with an empty cup and saucer in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other, set the first down and filled it with the second, then she was gone again, a picture of efficiency.

“It’s been a while,” said Jim. “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

“Oh, you know,” Derek said. “Work, mostly.”

Jim nodded. “I saw your segment last night.”

“Yeah.” Derek stared down into his coffee. “That one’s not exactly gonna win any awards for hard-hitting journalism.”

“Maybe not,” Jim conceded, “but at least you did that widow a favor. That psychic was sure a piece of work, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Derek said as her voice rang in his head: I’m not a psychic. I’ve never claimed to be. “You know, she actually had the nerve to tell me she had a message from Jimmy?”

“You’re kidding me! What did the greedy little vulture hope to get out of you with that one?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t know that she’s greedy—it turns out she doesn’t charge for what she does. I don’t know what her angle is. Just trying to get back at me for the story, I guess.”

Jim snorted. “Sounds to me like she had it coming.” He shook his head and scooped a small pile of hash browns into his mouth. Once he finished chewing, he added, “It almost makes me glad your dad’s not still around to see this sort of thing.”

Derek didn’t say anything to that. He couldn’t agree. Selfishly, he’d rather have his dad there, sharing this burden and telling Derek what to do about it, instead of planted in the ground next to Jimmy, dead too young of a heart attack brought on by the grief of losing his oldest son and unhealthy methods of coping with said grief.

Jim wasn’t Derek’s true uncle, but he had loved Derek’s dad like a brother and had been the next best thing to a father to Derek ever since his dad’s passing. “Anyway,” Derek said, “I thought I’d come and load up on some carbs before I go for a run and get it out of my system.” As if on cue, the waitress appeared with a big plate of French toast and eggs. The golden slices of bread were already covered in powdered sugar, but Derek poured an obscene amount of syrup over them and then dug in. At the first bite, he sat back and closed his eyes. Heaven.

After they’d both spent a few minutes attacking their meals, Jim asked, “So, did this psychic say what Jimmy supposedly wanted to tell you?”

Derek washed a bite of eggs down with some coffee and wiped his mouth. “She said he wanted to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, and that he’d do it all over again.”

Jim frowned and stared down at his plate. “Well, that’s true enough, I s’pose. You gotta admit, that sure sounds like your brother.”

“Yeah,” Derek admitted, but shook his head. “That’s what these con artists do, though. They wouldn’t be so successful if they weren’t so good at being believable.”

“Well, either way, what’s done is done,” said Jim. “Can’t go back, can’t live in the past. You’ve got a good thing going, Derek. At your age, you should be focused on your career, not ancient history. That, and maybe finding a nice girl to settle down with.”

“You’re right. About the career part, at any rate.”

“Darn straight, I’m right. I raised an NFL player, didn’t I? You just ask my boy if I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Derek grinned. “How is Steve?”

“Oh, you know. Busy running that company of his. Speaking of someone who needs to find a nice girl to settle down with.” Jim shook his head as he stood up to dig out his wallet. “I’m an old man. When am I gonna get some grandkids to spoil?” He picked up Derek’s ticket and laid it on top of his own, then laid a twenty on top of the stack.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, reaching for his ticket. He got his hand slapped for the trouble.

“Oh no you don’t, Mr. Big Shot Reporter. You let your Uncle Jim buy you breakfast. Makes me feel like I can still be useful.”

“Jim, you’re retired, not an invalid.”

“All the more reason to let me treat you. I’m a retired widower with a rich son and no grandkids to spend my money on.” He shoved his wallet back in his pocket. “Just let me have this, boy.”

Derek found himself grinning. “All right. Just this once.”

Jim nodded and sat back down. “Speaking of your brother, are you still digging into his case?”

Derek’s grin faded abruptly. “What happened to leaving the past in the past?”

“Cut the crap. We both know he’s the reason you got into crime reporting. So, any progress?”

“No more than usual. Just the same old dead ends.”

Jim’s mouth tightened into a grim line, but then he nodded. “Probably just as well.”

“Just as well that Jimmy doesn’t get justice?”

“Just as well that you’re not the one to bring it. You should leave that to the police.”

They paused as the waitress came to collect the check. Jim told her to keep the change but passed on a coffee refill. Derek, feeling every minute of the hours of sleep he’d missed, accepted one gratefully. After she left them alone, he said, “The police quit trying years ago.”

“They didn’t quit. They just haven’t had anything to go on. I’m sure if something new comes up, they’ll chase it down.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, but even to his own ears he didn’t sound convinced. He raised the fresh cup of coffee to his lips and paused. “Too bad Christine Wilson’s not the real deal. If there were such things as psychics, that might actually be helpful.”

“Now don’t you start down that road.”

“I’m kidding.” Mostly.

“Well.” Jim looked at his watch. “I hate to leave on that note, but I’m supposed to meet up with Steve for some golf. I’d best get going. You want to come? Steve’d be glad to have you join us.”

“Thanks, but no. I need to go run off this food, and I need to get to work planning next week’s segment.” And figuring out how Christine Wilson knows me.

“All right, then. I’ll tell him you said hello.” He clapped Derek on the shoulder. “It was good to see you. Come around more often, my boy. We should do this again.”

Derek smiled. “Next time, it’s on me.”

Jim returned his smile and squeezed his shoulder before heading for the exit. Derek watched him go, then turned back to his coffee. He sat there and nursed it for a while, not in a big hurry to go back home. Maybe he should’ve taken Jim up on his invitation. He’d hoped talking to his surrogate uncle would make him feel better about things, but he didn’t.

It always came back to Jimmy.

He wished he could put it all behind him, but he couldn’t. What kind of brother would he be then? What kind of son? Those men who murdered Jimmy—almost murdered Derek himself—hadn’t only taken his brother. They’d torn his family apart. His dad was gone, his mother gone to Florida . . . she had no trouble putting it all behind her. Not that Derek could really blame her for seeking a fresh start. Again, that voice piped up, asking, What if? If Christine were on the level, it could be a big help in tracking down Jimmy’s killers. If there really and truly was a way to talk to Jimmy, it could be just the thing to crack the case and bring the people who’d destroyed his family to justice. Then Derek could finally close this chapter in his life once and for all.

It was too bad none of that was actually possible. No more so than that some ghost or poltergeist— certainly not the ghost of his big brother—had made his coffee mug levitate that morning in his kitchen.

If it’s so impossible, then what are you still doing here?

Feeling resolute, Derek drained his cup, then got up and headed out of the diner, fishing his keys out of his pocket as he went.

Thanks for reading!

3 Years, 5 Acres, and Finally... a Roof

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 19:08:21 GMT

Through a Glass, Darkly is the fiction publication of based speculative fiction author Jean Marie Bauhaus (that’s me!), where I’m publishing my new fiction for you to read free for a limited time before it makes it into book form (paid subscribers can access all the fiction I post here all the time and read at their leisure). If you’re new here, first, HI! Second, check out the About page and the Roadmap to learn more.
This is a post for Missives from a Dark Wood, the personal blog segment of TAGD where I get a little more personal and/or write about things that don’t have a category elsewhere. If it’s not your thing, that’s cool — go here to update your subscription preferences.

We have an RV port!!!

Why is this a big deal? Quick recap for the new folks:

Almost three years ago, faced with the need to find a new home after our landlords decided to sell our rental and unable to find a decent home in our price range, we bought 5 acres of raw, totally wooded land here in the Ozarks with the intention of parking our RV there while we built up a homestead. The family who sold us the land (and who lived on the adjacent property) graciously invited us to park our RV in their yard until we could get a spot cleared for it.

But as we cleared and cleared, we discovered major issues with standing water and poor drainage that made parking our RV there impossible. Getting all of that sorted required a lot of time and a lot of expense. And as we lived in the RV during all this time, we discovered that it’s prone to springing leaks and that if we’re going to be living in it long-term, we need it to be parked under a roof — another big expense that we had to save up for.

We also realized that the port couldn’t be built around the RV. And also that we’re also not going to be able to install a well, and so we’ll have to rely on rain catchment for water, and that we wouldn’t be able to set that up until we had a roof in place to catch water off of.

We were finally in a position to buy the RV port last fall, and we placed our order, which we were told would be fulfilled in about 5 weeks.

It turned out to be more like 3.5 months.

But at long last, on Monday morning, it arrived, in pieces. And by Monday evening, it was fully assembled in all its glory.

The building of this thing was fraught with mishaps. We were told the crew would arrive super early, and so we got up and got ready, only to spend hours twiddling our thumbs until they finally arrived around 10 AM.

And promptly destroyed our driveway and got their truck stuck off the side. Thankfully, our neighbor across the road, who has a giant John Deere tractor, had come over to see what we were up to, and volunteered to come and pull them out when they were ready.

But they left it there for the time being and went to work getting the frame assembled. Then they took a break for lunch, and asked us to call our neighbor for a tow. He was happy to — until somehow the tractor slipped out of park after he got out of it and rammed into the front of their truck!

Husband and I watching this happen

Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be much damage, and he got them pulled out of there — at the expense of the part of our gravel driveway that hadn’t yet been destroyed.

Anyway, they got all their stuff sorted, ate their lunch, and got back to work. And several hours later, we had a finished RV port!

By that point, we were both so tired and so relieved that we decided the driveway would be a tomorrow problem. The next day, we went over there to clean up the site and assess the damage, and to do what we could to smooth things out with gravel rakes. It wasn’t much. It looked like we were going to have to hire a pro to fix it — another big expense.

But then our neighbor rode to the rescue again. Not only does he own a giant tractor, he’s also a building contractor who’s building two houses in the area, at one of which he had one of his guys spreading gravel. So he sent that guy over on his skid steer to repair our driveway at no cost. Thank you, Lord.

All of that is a giant hurdle out of the way of us getting moved onto our own land. There are still a few more things to do, such as building that rain catchment system. And we may still have to spring for another layer of gravel to prevent the driveway from being destroyed again when we do tow the RV over there. Plus there’s the whole packing and actual moving part. And all of that while also trying to build garden beds and start our spring garden.

So I don’t know what the timeline is for us getting relocated, but we’re closer now than we’ve ever been.

What I do know is that it’s go time. I’m trying to get Sleep, Dearie, Sleep into book shape, and then I’ll probably have to put writing and publishing on the back burner until after it’s all done and we’re ensconced on our land. Kindred Spirits will continue to update during that time, but you might not hear much else from me for the next several weeks.

But I’m excited. I’m tired and stressed, too, but mostly excited.

Love and good wishes, y’all.

Tip Jar

Kindred Spirits: Chapter 2

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 15:03:14 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

Derek couldn’t sleep. He’d been doing just fine until about forty-five minutes ago, when he’d woken to what he thought was the sound of voices. Of course, they faded as soon as he was fully conscious, which told him he must’ve been dreaming. Even so, to be on the safe side, he’d gotten up and done a tour of the house, checking that all the doors and windows were locked and the alarm system was still armed. Peeking out through the blinds, he saw no one in his yard, nor in the street out front.

Satisfied, he’d gone back to bed, where he’d lain wide awake for the last half hour. The story his station had aired that night—make that the night before, he amended as he looked over at the clock and noted it was after four the next morning—didn’t sit well with him, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t guilt, that much he knew. He usually slept like a baby after his segments aired, and up until thirty minutes ago, tonight had been no exception. That crackpot scam-artist Wilson woman had gotten what she deserved.

She was what was bugging him, he realized with a jolt. It wasn’t just because she wasn’t what he’d expected. She was attractive, for one thing, and devoid of all the new age mystic, hippy-dippy nonsense he’d come to expect from her type. There was also the fact that his production team hadn’t turned up any evidence that she was actually scamming her customers, at least monetarily. But plenty of that sort weren’t in it for the money. They were attention-hungry emotional vampires who got off on preying on people’s vulnerabilities.

But there was something familiar about the Wilson woman, and it went beyond the fact that he was well acquainted with her type. He felt like he knew her—or should know her—from somewhere, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

It didn’t matter. She still needed to be exposed, and he was glad he’d done it.

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes stubbornly, but sleep still wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her face looking out at him through the van’s passenger window. Her expression had been cold, impatient and irritated and accusing, and startlingly familiar. He couldn’t stop wracking his brain to figure out why.

And there had been something else in her eyes, too. Something he didn’t like to think about, no matter how justified in his actions he knew himself to be. Her eyes had held a look of hurt. Not just hurt, but betrayal, and also a sense that she wasn’t surprised. Like he’d done this to her before, and she was stupid to expect anything different.

She’d looked at him like she knew him. And that this was just par for the course.

Derek muttered a curse as he threw back the covers and swung his feet over the bed. It was approaching five o’clock, and getting back to sleep seemed like an unlikely prospect. At least it was a Saturday—his day off. He decided he’d have coffee and breakfast and then go for a run to clear his head. After that, maybe he’d do a little more digging on Christine Wilson.

In the kitchen, he turned on the automatic coffee maker that he’d filled the night before and then grabbed his favorite mug from the dish drainer next to the sink. He set it next to the coffee maker, then went to the fridge.

As he rummaged for something to whip up a quick breakfast, he heard a sound like something sliding across the counter. Pulling his head out of the fridge, he looked over at where he’d set his mug and frowned. He could’ve sworn he’d set it to the left of the coffee maker, but now, it was on the right.

“You got four hours of sleep,” he muttered to himself. “It’s a wonder you’re not seeing the condiments do the can-can.” He leaned into the fridge to get a carton of eggs, then turned back around and promptly dropped them on the floor at the sight of his mug floating in the air in the middle of his kitchen.

Derek stared, mesmerized, as the mug began to move about as if doing a little dance in the air. Then the cold, sticky-slimy egg guts oozed over his toes, snapping him out of his trance-like state. He swore and jumped back, ignoring the oddly-behaving mug as he ran to grab a wad of paper towels and contain the broken egg mess. Once he was sure the eggs wouldn’t spread any further, he stood up and looked at the mug, which now hung suspended in the air.

He reached out and took hold of it, plucking it out of thin air with no resistance. He stood there a moment, just looking at it in his hand, trying to wrap his mind around what he’d just seen. He couldn’t do it. Finally, he rubbed his face and decided everything would be better once he’d had his coffee.

Almost on autopilot, he went to the coffee maker and started to pour some into the mug, but at the last second, he thought better of it. He set the mug on the breakfast bar, then retrieved another mug from the cupboard and filled it instead. He turned and leaned against the counter, keeping both eyes on the floater as he sipped his breakfast blend.

Several minutes went by in which nothing happened. By the time he finished his first cup, he felt better able to deal with this situation and started going over the possibilities.

He could’ve dreamed it. Maybe he’d dozed off without realizing it. Maybe it was like sleep paralysis, except without the paralysis and just the wild hallucinations.

That didn’t really make him feel better. Besides, unless he was still dreaming, he’d definitely broken the eggs. The evidence still lay soaking in a wad of paper towels on the floor.

A joke, then. Someone, somehow, had gotten in and rigged the mug. But how? Wire and tiny drones?

He scanned the ceiling and didn’t spot any remote-control flying objects. He crossed to the breakfast bar and passed his hand over the mug. No wires. Maybe the drone had been attached to the mug somehow?

Derek picked it up and examined it. It looked normal in every way. The weight felt the same as it had the countless times he’d picked it up. It was a solid, molded piece of ceramic. No moving parts, nowhere to hide a chip or a tiny motor.

Who would do something like that to him, anyway? He couldn’t think of anyone who had a motive, except… of course. Christine Wilson. Except that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Even if she could rig up such a thing, how would she have gotten in? His house was locked up solid. The alarm was still armed.

Derek rubbed his face and went to pour some more coffee. As he took a sip, he was about ready to go back to the waking dream theory and forget he’d seen anything strange when suddenly, the mug shot off the counter. He spat out his coffee as the thing started doing cartwheels in the air. Then, just as suddenly, it dropped with a crash and shattered all over the floor.

Instinctively, he backed all the way up to the edge of the kitchen. With his heart beating like a hammer, he tore his gaze away from the broken shards of his former favorite mug and went to the utility room. He registered on some level that he was in a mild state of shock as he went through the motions of doing something sane in the midst of insanity.

Focusing on the task at hand, he found a discarded pair of flip-flops next to the door leading out to the garage and slipped them on to protect his bare feet. Then he found a broom and dustpan and headed back into the kitchen.

And froze in his tracks.

All of the cabinet doors stood open. “What the—”

Before he could finish, a door slammed. Then another. One by one, each cabinet door slammed shut, moving from the far end of the kitchen toward where he stood.

Derek dropped the broom and dustpan. He was halfway across the house before he heard them clatter on the kitchen floor.

“We scared him,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah!” Ron could barely talk, nearly doubled over with laughter. “Did you see how fast he took off after the cabinet thing?” She held her hand up for a high-five, and it hung there a moment before she registered the look on his face. Feeling sheepish, she lowered it and tucked her hands under her arms.

“I didn’t want to scare him!”

“I really don’t see how that was avoidable,” Ron said. “But look at you! Look how far you’ve come already. You did great! Now he’ll have to start paying attention.”

Jimmy shook his head. “How’s it going to help if he’s too scared to even stick around?”

Ron waved a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine. A guy like that’s not going to let a little thing like inanimate objects becoming animated chase him out of his own home.”

“How do you know? Do you even know my brother?”

“No, but I know his type.” She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He seemed surprised at the touch. “Look, kid, one thing you’ve got to get through your head is that he’s not your little brother anymore. He’s a grown man . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized how familiar those words sounded. Frowning at the thought, she went on. “I know it’s hard. It’s hard to watch them outgrow you. To think they don’t need you anymore.”

Jimmy went to where Derek had set his coffee down and fingered the mug. “Nah, I get it. Derek’s been a man for a long time now. I know he doesn’t need me.”

“But you need him. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be here, right?”

Jimmy shrugged.

“Why are you still here, Jimmy?”

“I don’t know. What else is there?”

“When you died, didn’t you see a light?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you go into it?”

“Because Derek did need me. He was only thirteen when it happened. Just a kid. And he blamed himself. He still does. I just want to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I’m the big brother. It was my job to protect him.”

Ron could relate. All the times she’d gone all mama bear over someone messing with Chris, especially after their mom had died . . . “I get it. But you did protect him, didn’t you? Is that how you died?”

Still staring at the mug, he nodded. “I just need him to know that I’d do it all over again.”

“You want to tell him that?”

He let out a brief, sharp laugh. “How?”

“My sister, the one he was a jerk to? This is what she does. She helps people like you take care of unfinished business so they can move on.”

“Move on to where?”

It was Ron’s turn to shrug. “Whatever’s next.”

“That’s comforting,” he said. “So why are you still here?”

“Long story. But it’s not Chris’s fault.”

“Chris is your sister?” he asked, and she nodded. “How was Derek a jerk to her?”

“He went on the news last night and made her look like a fraud.”

Jimmy winced. “Sorry. Yeah, Derek’s not a big believer in the supernatural.”

“Well,” said Ron, reaching over to pluck the coffee cup off of the counter. “It’s now your job to change that.”

“How?”

Ron tossed the cup to him. He caught it deftly, and stared at it in his hands a moment before setting it back on the counter.

“Keep practicing what I showed you,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Chris, and we’ll come up with a plan.” She glanced at the clock and realized it was already after five-thirty. The house would be waking up soon. “I need to get home.”

“Will you be back?” His voice was eager, and he seemed to realize it. “I mean, it’s just that I haven’t had an actual conversation with someone in . . . I guess since before I died.”

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Until then, just remember what I told you. It’s all about channeling strong emotions.”

He nodded. “It’s hard to stay focused and make things move.”

“I know. It gets easier with practice. So practice. And keep working on getting his attention.”

“I will.”

Ron smiled. “See you later, Jimmy.” With that, she faded out . . .

. . . and materialized in the attic, where Joe sat, wide awake. Waiting for her.

And clearly not happy about it.

“You’re awake!” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.

“You went there, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and it’s a good thing, too. Guess what I found out?”

“I don’t want to know,” he said, getting to his feet. “Not unless it involves the words, ‘I’m sorry, Joe,’ and ‘I shouldn’t’ve snuck out on you.’”

She sighed. “I am sorry, and I shouldn’t have—”

“Then why did you?”

“You were asleep!”

“You could’ve woken me up!”

“Not the way you were sleeping.”

“Then you could’ve waited. Or left a note. Or, here’s an idea: how about respecting your sister’s wishes for once and doing what she asks?”

Ron folded her arms. “Derek Brandt had to be taught a lesson, and you know Chris doesn’t have it in her to do it. You should have seen her, Joe. I found her passed out on the couch next to a half-empty bottle of whiskey.”

“She’s well over drinkin’ age. She ought to be able to have a drink once in a while without you making something of it.”

“Except it clearly wasn’t just ‘a’ drink. I know my sister. Better than you do, thank you very much. And why are you so mad about this?”

“Because you don’t listen! You always think you know what’s best for everyone, and you go off and do it without any thought to those of us left behind in your wake.”

“Whoa.” Ron held up her hands as if to ward him off. “Where is this coming from?”

“From you goin’ off half-cocked on your own. You don’t know how this is gonna come back on your sister. Or on us.”

She dropped her arms in defeat. “All right, I’m sorry. No, actually, I’m not sorry.” She balled her fists and planted them stubbornly on her hips. “Because it’s a good thing I went over there, as I was trying to tell you.”

“And why is that?”

“It turns out that Brandt’s already haunted. By his brother, Jimmy. The kid’s been stuck there for Lord knows how long with no way to make contact. He needs our help.”

“And I suppose you went and promised him that your sister would take care of it.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what she does. I know she’d want to.”

“You do, do you? Did it occur to you that maybe she won’t want to get involved in helping the man who humiliated her on TV?”

“No. Of course she’ll want to help him.” That didn’t come out sounding as sure as she’d meant it to.

“Well, then. I guess we’ll see. You want me to go with you when you tell her what you did?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t want you there to gloat when she gets mad.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And I know she’ll be mad, okay? I know what I did was impulsive, and maybe I should’ve listened to her. I don’t need you to lecture me on that. And since when do I have to report all of my comings and goings to you, anyway?”

Joe sighed. “You don’t. But it’s common courtesy. When I wake up and you’re not here, nowhere in the house, how do I know you haven’t—” He bit off his words and shook his head.

“Haven’t what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I just want you to slow down and think, Veronica. You’re a force of nature. You just plow ahead on the course you think is right, and that’s one of the things I love about you. But sometimes, you’re more destructive than you know.”

Ron stared at him a moment, not knowing what to say. She seized on the only positive thing she could think of. “I helped that kid tonight. I gave him the tools he needs to communicate with his brother, and I gave him hope.”

“I don’t doubt any of that. The question is, did you help Chris?”

Ron looked down at the floor. She hated this. She felt defensive, and angry, and hurt, and helpless to fix it. Maybe she hadn’t done Chris any favors. Her whole motivation for going over there was to vindicate Chris, but did that really undo any of the damage or improve Chris’s life in any way?

Joe was right about one thing: what she’d done would only make Chris’s life more complicated. There was no doubt that Chris would step up and help Jimmy, but was it really fair of Ron to dump that on her?

Not that there was a choice about that. She couldn’t just turn her back on the kid. Chris wouldn’t want her to.

A heavy sigh came from Joe. “Come here,” he said.

“No.” She hated how petulant she sounded, but at the same time, she didn’t care. Instead, Joe came over to her. He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her close. She leaned into him in spite of herself, and as he held her, a little of the hurt faded away.

“I’m sorry I got angry,” he said, nuzzling her hair.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, not specifying what for. Let him read into it what he wanted. She put her head on his chest and closed her eyes. “I hate fighting,” she said. “I just want to go to sleep and forget this happened.”

“Chris’ll be up soon,” he reminded her. “Might as well pay the piper and get it over with.”

“I don’t know. I think there’s an argument to be made for not ruining her morning with it. At least let her have her coffee f—” She was interrupted by a pounding so loud it shook the house. “Is that the front door?”

“Sounds like it. Somehow, I don’t think a good morning is in the cards for any of us.”

Thanks for reading!

Ripples

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Mon, 16 Feb 2026 15:02:46 GMT

This flash fiction—the first bit of original fiction I’ve written this year—owes its existence to , who tagged me in the following prompt:

“When it rains, your main character can look into puddles and see future versions of themselves. Sometimes the future looks magnificent, but other times things are not so rosy.”

I believe this was supposed to be a microfiction that I was supposed to have posted in Notes. I tried to make it a drabble (a story of exactly 100 words), but it wouldn’t be contained.

So I submit it here for your enjoyment. If you DO enjoy it, please let me know with a like, comment, restack or share, which will also give it a boost in the algorithm that will help others find it.

Splish! Splash! He giggles as his tiny boots go splat on the surface of the water, just like Sissy and Mimi showed him. Sissy hops from puddle to puddle, squealing with glee. He stops to watch, blinking rain out of his eyes, his grin not big enough to contain the bubbly, happy feelings in his tummy. He turns his gaze back to the puddle. Stops and stares, mesmerized, not understanding what he sees. Sissy hops into his puddle. The image of a bigger boy who looks like him, staring back at him from a swing, dissolves into ripples.

***

He’s a Big Boy now. On his very first day of pre-school, he won a ribbon for counting all the way to twenty. It’s pinned to his shirt, flapping in the breeze as he swings on the playground, higher and higher. Rain before recess left a puddle under the swing. He holds his feet up so they don’t get wet. But he wants to see how his ribbon looks, so he drags them beside the puddle, slowing until he can lean over and look.

He sees no ribbon. He sees an older boy, blinking through tears as he throws bits of paper into the puddle. He glances around at the other kids, all busy with their own play, not seeing what he sees. He doesn’t feel like swinging anymore. He wants to go home.

***

She didn’t have to be mean about it.

He’d never felt this way about anyone before, especially not a girl. He’d never seen anyone so pretty, and after weeks of pretending otherwise, he had to tell her. It was a simple note: “You’re very pretty. I like you. Do you like me?” He’d made it easy for her to answer, just a simple choice. Yes or no. He even drew check boxes.

His heart fluttered up into his throat when she returned the note. He opened it with shaky fingers. Stared at it, his heart sinking, breaking in a way it had never broken before. A big X had been drawn next to the No. Not only that, the Yes was scratched out, the No was circled, and “EWWW GROSS!” was written across the bottom in large letters.

He felt sick all afternoon. When the final bell rang, he ran outside. Went behind the school building, where nobody could see him cry. A drainage ditch ran behind the building, full of standing water. Angrily, he tore the note to bits and pieces and threw them into the water.

Beneath the bits of paper, as he watched them float away, he saw something else. An older guy. A teenager. It looked like him, and he was holding hands with an older girl who was much prettier than Ashleigh.

A memory floated up, a sense of deja vu. Sitting on a swing, staring at a puddle, seeing an older boy like him throwing paper into the water. He shivered, but then a sense of peace settled over him. He didn’t want such a mean girl, anyway. Better things awaited him.

***

Her kisses tasted like cherry Chapstick and Juicy Fruit gum. She had pulled him under the bleachers, out of the rain and the glare of the football lights. They only had a minute before she had to get back to the cheer line and he had to rejoin the band. He couldn’t believe a cheerleader was into a band nerd like him when she could’ve had her pick of the jocks, but the moment he first saw her, he’d known she was meant for him. Meant for this moment.

They left their hiding place hand in hand, laughing together as the rain drizzled down on them, no deterrent to Friday Night Football. Hands still linked, they moved apart to avoid a puddle. He glanced down and his smile faltered as the shallow pool turned blood red. It was all he could see.

Her hand slipped from his. “Gotta run!” she shouted back, taking off as the cheers of her squad could be heard in the distance. He watched her go, then looked back at the puddle, seeing only the lights reflected on the ripples made by the raindrops.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Forget it,” he told himself, buttoning up his uniform. “You didn’t see anything. It was a trick of the light.” He made his way back to the bleachers, thinking about cherry Chapstick as he went.

***

He hauled the heavy garbage bags out into the alley and set them down as he stood in the doorway, scanning for the dumpster somewhere in the shadows beyond the light above the door. He considered that he could just leave them there and keep walking and never look back. This job sucked. The lead server was supposed to be training him, showing him the ropes. But the dude kept giving him grunt work, treating him like a bus boy. Probably stealing his share of the tips, too.

But it was only his first night. He had to expect some hazing. And he needed this job. His degree was getting him nowhere but the student loans still had to be paid. And the rent. And the bills. And the internet that would let him keep sending out resumes in the hopes of getting the kind of job he’d supposedly spent the last four years getting qualified to do.

And then there was Steph. He couldn’t propose without a ring.

With a grunt, he picked up the bags and went to find the bin. The alley only had one street light, far down at the opening, but he saw a bin-shaped shadow and headed for it. His eyes adjusted as he drew closer and by the time he reached it he could see just fine to heave each bag up and over the rim.

He started to turn back, but movement in the corner of his eye drew his gaze toward the front of the alley. A figure shuffled toward him, shrouded in a dark hoodie. Backlit by the lone street light, shadow obscured his features.

A frisson of fear ran icy fingers up and down his spine, but he squared his shoulders and turned back toward the restaurant. Probably just a homeless dude wanting to dumpster dive. He should get out of the way and leave him to it.

“Hey, man,” the figure called. “Where you goin’?”

Spoken with a challenge that made him stop and turn despite his better judgement. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, man. Got any change?”

He held up empty hands. “I’m on duty. I just brought the trash out. I don’t have anything on me.”

“You sure about that?”

The figure kept coming. He backed away, moving toward the pool of light around the restaurant door. The dude in the hoodie moved faster. A motion of his hand, a glint of light on metal.

He turned to run. Not fast enough. Something slammed into him from behind, tore into his shoulder, bit deep. He stumbled, lightheaded, lost his balance and fell, forehead bouncing off the pavement. He lay half in and half out of the pool of light. The door stood ajar just inches away. He heard pounding footsteps receding back down the alley, toward the street.

He struggled to get up, but couldn’t move. In the light, he could see liquid pooling around him. Dark and red.

Flashback to cherry Chapstick and a puddle of blood appearing in the rain. Steph laughing as she ran off to join the cheer line. He pictured her crying when they told her the news. He didn’t want to make her cry. Not like this. With a ring, yes. But with his untimely death?

He’d know this was coming for him, just not when or how. Stupid gift if it couldn’t show him enough to save himself.

He heard shouting from inside the restaurant. His name. What the hell was the hold up? A scream. A swear. A call for 911 as the door scraped open.

He tried to lift his head, just to show them he was alive, but it felt so heavy. His gaze went to the puddle of blood that spread beneath him. So much of it. He wondered if it would be the last thing he saw.

But as he pondered it, images formed. Steph in a wheelchair, holding a bundle in her arms as he pushed her from behind, balancing an umbrella over her head.

He closed his eyes and rested his head, tasting blood and the faintest trace of cherry Chapstick as sirens sounded in the distance.

***

He stopped looking in puddles after that night. Decided it was better to be surprised by life, even when it blindsided him. He stayed inside if it rained when he could, and averted his gaze when he couldn’t. And if he did get an accidental glimpse of something, he put it out of his mind.

Life was good. Why invite trouble from the future? Didn’t Jesus say something like that once?

It had rained all that morning, and then Steph took the kids outside to see a rainbow over the neighborhood. She’d wanted him to come, but he declined. Instead, he watched from the safety of the window as they pointed and oohed and ahhed.

But not his littlest. Something else drew her attention. Her gaze was fixed on the rain-slicked street, at a puddle in front of her feet. His chest tightened as he watched her stare, transfixed.

Setting his mug down, he went to go join her. Whatever she saw, she wouldn’t face it alone.

Thanks for reading!

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Quick Update: The Based Book Sale is Back!

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Fri, 13 Feb 2026 21:29:25 GMT

Welcome to Through a Glass, Darkly’s regular update!

Through a Glass, Darkly is the fiction publication of horror and supernatural thriller author Jean Marie Bauhaus (that’s me!), where I’m publishing my new fiction for you to read free for a limited time before it makes it into book form (paid subscribers can access all the fiction I post here all the time and read at their leisure). If you’re new here, first, HI! Second, check out the About page and the Roadmap to learn more, and go here to update your subscription preferences.
What you’re reading now is my semi-regular newsletter.

Hello hello!

I just wanted to send you guys a quick update to let you know that the annual Spring Based Book Sale is currently in progress! All books in the sale are either free or 99 cents through next Tuesday — including my Sons of God novella, Flesh & Blood.

See all the books on sale here:

Also, ICYMI, the Substack serialization of my novel Kindred Spirits kicked off this week. Read Chapter 1 here:

I’ll be back in your inbox on Monday with my first bit of brand new fiction for this year, although you may get a sweet Valentine’s surprise tomorrow.

See you then!

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Kindred Spirits: Chapter 1

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Wed, 11 Feb 2026 16:01:05 GMT

Click here to buy the book, and click here for the About and Navigation page.

“I hate this guy,” Veronica Wilson announced as she stared at the television in disbelief. “I think I’ll go haunt him.”

Christine Wilson punched the “off” button on the TV remote and tossed it on the sofa with a disgusted sigh. A queasy feeling started to come over her, but she tried to hide her discomfort from her sister. “What would that accomplish?”

“It’ll scare the smug skepticism right out of the jerk, that’s what.”

“I’m not sure how that would help.”

“How wouldn’t it? The guy just pantsed you on live TV!” Ron moved to stand in front of Chris, doing a better job than her younger sister of not noticing that she hovered in the middle of the coffee table. “Nobody does that to my little sister. Besides, once I get through with him, there’s no way he’ll be able to deny the existence of ghosts. He’ll have to recant.” She looked over at her partner, who sat on the other end of the sofa, pointedly focusing all his attention on the semi-transparent Jack Russell Terrier curled up in his lap. “Joe, tell her I’m right.”

Joe looked for a second like he’d been caught in a trap before smoothing his face into the picture of diplomacy. “The man does seem like he could use a comeuppance,” he said to Chris before turning his attention to Ron. “But your sister can fight her own battles.”

“That’s right. I can.” Chris folded her arms to underscore her statement. As much as part of her loved the idea of Ronnie going over there and putting the fear of all things paranormal into Derek Brandt, she had a feeling that would only make things worse. “No haunting.”

“Oh, come on!” Ron flung her hands up in frustration. “This guy just shredded your reputation. You can’t do nothing.”

“I didn’t say I’d do nothing. I said I don’t want you to do anything. See the difference? Besides, it’s not like this is the first go-round I’ve had with him.”

“No, but it’s one thing for him to pick on your paranormal club in the college paper. But you’re both professionals now, and you’ve got a lot more to lose. And he called you a fraud on live television. He can’t get away with this.”

“He didn’t actually call me a fraud.” Chris knew she sounded pathetic even as she spoke.

To her credit, Ron didn’t roll her eyes. “No, but he implied it.”

“He did at that,” Joe agreed.

“So if I just find out where he lives, I can personally show him just how wrong he is.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Ronnie, I said no!”

“Fine.” Ron plopped down in the middle of the couch, right on top of the remote. Chris still wasn’t sure how she did that without going right through the cushions. “So what are you going to do?”

Good question. Chris wasn’t sure what she could do. Ron was right about one thing. Derek Brandt was a respected local crime reporter now, not some journalism student writing filler for a little college paper hardly anyone actually read. He’d won awards for consumer advocacy. Her Aunt Judy had e-mailed her dozens of clips from the Channel 24 website citing Brandt’s warnings about products to avoid and mechanics who would rip you off and how to keep from getting mugged in the parking lot. People took him seriously.

She, on the other hand, was someone who talked to dead people and investigated haunted houses for a living. Her most recent claim to fame was her role in exorcising the city’s most haunted house—a house she now called home. That, and publishing a novel that was ghost-written—literally—by her dead sister. The pool of people who took her seriously was already pretty shallow. This would likely shrink it down to the size of an inflatable kiddie pool.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think I should sleep on it.” If I can sleep after all this. “Look, guys, I need to think. Would you mind giving me some space?”

Ron opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Joe spoke up before she could get started again. “Not at all.” He got up and tucked the dog under his arm. “I’m beat, anyway. Ron, how ‘bout we turn in?”

Ron glared at him a moment but then softened as she imitated someone who could sigh heavily. “Fine,” she said, getting to her feet. “But my offer’s still on the table. Just say the word.”

Chris couldn’t help smiling as she shook her head. “You don’t even know where he lives.”

She shrugged. “I have my ways,” she said before fading out of sight along with Joe and Buster.

Chris stared at the spot where they’d all been standing, taking a moment to relish the silence. She didn’t get a lot of it since moving into the house her sister haunted. As much as she loved still having Ronnie around, she sometimes regretted giving up her own apartment. But although the selling price of the—formerly—most haunted house in town had been a steal, the renovations had been another story.

Keeping an apartment when she owned a perfectly good house with so many vacant bedrooms had seemed like an extravagance she couldn’t justify, even with the book royalties Ron had bequeathed to her.

She imagined that Ron was up in the attic, giving Joe an earful. She felt slightly sorry for him but also grateful. She wanted to watch the news report again without her sister’s running commentary and angry outbursts. With another sigh, she picked up the remote and rewound the DVR.

Derek Brandt was handsome, that much was undeniable. As she’d seen for herself that morning, he was even better looking than she remembered from their college days. He was even cockier than she remembered, too. As irritated as she’d been when he’d interrupted her investigation, what made it even worse was that he’d shown no sign of remembering her.

More irritating still was how he’d handled himself. His manner had been polite, even charming. His questions, on the other hand, were smug and condescending when they weren’t downright hostile.

So it wasn’t as if she’d expected to come out smelling like a rose.

Chris took a deep breath, then pressed Play. “Tonight, we look at Christine Wilson,” Brandt’s voice said over a shot of Christine trying to duck the camera, “self-described paranormal investigator and founder of W.I.G.G.I.N.S.”—he pronounced each letter rather than just saying the acronym, and Chris couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him trying to say it with a straight face—”which stands for Wilson Investigations: Ghosts, Goblins, Imps and Nasty Spirits.”

The name had been her sister’s contribution to the agency, and even now, it made Chris giggle. She had actually shortened it since Ron’s passing, dropping everything after the colon. It figured Brandt had dug up and used the longer and less professional-sounding version—it tied better into the narrative that she was a ridiculous, attention-seeking crazy lady. “Some would call her a psychic medium, as she claims to be able to communicate with the spirits of those no longer living.”

Chris sighed and paused the DVR, then got up and went to the kitchen. She took a bottle of wine down from the cupboard and stared at it a moment. Then she put it back and rummaged through the cabinet until she found what she really wanted: a bottle of Jameson’s left over from Ron’s wake. She poured two fingers into a jelly glass, added a splash of tap water from the kitchen faucet, then took it back into the living room.

Seated again, she took a sip and managed to suppress the urge to cough as fire ran down her throat and spread through her chest. Feeling sufficiently fortified, she grabbed the remote and resumed the story.

The camera focused on Mrs. Wood standing in her garage next to her late husband’s classic MG convertible. Mr. Wood had restored that car himself, pouring most of his free time for the past fifteen years into restoring it and keeping it in cherry condition. He’d apparently spent more time in the latter years of their marriage working on that car than he’d spent with his wife.

Mrs. Wood had called Chris earlier that week, claiming that she was sure her husband was haunting the car, and Chris had gone out there this morning to check it out, along with her equipment guy, Gus.

Chris had known right away that the car wasn’t haunted. Though it was possible that the ghost had simply been dormant while she was there, she could usually at least sense a presence. More often than not, they came right out and introduced themselves once they realized she could see them. She had gotten no sense of anything inhabiting that car and had been in the middle of explaining that to Mrs. Wood when Derek Brandt’s news crew crashed their little party.

“Evelyn Wood called the Channel 24 consumer hotline about her various attempts to find the cause behind several electrical malfunctions on her late husband’s convertible,” said Derek Brandt’s voice- over. “Mechanics from four different garages have been unable to identify what is causing the headlights to blink on and off, the horn to blare at random intervals, and the radio to unexpectedly turn itself on and cycle through stations. Fed up and desperate for answers, Mrs. Wood turned to Christine Wilson for an alternative explanation.”

“Well, I thought it had to be my husband,” Mrs. Wood said to someone, presumably Brandt, standing just off camera. “Vic poured his heart and soul into that car when he was alive. It made sense to me that he stayed there after he passed away.”

A jump cut focused on Gus, in the middle of a standard EVP session. Sitting in the driver’s seat with a high-powered microphone and digital recording equipment, he called out a series of questions. In a real haunting, the recorder would usually pick up answers, or at least a word or two of a message the spirit wanted to convey. Chris didn’t need it done for her own benefit, but she found that things usually went more smoothly if she could provide her clients with physical evidence instead of simply taking her at her word.

Of course, this time, the recorder didn’t pick up anything, as she’d known it wouldn’t. But that part didn’t make it into the story.

“As you can see, Ms. Wilson and her team”— “Team?!” Ron had snorted at this point. “Can’t he see it’s just Gus?” In the here and now, Chris quietly sipped her whiskey—“investigated the car for signs that would support Mrs. Wood’s suspicions. We asked if we could review the evidence from the investigation, but Ms. Wilson declined. She also declined to be interviewed for this story.” This last part was spoken over a shot of Chris’s back as she helped Gus lug his equipment back to his van.

Maybe it had been a mistake not to speak on the record. Chris could tell from Brandt’s attitude that he had no intention of painting her in a positive light, so she’d though it prudent not to play along. She had simply done her job and told Mrs. Wood that she thought the car’s behavior probably had more to do with wiring than anything paranormal, and then she and Gus had called it a day and tried to get out of everyone’s way.

It didn’t occur to her that their leaving would be painted as running away because they had something to hide.

And, of course, Brandt left out the part about Chris suggesting a non-supernatural cause. Instead, this happened: “To satisfy my own curiosity—and to get to the bottom of this car’s strange behavior once and for all—we brought along Mike Henson, whom regular Channel 24 viewers will recognize as The Honest Mechanic, to check out the car.”

The camera cut to a muscular man with a shaved head. He wore blue coveralls with the name “Mike” embroidered over his left breast. “A lot of today’s mechanics aren’t really trained to deal with these classic cars. If there’s not a computer system that can be hooked up to a diagnostic machine, they don’t know how to diagnose something like this, so it’s not really surprising none of them could provide an answer.”

It cut to a shot of him bent under the hood, which revealed a logo on the back of his coveralls that said “The Honest Mechanic” in bright yellow. A halo sat at a jaunty angle over the H, and angel wings protruded from either side.

“Mike, on the other hand, has an extensive background in classic car repair,” said the voice-over. “And his findings?”

Back to a shot of Mike speaking to the off-camera reporter: “I found some crossed wires and a loose spark plug that would be the most likely explanation. I tightened the plug and fixed the wiring and now, the car’s electrical appliances should stop going off like they had been.”

“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Wood said after she received the mechanic’s verdict. “I’d hate to think my Vic had to spend his afterlife with that car, although it would’ve been nice to speak to him again. But I’m glad to know he’s at rest. And I’m glad that now, I’ll finally be able to get some rest without that car blaring its horn at two in the morning!”

A shot of Brandt, with his jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up, looking like Joe Everyman Hero as he walked up the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Wood’s house. “So there you have it. The Mystery of the Crying Car turned out to be nothing more than a loose spark plug. When asked what psychic Christine Wilson had to say to that, she unfortunately declined to comment.”

Actually, she had commented. When Brandt had chased her down at the van to tell her what the mechanic had found, she’d shrugged and said, “Great. Mystery solved,” before shutting herself inside. Guess that wasn’t quite the sound byte he’d been looking for.

“The moral of this story?” Brandt smugged at the camera. “The next time you run into unexplained phenomena, don’t be taken in by so-called psychics pushing their paranormal agenda. It’s likely that the truth is a little more down to earth.”

Chris turned off the TV aggressively and downed the rest of her drink. This time, she did cough, and leaned forward to set the glass on the coffee table and breathe. She was slightly grateful to the whiskey for choking off all of the names flitting through her head that she wanted to call Brandt out loud.

By the time she composed herself, she was no less certain of what to do than she’d been before, but at least she had a pleasant buzz that made her care a little less.

How much damage could his story really do, anyway? His was only one of four local news channels in this city—how big could his viewership be? Besides, most of the people who called her for help were already inclined to believe in the paranormal. It’s not like one snide commentary on the subject would change their minds.

It was her other clientele that she worried about—the dead who often counted on her to deliver messages to loved ones or fulfill unfinished business so they could find peace. How likely would a skeptical loved one be to listen to her after this?

She hoped she was overestimating the story’s impact, or at least Derek Brandt’s reach. Although, in the back of her mind, she had a feeling he’d done more damage than either of them could possibly know.

Chris re-started the story from the beginning. She got about as far as she’d gotten the last time before pausing it and taking her glass to the kitchen. She found the whiskey on the counter where she’d left it and poured herself another shot, not bothering with water this time. She turned to go, but after a moment’s hesitation, grabbed the bottle and took it with her. Once she was settled back on the couch, she backed up to the beginning and played it again.

“I still say I should haunt him.”

Up in the attic, Joe sat on the antique couch and watched Ron pace back and forth. “Your sister asked you not to.”

Ron scoffed. “That’s because she’s the good sister. She has to tell me not to. It gives her plausible deniability.”

“She’s also the one who has to live with any consequences your little haunting adventure stirs up,” he pointed out. “Christine’s a big girl. She has been for a while. You gotta let her fight her own battles.”

Ron frowned down at him, her bottom lip protruding ever so slightly in the tiniest of pouts. “I hate it when you’re all reasonable.”

“You hate it when I’m right.”

“I didn’t say you were right.”

“No, but you wouldn’t be so irritated if I wasn’t.” He got up from the couch and went over to her, taking her hands in his. “Somehow, I also don’t think you’d still be here.”

Her pout grew more pronounced, inviting him to nibble on that lip. He took her up on the invitation, and her lips parted in welcome. He could never get enough of the way touching her made him feel—the way every tiny molecule of whatever it was his spirit was made of seemed to dance for joy throughout his whole being. It had been more than a century since he’d been alive, and longer still since he’d kissed a living woman, so it was hard to remember exactly how that had felt. But he doubted it had been better than this.

“Now you’re just trying to distract me,” Ron mumbled against his mouth.

“Oh, believe me, you’re the one that’s doin’ the distractin’ here.” He pulled her into his arms. She came along willingly, sliding her own arms up to wrap around his neck and sighing against his mouth. They stayed like that for a while, just holding and kissing each other, and gratitude welled up in Joe, powering his kisses and driving his caresses. He still couldn’t believe she’d chosen to stay with him, and he felt like the luckiest man ever to haunt this limbo between life and death.

And also the least deserving.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak these things aloud. Instead, he tried to show her with every touch, with the way he gazed into her eyes between kisses.

He didn’t have a heartbeat to show her how much it excited him just to be with her. He didn’t have the normal function of a living man. Their lovemaking was literally a spiritual act, a joining of their essences that was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever known.

Later, lying together on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, they barely had enough energy left to enjoy the afterglow. It became harder to think, but even so, as oblivion overtook them, Joe knew how selfish of him it was to let her stay here with him instead of sending her into the light.

And as his being continued to vibrate from her nearness, he also knew he didn’t care.

She awoke sooner than she’d expected. After the way she and Joe had ended their evening, she’d expected to sleep like . . . well, like exactly what she was. Joe certainly seemed to be. Ron lay still for a few minutes, just watching him in his repose. Her heart— or whatever stood in for it these days—swelled with joy, and she once again marveled at the fact that she’d had to die to find the kind of love she’d previously only written about.

When she couldn’t take it anymore, she carefully extracted herself from the couch, managing not to disturb either Joe or Buster, who had apparently snuggled up with them at some point. With no more than a thought, she was standing in her sister’s room. The bed was empty. Ron glanced at the clock on Chris’s nightstand. It was a few minutes past three. Where was she?

Ron popped downstairs to the living room, the last place she’d seen her sister. There she was, sacked out on the couch, with her big gray tabby curled up next to her head. Ron couldn’t understand how she could sleep so peacefully after what had happened, but then she saw the bottle on the coffee table, next to the empty jelly glass.

“Oh, sweetie,” she whispered. Poor kid. Things had been going so well for her, and for the business. Ron wasn’t about to let a tool like Derek Brandt undo that and get away with it. “That does it,” she muttered, more to herself than to her sleeping sister. With a glance at Chris she added, “Sorry, but sometimes, big sis knows best.”

She stole into the office, where Chris kept a laptop booted up at all times for Ron’s late night writing sessions. Ron lowered herself into the chair behind the antique oaken desk. Instead of pulling up her work in progress, she opened a web browser and practiced a little Google-fu. She couldn’t track down Brandt’s home address, but she did find directions to the TV station where he worked.

Thankfully, she could take a much shorter route than the one suggested by Google Maps. Looking at the building on Street View, she simply closed her eyes and formed a picture of it in her mind. When she opened them again, she stood in the parking lot.

Ron grinned, a little amazed with herself. “That never gets old.”

Inside the building, she found a directory. She didn’t find a listing for his office, so she took a chance and went to the news room. About twenty desks filled the large room, surrounded by low cubicle walls. Ron floated up and down the aisles between them until she found one with Derek’s nameplate.

Her sense of accomplishment quickly faded once she discovered his desk was locked up tight. Locks weren’t generally a problem for her these days, but if he had an address book in there, she’d need to take it out to read it. She could easily reach in and feel around, but pulling out a solid object was another matter.

“He probably keeps all that stuff in Outlook, anyway,” she muttered. She looked at the monitor on his desk. It was attached to a docking station rather than a desktop unit, and the laptop was gone. Not that she’d had much hope of cracking his password if it had been there.

Undaunted, she scanned the objects on his desk. Her gaze landed on a framed photo of two teenage boys standing at the end of a driveway in front of a brick, ranch-style house. Both boys bore a resemblance to Brandt, especially the younger one. At first, Ron thought they must be his younger brothers, but upon closer inspection, she realized the clothing and hairstyles were way too late ‘Nineties for the picture to be current. The younger kid must be Brandt himself.

Another framed photo showed the adult version next to a much older man—his dad, most likely—in front of the same house. So it was likely that his parents still lived there. It wasn’t quite what she’d hoped to find, but at least it was a lead. She’d probably have better luck tracking down his address there.

Ron focused on the house in the photo until it materialized before her—or, rather, she before it. She was surprised to see a classic dark green Mustang sitting in the driveway in place of the type of sedan typically driven by retirees. It was probably maintained by “The Honest Mechanic.” Ron rolled her eyes as she remembered the big show that was made of that guy inspecting Chris’s client’s car. One thing she’d noticed in her short life was that if someone went around advertising how honest they were, they were usually pretty shady.

She moved up the front walk and passed through the front door. Inside, she found another surprise: the decor was all leather, glass and chrome, very masculine. It was tastefully done—Ron especially appreciated the vintage Eames chair set off to the side of the burgundy leather sofa. She could tell it was the real deal and not a knock-off, but it screamed “young single guy” and not “retired parents.” Could she actually be so lucky?

An entry table sat beside the front door, on top of which sat a black lacquer tray that held keys and a wallet. Ron flipped open the wallet and revealed Derek Brandt’s driver’s license inside. “Jackpot!” A giddy giggle bubbled up out of her.

And morphed into a scream when a voice behind her said, “Who are you?”

Ron spun around. A teenage boy stood in the living room, staring right at her and looking somehow familiar. Ron glanced around to make sure there was nobody else in the room with them, then pointed at herself. “Me?”

“I saw you come in through the door,” he said. “You’re like me, aren’t you?”

Confused and taken off guard, Ron squinted at the kid, trying to remember where she knew him from. He stared at her earnestly, waiting for an answer, and it dawned on her: she’d seen him in the picture that stood on Derek’s desk. He looked the same. The shirt was different, but he hadn’t aged a day. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“I asked you first. What are you doing in my house?”

“Your . . . you mean Derek Brandt’s house, right?”

The kid blew out a sigh of frustration and flicked his eyes toward the ceiling. “Derek’s my kid brother. Although I guess he’s not exactly a kid anymore, and yeah, I guess technically, he owns this house now.”

“Wait a minute. You . . . haunt this place?”

He gave her a petulant shrug. “I guess you could call it that. But shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions here, lady? Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Ron folded her arms across her stomach and lifted her chin. “I’m a ghost, like you. I came to haunt your brother.”

The kid screwed up his brow. “Why?”

“Because he was a jerk to my sister and now he must pay. Sorry. I have to ask, though, why does he act like people who believe in the paranormal are either idiotic or insane when he’s got a ghost living right here in his own home?”

The expression on the kid’s face became crestfallen. “Because he has no idea I’m here. I don’t know how to get his attention.” He came over to Ron and looked past her at the entry table. “You did that?” he asked, pointing at the wallet.

“I did what?”

“You opened his wallet. How’d you do that?”

“It . . . um, well, I just—”

“Can you teach me?”

Ron pressed her lips shut and eyed the kid. “What’s your name?”

“Jimmy.”

Ron smiled and held out her hand. “Hi, Jimmy. I’m Ron, and I think I’m your new fairy godmother.”

Thanks for reading!

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Kindred Spirits: Start here

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Mon, 09 Feb 2026 21:29:52 GMT

Ghosts don’t scare Chris Wilson. Murderers do.

When a haunting investigation turns into a cold-case revival, Chris is thrust into the most dangerous work of her career. Jimmy Brandt, a teenage ghost trapped in his brother’s house, wants one thing: the truth. He was killed, and his murderer walked away clean.

Chris and her ghost sister, Ron, agree to help him—whether Jimmy’s brother is ready or not.

Derek Brandt built a career tearing apart the paranormal, not partnering with it. But when objects fly through his kitchen and his dead brother starts communicating through a medium he once publicly mocked, Derek has no choice but to face the impossible…and confront a past he’s tried for years to bury.

As Chris and Derek reluctantly join forces, their investigation uncovers buried evidence, dangerous leads, and a connection between them neither expected. Their uneasy alliance sparks into something more—but the deeper they dig, the closer they get to a truth someone is desperate to keep hidden.

Because their search doesn’t just stir up memories. It wakes a predator.

Kindred Spirits is a paranormal mystery thriller about unfinished business, fragile trust, and the danger of bringing the dead’s secrets into the light. A medium, her ghost sister, and a hardened skeptic must solve a murder with a killer who’s still at large—and watching their every move.

Some hauntings start with unfinished business. This one ends with a fight for the living.

Praise for Kindred Spirits:

“The Restless Spirits series keeps getting better. The mystery element kept me guessing until the end and gave me a punch in the gut.”

“Good fun read.”

“Strongest emotional investment for me was in the often appealing spirit characters - the back stories and angst of unfinished business.”

“The climax will keep you going until the end so many twists and turns you will be completely shocked.”

“This was a totally delightful tale. The story is much less dark than its predecessor volume in this series, even though the danger is just as real.”

Chapter Index

Watch this space for new chapters to be added as the story progresses.

February Update: New Books, New Covers, New Ways to Buy

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 16:00:48 GMT

Welcome to Through a Glass, Darkly’s regular update!

Through a Glass, Darkly is the fiction publication of horror and supernatural thriller author Jean Marie Bauhaus (that’s me!), where I’m publishing my new fiction for you to read free for a limited time before it makes it into book form (paid subscribers can access all the fiction I post here all the time and read at their leisure). If you’re new here, first, HI! Second, check out the About page and the Roadmap to learn more, and go here to update your subscription preferences.
What you’re reading now is my semi-regular newsletter.

Happy February, Darklings!

Welp, we survived Deep Winter. Let’s all give ourselves a round of applause.

January already felt like it was 60 days long, and then the snowpocalypse added another 30 days. We rode out the storm in our RV, despite some gracious offers of our neighbors’ guest rooms, and between our Big Buddy propane heater, lots of blankets, lots of bottled water, and tarps covering the chicken coops, we and our animals made it through just fine.

There’s still snow on the ground, but with some 60 and 70 degree weather on the horizon, I don’t expect it to stick around too much longer. I’m not sure that the mud will be much more fun to deal with, but at least it’ll be easier to get where we need to go.

At any rate, I used all that stuck-inside time productively, and I have a lot to tell you about in this February update. So let’s dive in:

Flesh & Blood is Now an Ebook!

The first season of my Sons of God Substack serial got a polish and is now available as a FREE ebook! Click here to find all the links where you can download it for free.

More ways to buy my books that support small biz instead of big box giants!

My biggest project this winter has been setting all of my ebooks up to sell directly through my Gumroad store. Eventually, I hope to also add paperbacks, but that’s not feasible at the moment. Nevertheless, I’m trying to find a cost-effective way to offer signed hard copies directly. In any case, if you purchase any of my ebooks through Gumroad, all of the proceeds, minus hosting and payment processing fees, come directly to yours truly and not to Jeff Bezos or some other super rich CEO.

Not only that, but Draft2Digital, my ebook distributor, just announced that they’re distributing ebooks to Bookshop.org! If you’re not aware, this site allows you to select your favorite local indie book shop to receive the proceeds of the sale. So it’s a convenient way to shop online and still support your local brick-and-mortar book stores.

I also set up a book portal on my own website, with convenient links for all the different options to purchase each book. Check it out here.

Coming soon to book stores: Sleep, Dearie, Sleep

I’m excited to announce that my epistolary gothic horror Substack serial, Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, is next in line for the book treatment!

Not necessarily the final cover.

It’s getting a polish and, based on feedback I received from astute Substack readers, a revised ending. I don’t yet have a publication date, but once I do I’ll announce pre-orders here.

In the meantime, you can still read the original serial here this month before it goes behind a paywall in the run-up to publication.

Stories Soon to be Archived

Sleep, Dearie is not the only story that will be going behind the paywall next month. Joining it will be the following short stories, which are still free to read all February long!

Cover Reveal (Again)!

I’m still experimenting with covers for my Spirits series, trying to nail that cozy horror ghost story vibe. After showing a couple of previously tried sets to my Notes followers and taking in their feedback, here is what I’ve landed on:

Only the ebooks have these covers currently. If they do well, I’ll update the paperbacks with them. And I’m considering also doing a special edition hardback with the previous set of covers, which were the favorite among my female commenters.

You can find all the Spirits series links at my book portal.

Next on Substack: Kindred Spirits

Speaking of my Spirits series, starting next week I’ll be parceling out the second novel in the series chapter by chapter here on TAGD. Watch for the first chapter on Wednesday and an introduction prior to that. And in case you forgot, the novel that started it all, Restless Spirits, is still available to read here for paid subscribers — and the first two chapters are free for everyone to check out.

One more tidbit before I sign off — after a two month break from writing, I’ve been easing back in with a flash fiction piece that I’m writing in response to a challenge on Notes (I think it was supposed to be microfiction, but oh well). I’m adding to it a bit at a time, but it’s going well. So hopefully I’ll be able to share that with you soon, as well.

Until next time!

Thanks for reading Through a Glass, Darkly! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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I Dreamed a Dream...

Jean Marie Bauhaus — Mon, 02 Feb 2026 20:48:51 GMT

Welcome to Missives from a Dark Wood, my personal blog subset of Through a Glass, Darkly! Here is where you’ll find musings on life, the universe and everything else that strikes my fancy. If this isn’t your thing, no worries — you can update your subscription preferences here to keep these Missives out of your inbox.

I wrote this post nearly two years ago and published it on the Substack that was supposed to be my personal blog, Missives from a Five-Acre Wood. It’s the only thing I posted there that’s worth keeping. I’m deleting that other blog so I can close that mental browser tab for good, but I wanted to share it here for posterity.

This is where I stood then, reflecting on my writing and publishing journey, the state of publishing in general, and what brought me to self-publishing and posting my fiction here on Substack. Since writing these words, I’ve settled into being satisfied with writing here and self-publishing as a way of life, even if it’s not a lucrative one. It’s a far cry from the dream I dreamed when I was starting out, but as dreams go, this one I’m living isn’t too bad.

As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I’ve written stories since I was old enough to hold a pencil and string letters together to spell words phonetically (and I made them up even before that), but it wasn’t until some time in middle school that I really began to think of myself as a writer — more specifically, a fiction writer. Even so, I think it was reading Stephen King’s Danse Macabre in high school that firmly cemented my dream of someday being an author of dark fiction novels.

After various attempts, I completed my first full-length novel when I was 25, which I mostly wrote at my desk during lunch hours at my corporate administrative assistant job. After flirting with submissions and getting a couple of rejections, I threw it onto the internet, where it generally got good feedback from those who actually read it. Still, I felt it wasn’t really ready for prime time, so I packed it away and moved on.

This was way back in the year 2000, when publishing hadn’t yet gone through the seismic shift that would be brought about by Amazon, e-books and the advent of easy self-publishing. When it was still possible to have a story like Stephen King’s — wondering how you’ll pay the bills and afford medication for your kid one day, the next being handed a life-changing advance and suddenly being on your way to becoming a household name.

Nowadays, unless you’re already a celebrity, if publishers pay advances at all, they certainly aren’t life-changing. Most of them might cover a month’s worth of expenses, if you budget.

Back then, publishers also did most of the work of marketing and publicizing books so that writers could spend most of their time, y’know, writing. Visibility and sales were mostly on them. Now, it really doesn’t matter whether you’re traditionally published with a NY publisher, a small indie press or doing it yourself on KDP, sales and promotion are all on you, and that’s a full-time job. The actual writing largely gets done in the cracks.

To an extent, since I packed away that first novel, I’ve achieved my dream. I wrote my first “ready for primetime” novel in 2008 for NaNoWriMo, though it went through a few years’ worth of extensive editing and revisions before it was truly RFP. By this time, the Kindle was on the scene and already causing major disruptions to the publishing industry. Established authors were already complaining about shrinking advances and having to be their own publicists.

By the time my novel was ready, several authors already had some pretty amazing success stories from having published their own work through KDP and CreateSpace (as well as LuLu). After weighing a lot of different pros and cons, I decided to self-publish that first book. It was not a best-seller, but it sold in respectable numbers — not enough by any means to let me quit my day job, but enough to let me hold my head up and call myself an author.

In 2015, after I’d self-pubbed a few more books, an acquisitions editor from a midsized publishing house got in touch about that first book. She’d read it, wanted a sequel, saw that it was self-published, and offered me a contract to re-publish it through them and turn it into a series. I spent several days investigating this publishing company to make sure they were for real and not a vanity press or a scam, because this sounded too good to be true. But they were for real, and truth be told, there had always been this niggling voice deep down in my subconscious whispering that I wasn’t a REAL author unless a real publisher wanted to publish my work. So I signed.

They didn’t offer me an advance, but the royalties were a decent percentage. There were some things they promised that never materialized, like audio books (they still own the audio rights but have never done anything with them). They didn’t get my book into brick-and-mortar stores — I found out that if I wanted that to happen, I had to do the work of contacting the stores and convincing them to carry my book, and I didn’t have time for that. They also promised help with marketing and promotion, which was the biggest reason I had signed. That turned out mostly to be providing training and resources to help me get better at marketing myself.

A year after signing, Restless Spirits made its debut as a traditionally published novel, and in the following years it was followed up with a couple of sequels. That voice taunting me that I wasn’t a “real” author was silenced. But I was not living the dream. Sales were actually worse than when it had been indie, and that despite my often giving it away for free to gain new fans.

After that experience, I decided to stick with self-publishing, where I’m more in control and I don’t have to split royalties with a middle man. I’ve published a few more books since then, but I haven’t had the time or money to properly devote to marketing, and so they languish. Royalties and glowing reviews occasionally trickle in, but they’re not a significant income stream.

This is not the dream I signed up for. And I’ve been wrestling with that a lot over the last few years. In the midst of all of this, I’ve managed to carve out a pretty decent living as a freelance writer, writing mostly pet health and lifestyle content for major brands and publications. That’s not something I sought out — it just sort of fell into my lap, and I’m very grateful. I’m writing for a living, even if it’s not the kind of writing I wanted to do as my living.

But part of me still dreams those author dreams I dreamed as a young person. The dream of that runaway best-seller that will change my life. The dream of devoting all of my writing time to fiction instead of another article on how to tell if your puppy or kitten has diarrhea and what that might mean for their health. But I’m so burned out on the marketing side of it and the reality is that you can’t have one without the other.

Now that I’m in the middle of my life and looking down the ever-shortening road that is the second half, I’m figuring out that those dreams I dreamed at 17, 25, even 35 and 40 are no longer serving me. I’m not sure the kind of writing career I originally dreamed about and longed for is even possible. As I edge closer to retirement age (as if my generation will get to retire), new dreams are forming and new possibilities are opening up. And I’m wondering where writing fits in to all of that.

Over the last few years I’ve tried on not being a fiction writer. And there’s a lot to recommend that. It felt freeing, not having that pressure to write, or that guilt when I’m doing something else that I should be writing. Letting go of worrying about book sales and constantly checking my sales dashboards. Not having to bother with marketing or advertising. Realizing that I don’t really need to have a social media presence if I’m not trying to sell books, and boy howdy, is that refreshing.

But it never sticks, because being a writer is part of my core makeup. There’s a discontent in my spirit during these long periods of not writing any fiction that is only cured by doing so. Which answers the question, why do I write? But it doesn’t answer, why do I bother publishing? Why not just write for myself, when I feel like it, and not worry about being read?

I suppose that’s because it’s not really satisfying to create something and then not share it with anyone. Which is why I decided to start posting my fiction here on Substack.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if that’s enough. If I can let go of this idea that I need to publish books, which I then have to market and try to sell, and just let my writing organically live out its life here, being read by whoever happens to find it. And I can just write. That sounds really appealing, but I guess time will tell if I can be satisfied with that.

I haven’t been looking too closely at the state of publishing lately, either indie or traditional, mostly because it’s all too depressing. It’s not looking great on either front. From what I have seen, I’m wondering if this may be the better way to go, after all. It’s looking like the future of publishing is shaping up to look a lot like self-publishing under the subscription model, and small indie presses putting out books that cater to small niches.

I think I like that. And I think maybe, if I do decide to keep doing books, that’s the way I want to go — with one of those small niche publishers, if I can find one that’ll have me. And I’m probably far from the only self-pubber who’s burned out on self-promotion and trying to game Amazon’s algorithms who is pondering a move in that direction.

So I dreamed a dream when I was young, and to an extent I lived it. Now that dream is evolving and diminishing and making space for new dreams and new possibilities. That’s kind of an unsettling place to be. But it’s also kind of exciting.

Are you trying to hold onto any dreams that aren’t really serving you anymore? Have you thought about how they might adapt and evolve? Or is it time to lay them down and pick up a new dream?

Until next time.

Thanks for reading! I’m taking a break from posting fiction this week, but keep an eye out later this week for an update on what I’ve been working on and what you can expect here this month.

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Gone to the Dogs: Epilogue

Wed, 28 Jan 2026 15:00:52 GMT

I hope you’ve been enjoying my faith-based sweet romance novel, Gone to the Dogs. While the novel finished up last week, I have one more treat for Reagan and Josh fans.

This epilogue was not part of the published book, but was written to serve as a mailing list magnet for a now-defunct newsletter for my romance pen name.

Currently, this is the only place where this final chapter can be read.

Lost? Click here for a list of all the chapters.

Reagan Dunn’s life has gone to the dogs -- literally. Still recovering from a broken marriage that turned her life upside down, she searches for a new life on the road as a travelling pet sitter. When she takes a job in the little Oklahoma town of Redbud, the best she hopes for is a hot shower and a couple of nights sleeping in a real bed -- until she meets Josh, who is not only incredibly handsome, but also everything her ex-husband turned out not to be: kind, hard-working and loyal. Trouble is, he’s also taken.

Epilogue

Reagan exited the church building and stood on the stoop, scanning the parking lot with a puzzled frown. Josh’s truck was nowhere to be seen. He usually arrived early to pick her up when she finished a counseling session with the pastor. When they didn’t attend together, that is. She wondered what was keeping him.

Not that she minded waiting. The late afternoon was pleasantly mild. It was still too early for the leaves to put on a big show, but bright red tipped the Japanese maples decorating the church lawn, and the crepe myrtles’ bright pink blossoms gave way to berries colored a deep maroon. Growing up in California, Reagan hadn’t really got to experience all four seasons, and these signs of fall gave her a small thrill. She could understand why her beloved Anne Shirley was so grateful to live in a world with Octobers.

Anticipation of her first real fall wasn’t the only thing that thrilled Reagan. Both she and her pastor agreed she was ready to stop regular counseling sessions, though she could still come and see him if she found herself struggling. Looking back over the last six months since she’d come to Redbud, she couldn’t believe how much healing she’d experienced. Biblical counselors weren’t qualified to diagnose, so in the beginning, Pastor Rob had sent her to see a licensed therapist. He thought she showed all the characteristics of complex PTSD, characterized by emotional flashbacks rather than sensory ones.

The therapist had agreed. It explained why she sometimes got so triggered to go into fight-or-flight mode and either shut down or melt down emotionally. All those years living with Spencer’s manipulation and psychological abuse, she had buried so many negative emotions. Once she got free from him, her body finally felt safe enough to release all those pent- up emotions, which happened any time anyone said or did anything that even slightly resembled Spencer’s treatment of her.

But nothing had triggered her like that in a long time. Not since that awful night when Spencer had shown up and tried to ruin everything. She’d possessed a newfound strength ever since she’d stood up to him and sent him packing with his tail between his legs. And between the love and support of Josh and his family, Ellie’s mothering, and her pastor’s trauma counseling, she’d come so far in such a short time.

Through it all, she’d grown closer to God than ever before. Countless nights alone in Big Winnie, when everyone in the house was sound asleep and nobody but the Lord could hear her, she had poured out all those old hurts, all of her anger and heartache and bewilderment and grief, sometimes raging, almost always sobbing, but every single time receiving peace so deep and complete she wouldn’t have thought it possible.

She carried that peace with her as she stood there and breathed in the mild October air. She also felt joy, verging on giddiness as she thought about all the possibilities the future held for her. But she didn’t have time to indulge in daydreams before Josh’s truck rumbled into the parking lot and pulled up in front of her.

It wasn’t Josh who leaned over and pushed open the passenger door, but his brother. Reagan looked at him in mild alarm. “Is Josh okay?”

“He’s fine,” said Sam. “He needed to take care of something and asked me to pick you up. Sorry I was late.”

“Not by much,” she assured him, climbing into the truck. Once she got settled and buckled in, Sam handed her an envelope. “He asked me to give you this.”

It was a padded mailer with her name written large in Josh’s impeccable script. Even as she wondered at its contents, she marveled at his handwriting, so much neater than her own barely legible scrawl, which could never keep up with her thoughts as she scribbled them down. Her thoughts raced even as she tore open the envelope and poured its contents into her hand.

She looked at Sam, puzzled. “What are these for?”

He shrugged. “Josh said you’d tell me.”

Reagan let out an incredulous laugh and looked back at the objects in her hand. Three keys, each of them labeled with a number. “What is that brother of yours up to?”

“Don’t ask me. All I know is that I’m supposed to take you wherever you tell me to.”

Reagan nibbled her bottom lip as she picked up the first key, small with an orange plastic handle that had numbers stamped on the back. “This looks like it goes to a storage locker.”

“Not a lot of places that could be.”

“You know this town better than I do.”

Sam nodded and shifted the truck into gear. “Let’s try the rec center.”

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The Redbud recreation center bustled with activity. It seemed like half of Redbud’s inhabitants showed up to take advantage of the indoor track and pool. Sam pointed to a bank of lockers by the swimming pool. “Let’s try there.”

The air around the heated pool was warm and thick with humidity and the scent of chlorine. Reagan examined the numbers on the back of the orange key and scanned the lockers until she found one to match. She fit the key into the lock and felt a mix of satisfaction and anticipation as it turned. Sparing a quick glance at Sam, who nodded encouragement, she opened the locker and peered inside.

A paper gift bag sat neatly in the center of the locker. Reagan picked it up and handed it to Sam, then made a thorough search of the locker before closing the door. Pocketing the key, she turned to Sam and eyed the bag. It was dark blue, with a large, winking half-moon on the front.

“You gonna see what’s in it?” asked Sam.

She took the bag and looked inside. It held a large paper book and an object wrapped in white tissue paper. Reagan removed the book. It was a United States road atlas. She didn’t even think they made these anymore, in these days of GPS and Google Maps. With a puzzled frown, she tucked it back inside the bag and took out the other item. It felt like a jar and had some heft to it. Josh’s handwriting graced the tissue paper in black marker: “Don’t open until you get where you’re going.”

She read it out loud, and quirked an eyebrow at Sam. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

He shrugged. “I guess the keys will tell us.”

Back in the truck, they both sat staring at the keys spread out between them. Besides the pool locker key, there was a regular-sized silver key and a small one that looked like the sort that might fit a little girl’s diary or jewelry box.

The larger key sported a round sticker with the number 2. Reagan picked it up and examined it. “It just looks like a regular house key.”

“Yeah, but whose house?”

“You’re sure you know nothing about this?”

Sam threw up his hands. “I’m just the driver.” He regarded the key she held. “That could fit a padlock, maybe.”

“Oh, that narrows it down.”

She laid the key back on the seat and bent to rummage in her bag for her own set of keys. Whatever he was up to, Josh apparently expected her to either recognize the key or be able to figure out where it belonged. Maybe her own key ring held a clue.

Flipping past the keys to Big Winnie, she held up the house key Ellie had given her. She still lived in her RV, parked next to the Bakers’ barn, but she had a key to the house for emergencies, and to access the downstairs shower and laundry room. She would need to get her own place by winter — something with more substantial walls between her and the cold weather. Ellie kept trying to coax her into staying in Lydia’s old room, but it didn’t feel right to live under the same roof as her boyfriend, let alone sleep right across the hall from him.

Holding up her house key, she picked up the mystery key and compared them. They were a match. She looked at Sam in bewildered astonishment. “It’s a key to the house.”

“Then I guess we’re going home.” He turned toward the steering wheel and started the truck.

“What on earth is your brother up to?”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “We’ll find out when we get there.”

Reagan mulled over this mystery on the way home. She’d gotten to know Josh pretty well over the last six months. Well enough to finish his sentences and be in synch on so many things — not everything, but all the things that mattered. But she had no clue what this was all about. Why send her to the rec center? What was up with the atlas and the mystery jar? And why the theatrics with the keys?

She was no closer to understanding any of it when they turned down the driveway and made their way to the house. Sam parked the truck, and Reagan grabbed her purse and the mystery moon bag and climbed out.

“I’ve got to check something in the barn,” said Sam, heading off in that direction.

Reagan climbed onto the porch and paused a moment, halfway expecting Josh to open the door and greet her. When that didn’t happen, she sighed and selected the second key, pocketing the others. She tried it in the door. It slid in and turned effortlessly.

The sound of nails tapping excitedly on the hardwood floor greeted her ears as she opened the door, and she smiled. Eager paws assaulted her knees before she even made it all the way inside. “Hi, Beebs! Mommy’s home!” Reagan pushed her way in, set her bags on the bench next to the door, and scooped up her wiggly floof.

After an exchange of kisses, Reagan realized there was no sign of anyone else in the house. Not even Zeke. “Josh?” she called. “Ellie? Anybody home?”

No answer. Ellie and Lydia had been busy getting things together for an engagement party Ellie was catering that evening, so she didn’t expect them to be there. But what about Josh? Reagan slumped a little and looked at Bibi. “Where could he be?”

That’s when she noticed the note tied to Bibi’s collar. More of Josh’s handwriting. “Outside,” it read.

Reagan set Bibi down and picked up the mystery bag. Something told her it still had a part to play. She made her way through the living room to the back door and peered outside. Nobody there, either.

But the deck was transformed. She’d arrived just as the sun was setting behind the hills in the distance, its golden glow giving way to orange and pink brilliance lighting up the clouds. A gazebo had been set up in the middle of the deck, strung with old-fashioned lights. A small table with two chairs sat beneath the gazebo, festooned with flowers and candles. In the middle of it all sat a wooden box.

Reagan had an inkling she knew what the third key was for.

She also had an inkling that she was on the verge of something momentous.

After several deep breaths to calm the flutters rising in her chest, she slid the door open and stepped out. Bibi bounded down the steps ahead of her and ran over to sniff the new addition to the deck. Reagan scanned the yard and still saw no sign of Josh. Sam, too, seemed to have made himself scarce. Was she supposed to wait there for Josh to show up?

She went to inspect the table. The candles weren’t yet lit, and the flowers were fresh. Roses of every color, dozens of them, their petals strewn around the table and the rug on which the table sat. She leaned down to breathe in their perfume, which was when she noticed a note card propped against the wooden box. She plucked it up to read.

“Open me after you solve the puzzle.”

Perplexed, Reagan shook her head. But then she set her shoulders in determination to solve this mystery and see where it went, although the rising bubble in her chest anticipated where all of this was going.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll play.”

She laid the contents of the gift bag on the table, after first clearing away some petals so they wouldn’t get crushed. Then she drew the keys from her pocket and spread them out. An atlas, three keys, and a mystery jar, with its instructions to open when she got where she was going. “I guess I’m there,” she said, picking up the jar and removing the tissue paper wrapping to reveal a jar of honey. She held it up and pondered it. “Ooookay. So, I’m his honey? He thinks I’m sweet?” Shaking her head some more, she set the jar back on the table and considered it among the other items.

“An atlas. Honey. Keys.” How did these things fit together? Reagan picked up the atlas and flipped through it for some kind of clue. She found one — a dog-eared map of Florida. She looked from the map to the keys. “The Florida Keys? But what does honey have to do with that?”

She got her answer when her gaze fell on the gift bag, its winking moon smiling knowingly at her. “Honeymoon,” she said, her heart about to burst. “Honeymoon in the Florida Keys.”

“I’m down for that.”

She turned to see Josh stepping up onto the deck, his smile wider and more knowing than the moon’s. He pointed to the little box. “You can open that now.”

He came up behind her as she turned back to the table and selected the smallest key. He slid his solid arms around her waist as she slid the key into the lock with trembling hands and gave it a turn. She lifted the lid, revealing another box, the little kind that comes from a jewelry store. Josh reached past her. “I’ll take that.”

He released her and stepped back. She turned toward him, heart pounding, and took his outstretched hand. He squeezed it. “Reagan—”

“Yes.”

He chuckled. “I’ve prepared a whole speech.”

“I don’t need a speech.”

“Well, you’re going to get one.” He cleared his throat, suddenly looking nervous. “I don’t know why the Good Lord brought you into my life when he did, but not a day has gone by that I haven’t thanked him for it. For you. These last six months, watching you grow in your faith, walking beside you as you’ve recovered from your past... I know it hasn’t been easy, but it’s been such a privilege. I don’t just want to walk you home every night. I want to be your home, and I want you to be mine. I want us to walk each other all the way home.”

Reagan nodded through his entire speech. She just wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But she stood still as he lowered himself to one knee.

“I don’t have the words to tell you how much you mean to me,” he said, “but I want to spend the rest of my life showing you. Reagan Dunn, will you—“

Just then, Bibi ran up to him. She hopped up on his knee with a bark, making them both laugh. Josh buried his hand in her white fluff and cleared his throat. “With Bibi’s blessing, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” she shouted with her whole being. Only when Josh stood up and swept her into his arms did she realize tears were streaming down her face. Happy tears. He paid them no mind as he kissed her — the first kiss of the rest of their lives together.

He kissed her until she was breathless. Then he released her and offered the little box for her to open. The ring inside looked like an antique, white gold with delicate scrollwork around the band. A diamond in the center was flanked by dainty diamelles on each side.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said, taking it out of the box. “There’s a band to match. Mom wants you to have it, and so do I. But if you’d rather have something more modern, we can go shopping tomorrow. We’ll both understand.”

Reagan shook her head, a lump forming in her throat at the realization that Ellie wanted Reagan to have her mother’s wedding rings. She wasn’t just getting a wonderful husband who truly loved her; she was getting a mother. A family. “It’s perfect,” she choked out past a fresh round of tears, holding out her left hand.

Josh removed the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger, and then took her face in his hands, wiping the tears with his thumbs before kissing her again. “I love you, Reagan.”

“I love you, Josh.”

He drew her against him, and she tucked her head into the hollow of his neck as she wrapped her arms around him. She breathed in his earthy scent. Salt and sweat mixed with soap and shampoo and a musky cologne he’d worn for the occasion. Mine, she thought. Mine for as long as we both shall live.

They held each other until a deep-chested bark interrupted their private thoughts. Reagan lifted her head and peered out to see Zeke racing through the twilit yard. He bounded onto the deck and over to them.

“There’s my boy!” Josh said as the giant German shepherd jumped up, his tail wagging as though he knew something special had happened.

Bibi followed suit, jumping up on Reagan’s knees. She stooped to pick her up, grinning from ear to ear as she did. She felt fit to burst like an uncorked bottle of champagne at the thought that they’d be sharing these dogs together, even as she realized they would also share each other with the dogs. And that was fine by her.

Zeke had led a procession of people. Ellie, Lydia and Sam came cutting across the yard, each of them carrying trays with covered dishes. Behind them trailed several other members of the extended Baker clan, bringing with them tables and chairs, more food and other accoutrements. Ellie and Josh’s siblings brought their bounty up onto the deck and made room on the little table.

“Ellie,” said Regan, “when you said you were catering an engagement party...”

Ellie turned to her. “Did I lie?” She held out her arms with a wide smile. “Come here, daughter.”

Reagan gladly embraced her future mother-in-law.

“You’re already family,” Ellie said, patting her on the back, “but I’m so glad it’s going to be official.”

“So am I!” Lydia spun her around and grabbed her in a fierce hug as soon as Ellie released her. “There’s nobody I’d rather have for a sister.”

Sam hung back a bit, smiling shyly. Reagan placed a hand on her hip and gave him a pointed look. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He held up his hands in innocence. “I didn’t know about Josh’s scavenger hunt. I just thought I was keeping you occupied while they set things up here.” He stepped forward, arms outstretched.

“Welcome to the family, Sis.”

Even as they embraced, Ellie began shooing them away. “Let’s give these love birds time to themselves. We’ve got plenty to do to get things set up.” With a wink back at the couple, she herded her remaining brood down to the lawn and began barking orders at them and various cousins.

“I hope you don’t mind the surprise party,” Josh said, pulling her close. “Mom and Lydia were both so excited. Everybody was. I figured you and I would have plenty of time to celebrate on our own later.” He waved toward the table. “I know Mom’s got a romantic dessert planned for us.”

“I don’t mind at all. This is perfect.” She looked up at Josh. “Thank you.”

“Mom was the mastermind. I owe her thanks for making me look good.”

“And the scavenger hunt? Was that her idea, too?”

He let out a laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. Reagan reached up to smooth it back down and thought of all the times she’d longed to do that before they became a couple. “No, that was my idea. I needed to distract you while we got things ready. And you’ve always talked about wanting to drive Winnie down to the Keys someday.” He shrugged. “Sounds to me like a perfect honeymoon getaway.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Just the first of hopefully many adventures we’ll have together.”

She squeezed his hand. “I can’t wait.”

He leaned in for another kiss, slow and tender, and then released her and stood back. “Well, future Mrs. Baker, what say we head down there and mingle with our guests while Mom puts the finishing touches on everything?”

Reagan nodded, but then said, “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

He tilted his head and studied her. “You okay?”

Smiling, she nodded as emotion welled up in her. It came out in a mixture of laughter and tears. “I’m more than okay,” she reassured him. “I just need a minute to...” she waved her hands, fanning her tears and doing her best to show how overwhelmed she felt. “To process everything.”

“Okay.” Josh caught her hand again and kissed the back of it. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ll always give you all the time you need.”

He squeezed her hand and released it as he turned toward his family. Their family. Reagan watched him as he went down the steps and his cousins greeted him with high fives and hugs. She stood amazed at how her life had done a complete one-eighty in the last six months.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten spun around. The first time had devastated her. But she could see clearly now how God had used that devastation to tear her down so he could build her and her life back up into something so much better. As much as the love of Josh and Ellie and the rest of the family overwhelmed her, it was the love and grace shown to her by her heavenly Father that made her want to drop to her knees in a heap of joyful and grateful tears.

And she would, later on, when she was alone. For now, she wiped the tears she’d been unable to hold back. She took a deep breath and looked up at the purpling sky, at the stars that were uncovered as the sun sunk below the hills, and whispered, “Thank you.”

And then she went to celebrate her new life with her new family.

I hope you enjoyed this diversion into something more lighthearted and grounded in the real world. In the next couple of weeks, we’ll get back to business as usual with the serialization of the second installment of my ghostly Spirits series, Kindred Spirits!
Until then, if you liked this lighter, sweeter turn, here’s another story you might enjoy:

And if you missed the last installment of Gone to the Dogs or need to go back to the beginning, follow the navigation links below:

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