The doors to the green and white Victorian are flung wide open. A tech crew is tramping up and down the porch stairs, lugging in all sorts of electronic equipment. Two people are wrestling a generator toward the side of the house. Out front, a card table holds sodas and sandwiches. Static buzzes in the air, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prick up, but it’s not from fear or even the sensation of someone watching us.
No, just the cool kiss of a sprite before it veers off through the open doorway.
“See?” Malcolm whispers. “You brought them another ghost. They should put you on the payroll.”
“Hardly. This?” I gesture toward all the activity. “Is like setting a cake in front of toddlers and asking them not to touch it. I’m sure the sprites are overjoyed. All this attention? On Hal
