He’d never said what it was that haunted him, but I suspected it might have had something to do with the fact that he and his father lived alone. He’d never so much as mentioned his mother—and of course I didn’t ask for an explanation. The whole basis of our friendship was that we didn’t press the subject—any subject.

We were like a pair of travelers who wandered together because it was an infinitesimal bit easier than wandering alone.

Pearl-size drops of rain began to splash against the windshield, so I flicked on the wipers and made sure the headlights were shining. The road was empty in both directions, but I used my right-turn signal anyway, just in case Mom had spies out in the middle of nowhere.

The public-radio announcer droned on in a comfortingly bland voice about last-minute gift buying.

I put my foot on the gas, and just as I started to apply pressure—

The radio cut out.

There was a split second of silence; then a roar of static filled the car. It was so loud it seemed to be coming from inside my head, vibrating through my body like a scream. I took my hand off the wheel to smack the power button. But the sound didn’t go away.

My ears hurt all the way down to the corners of my jaw.

While I was focused on the radio, the car lurched violently to the left and went into a spin.

I tried to remember what I’d been told about spinning out of control—don’t slam the brake, right? Steer in the direction you want to go?

But what if the direction I wanted to go was behind me?

A bright white light flooded the car, like the headlights of a semi bearing down from fifteen feet away.

I braced for impact. The seconds seemed to stretch endlessly.…

But the impact never came.

When one too many beats had passed, I glanced to my right and saw, as fast as a subliminal message flashing on a screen, a figure sitting in the front seat next to me: a girl—though it was too bright for me to see anything but her outline. As soon as I started to comprehend what I was seeing, she blinked away.

And the white light—what I had thought was headlights—blinked away with her.

After a millisecond of shock, I turned my attention to my spinning car.

The steering wheel was stuck, canted hard to the left. Hitting the brake didn’t help. The tires slid across the wet asphalt. A burning-rubber smell filled the air.

In a final effort, I grabbed the parking brake and yanked on it with all my strength. The engine roared in protest, and the car skidded off the road, jolting over the deep grass on the shoulder.

I tried slamming on the brake again.

This time it worked. The tires straightened out, and the car bumped to a stop about five feet from a drainage canal.

The static from the radio died with a jagged shriek.

I put the car in park, then collapsed forward and rested my head on the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath.

Anyone else would have thought there was something wrong with the car—but I knew better. Because when I looked down at the passenger seat, I saw, resting on the upholstery…

A single yellow rose.

Just like the ones at Lydia Small’s funeral.

I DIDN’T KILL LYDIA.

Yes, I was there when she died, but that’s totally not the same thing.

Just try telling her that.

She clearly blamed me, and she showed up every couple of weeks to make sure I knew it. Up to now, she’d just been annoying—taunting me, threatening to hurt me…which might have been scary if she hadn’t been such an obviously weak ghost. The most she’d been able to do was knock a textbook off my desk in class, after twenty minutes of trying.

But this—an actual attempt on my life—was new.

And it pissed me off.

I unfastened my seat belt and threw the door open, launching myself out into the rain. “Nice, Lydia!” I said, turning in a circle. “Trying to kill me? I guess you’re going to have to try harder next time!”

Cold rivulets of water streamed down my face. And I realized I was crying again, which just made me angrier. I wanted to kick something. So I kicked at the wet grass and almost lost my balance.

Perfect—to slide down the bank and land in the canal would have been the absolute icing on this ghastly cake of a day.

“Come on!” I yelled. “If you want me, I’m right here! Come and freaking get me, Lydia!”

I was on high alert, adrenaline pumping, ready for a fight. How a ghost and a human could fight, I don’t know. I guess I figured the force of my fury alone might bruise her a little.

I waited for her to show up, in all her ghostly glory, as she usually did—barely five feet tall, with long, straight black hair, wearing the clothes she died in: a torn, bloodstained, red cocktail dress and no shoes. Determined to wreck my day—if not my entire life. Slightly see-through and eternally whiny.

But she didn’t come. And as my adrenaline high faded to a post-adrenaline low, I began to feel not only sort of sheepish and humiliated, but also very cold and wet.

Adding to the splendor of the scene, Kendra had pulled her car up and rolled down her window. She looked more inconvenienced than concerned. “Alexis? Um…are you okay?”

Had she heard me yelling Lydia’s name?

“Yeah,” I said. “There was just…a squirrel crossing the road.”

Her eyes went wide. “Did you hit it?”

I could hear the whispers already: Alexis Warren ran over a squirrel—on purpose! “The squirrel is fine,” I said. “Thanks, though.”

I waved her off and got back in the car, shaking with anger and a fresh dose of mortification. As I was putting my seat belt back on, my phone rang, startling me.

It was Jared. “Hey. I forgot to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“All right, well…be careful. The roads are kind of slick.”

So I noticed. “I will, thanks. You, too.”

Then we hung up.

Feeling even emptier than before, I did a three-point turn and headed home.

Lydia appeared as I was making the left into Silver Sage Acres, the master-planned community of town houses where my family moved after our old house burned down. (Two murderous ghosts ago—old news.)

She faded into view in the passenger seat, her filthy, bloody ghost feet resting on the dashboard. “Come and get me?” she asked. “Is that some kind of joke?”

Seeing ghosts in pictures? Totally my fault, and I’m the first person to admit it. (Never to another human being, of course. Just to myself.) I’m the one who re-took the oath to the evil spirit Aralt when Lydia splashed noxious chemicals in my eyes. I thought I could beat the system—take the oath, then read another spell—one that would release him from my body again. But that was before I knew that Lydia was planning to destroy Aralt’s book—his dwelling—so she could have him to herself forever.

My eyes absorbed a healthy dose of supernatural hoodoo, and I got stuck with the consequences. Totally, totally my bad.

At least it only resulted in my being able to see most ghosts. Not hear their despairing, wormy-mouthed, pleading whispers.

But Lydia? I straight-up refuse to take the blame for Lydia. She got selfish at the end and died in pain and in fear, which usually produces a ghost. In this case, it produced a ghost that walks and talks and annoys me just like Lydia did when she was a real live girl. Same attitude, just deader.

When she came into view, I tensed, tightening my grip on the wheel.

But she didn’t try anything. I pulled Mom’s car into the garage and hesitated before grabbing my camera—it would mean reaching right through Lydia’s semi-opaque body. I decided to come back for it later and headed for the door to the hallway, which was always unlocked.

Lydia passed through the car door and stood in my path, both feet planted on the floor. She—and most of the other undead spirits I’d seen—preferred to move like a living person, walking and standing on the ground. Some of them float, but only when they’re too angry or distracted to think about it.