Perception (Apparition Investigations #1)

Case #2: Hell's Gate: Part 7

Oliver let out a low whistle. "This ought to be interesting. She bought a board game."

I felt relieved to hear him sound like his normal self. Part of me had been concerned that he'd still have that hostile attitude I'd seen last night, especially because he'd been MIA that morning.

"Fun and games," I said, holding up the game box and the pizza pox underneath it. "And sustenance, but that's more for me and less for you. I do have to say, the upside to having ghostly roommates? I can get whatever pizza I want."

The Scrabble box floated up from the pizza box and hovered in front of me. "Don't you already own this game?" Cyril asked.

"Bronte—" I bit down on my lip.

My eyes swung around the room, even though I couldn't see anything.

"You didn't want to use Bronte's copy without her permission?" he offered.

I nodded.

The game box floated over to the dining table. "Fair enough. I'll start setting the board."

"Take it into the bedroom," I instructed, already heading that way. "We can play on the bed."

I moved into the bedroom and slid the pizza box onto the bedside table. In a surprising turn of events, the room was clean for a change. Funny how homicidal ghosts watching you for months on end makes your apartment feel dirty and only a deep, Clorox clean makes you feel better.

Sitting halfway on the bed, I realized the Scrabble box hadn't floated in after me. I got up and stuck my head out of my room to see it hadn't moved. "What's the holdup?"

Cyril sounded flustered. "Stella, we can't—I'm sure you don't mean—it's just that—we couldn't—"

"Cyril?" I frowned. "What's wrong?"

A wave of coolness washed over me. I shivered in the doorway as Oliver's voice came from behind me. "He's nervous about coming into your bedroom."

I waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. You've been invited."

Cyril's voice rose an octave, causing me to jump in surprise. "We are ghosts, not vampires! And men do not enter a woman's bedroom for...for...for fun and games!"

He let out a garbled mess of distressed words and sounds as Oliver snickered.

His voice rose another octave. "That's not what I meant!"

"It's just Scrabble," I said.

"It's improper!"

"Only if you spell bad words."

He let out another anguished cry of sounds too twisted to be words. Then he cleared his throat and tried again. "Why can't we play out here? At the dinning table?"

I waved over my shoulder. "Because the bed's in here."

Cyril spluttered out a word I couldn't make out because of Oliver's booming laughter.

"There are pillows and blankets. I'll be more comfortable on the bed," I said.

Oliver's hand came down on my shoulder, the tingling chill of it lingering. Laughter filled his voice. "This is priceless. We should have game night more often."

My eyes danced between the living room and my bedroom. Not that I could see anything—I hated that I couldn't see them. "I really don't understand the problem here."