The interior was generic. Off-white walls throughout. Interior decoration by IKEA. Functional, contemporary furniture, all matched sets. Even the art on the walls looked like it came from the Scandinavian company. Maybe Botnick had gone through the IKEA catalog, found a sample page for each room and ordered everything off it.

After we knew the layout of the house, we split up. Hope would randomly scout for vibes. Jeremy would take the office. I'd look for secret areas-locked closets, trap doors and the like-the sort of hidey-holes Botnick seemed to like.

The only Gothic thing about the place was the ghosts. Three of them. That was a lot for one place. Botnick seemed to attract them. Not surprising. People pursue magical answers to their problems even after death. While humans try to find a back door into the afterlife-to gain the knowledge of the ages by communicating with the dead-ghosts are busy trying to find a back door out, to leave eternity and exchange the divine for the profane. The "grass is always greener" syndrome.

Now this trio of ghosts, who'd been hoping this cut-rate occultist would show them the path, had hit the jackpot. There was a necromancer in the house.

At first they only whispered among themselves. To nonsupernat-ural ghosts, necromancers are the stuff of legend. Like spotting Elvis in the afterlife. Everyone says he's there, they know how to recognize him if they see him, and some have even met him. Most, though, will go through eternity and never encounter the man. So it was with necromancers. These ghosts recognized my "glow," but wanted to be sure they weren't mistaken. So they followed me.

The apparent leader was a woman in pioneer gear: a shabby dress with a yoke and apron. I guessed she was at least sixty-with iron gray hair and sunken, leathery cheeks-but on second glance, I wondered whether she was really any older than me. The second ghost was a young woman in a high-collared Victorian dress, her hair pulled so tight it acted like a face-lift. The third was a man in modern working clothes. Big and shambling, he lagged behind the women like a faithful dog.

They "tested" me, trying to determine whether I could see or hear them, and I willfully failed every time. Got away with it until I was checking an interior wall that seemed larger than normal-perhaps hiding some secret compartment. I tapped along it, listening for a change in tone, intent on my task-

"Hello!" The pioneer woman's face shot through the wall right in front of me.

I jumped.

"Ah-ha!" she screeched. "You can see us."

I tried to cover, looking around as if some noise had startled me. Then, fearing that wasn't enough, I faked a hiccup, as if that had made me jump. I overdid it with the hiccup. Tipped my hand, as Eve would have said.

I kept examining the wall while all three ghosts tried their hand at "spooking" me. Finally I gave up. The ghosts hadn't appeared when the others were around, so I found Hope in the master bedroom.

"Hey," I whispered. "Getting any bad vibes?"

"There's something here," she said. "I can't tell whether it's just his S and M stuff. Maybe a less-than-willing partner. Hard to pick up, though."

"Hey, pretty lady," the male ghost whispered in my ear. "Got something I think you'd like to see."

I kept my attention on Hope as she closed her eyes to pick up the vibe or vision. The ghost stepped between us.

"Here," he said, leering. "Take a look at this."

He reached-predictably-for his fly. Not like I hadn't been flashed before.

His zipper whirred. Then, he reached inside and… his torso fell back, intestines spilling out, the top half of his body nearly severed.

I stumbled backward. The ghosts roared with laughter.

"Gotcha," the man said, his head nearly on the floor, walking toward me, insides quivering, his upper half held on only by his spine.

"Jaime?" I heard Hope say, her voice distant.

I lifted my hands to wave her off and murmured something like "I'm all right"-words that didn't penetrate the pounding of blood in my ears.

The bisected ghost cavorted in front of me, his intestines bobbing. I took a deep breath to steady myself. This was his death body. He'd probably died in some industrial accident and could now revert to that "form" at will. Knowing this, though, didn't make the sight any less gruesome.

"Jaime?" Hope said again.

"Sorry," I said as the ghost pranced between us. I forced my gaze to Hope. "Are you getting anything?"

"I think so. Weak, though. Just random images. Blood, crying… It's faint, which could mean it's old-"

The pioneer woman leapt through Hope. Her scalp was ripped off, bloodied skull exposed over empty bird-pecked eye sockets. I slapped my hand over my mouth as I shrieked.

Hope caught my arm to steady me.

"Just ghosts," I said before she could speak. "I shouldn't have interrupted. Go back to what you were doing."

As I hurried away, the ghosts pranced and darted around me in their death bodies, the Victorian woman wasted and naked-a dancing skeleton sheathed in gray skin.

"Not bothering you, are we?" she trilled. "Shall we stop?"

"Yes," lisped the pioneer woman, her tongue half gone, her empty eye sockets turned my way. "Shall we stop?"

She mimicked the younger woman's proper accent. The man joined in and all three circled me, chanting, "Shall we stop? Shall we stop?"

"Jaime?"

I turned to see Jeremy in the office doorway.

He strode over, his hand going to my arm. Then he looked around, his face hardening. "Ghosts?"

I nodded.

The pioneer woman circled Jeremy. "Oooh, look, a proper gentleman. Isn't he a fine one?"

"Very fine," the younger woman said. "Very proper. Too much a gentleman for the likes of this whore."

I wheeled on her, then chomped my lip hard enough to taste blood.

Don't give them the satisfaction, Nan always said. Let them see they're getting to you, and you've lost.

Jeremy said something, his head leaning down to mine, hair in his eyes, lips moving. Asking me what I was seeing, what I was hearing. I knew I should tell him-get that distance by sharing it, laughing it off. But all I could hear were the damned ghosts.

"She does look like a whore, don't she?" the pioneer woman said, coming close, her eyeless sockets studying me. "All fancied up with her colored hair and her painted face, acting like she's quality, but she's wearing pants tighter than riding breeches, her shirt's half undone, giving any man who wants it a good view of her titties. Like the fancy ladies at the mining camp. Act like they're something special, but give 'em a dollar and they'll spread their legs fast as any street whore."

"I got a dollar," the man said. "Think she'll give me a ride?"

"Course she will. And being dead you don't have to worry about catching anything."

They all cackled.

"Did you bring your banishing mixture?" Jeremy asked, his voice finally penetrating.

"Forgot."

"Isn't he worried about catching the pox?" the pioneer woman said. "Your fine man?"

"Fine men like that don't think of such things," the Victorian woman said. "They don't know better… until it's too late."

The pioneer woman snickered. "And he finds out her cunny's so well used it's like fucking a bucket."

"I'm going outside," I said to Jeremy. "Get some fresh air. See if I can lose them."

"Oh, you won't lose us, pretty lady," the man said.

Jeremy tried to accompany me, but I insisted he stay behind. Bad enough I couldn't help him search the house. He argued, but I stood firm and, after a long look in my eyes, he brushed his lips across my forehead, then whispered a suggestion about a coffee shop a block east.

The ghosts followed me out the rear door into the backyard, cycling through the same insults as if they could think of nothing new. I considered making a run for the road and trying to lose them.