Afternoon sunlight filters through the window blinds, most of it spilling onto the floor. Even in the shrouded room, Malcolm winces, raising a hand now and then to shield his eyes.
“Bad?” I ask. “Can I get you something?”
“No. I just feel useless, and I hate feeling useless.”
“Don’t baby him,” Nigel says. “He’ll start to expect it.”
Malcolm narrows his eyes at his brother. “Shut up.”
Nigel merely laughs.
We’ve gone over everything we can, established that other than the sprites in the police station and Mr. Carlotta’s ghost in the long-term care facility, all the ghosts of Springside are gone. I even snuck into Chief Ramsey’s garden shed to confirm that the ghost who haunts the watering can was missing. The wild ghosts on the outskirts of town, in the old barn, are also absent. Perha
