Discover the New Book by Sheila Roberts: The Man Next Door

 

Title: The Man Next Door

Author: Sheila Roberts

Publisher: MIRA

Publication Date: October 14, 2025

Pages: 368

Genre: Fiction/Romance

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, Kindle & Audiobook

 

 

Love in the Time of Serial Killers meets The Woman in the House Across the Street from the Girl in the Window in this delightful romp about a recently broke divorcee who moves in with her house-bound mother only to spend their days spying on her grumpy, mysterious, and sexy new neighbor.

 

Zona never thought her life was headed this way, but here she is, newly divorced and moving back in with her mom, Louise. After her gambling addicted ex-husband lost all of their savings, including their daughter's college fund, she doesn't really have a choice. She's cutting every coupon she can and she's going to help put her daughter through nursing school, even if it kills her.

 

This wasn't Louise's plan, either, laid up at home with a broken leg after one unfortunate tumble on the senior singles cruise she'd been looking forward to for months. But if she's going to spend all her time at home, at least she's got her daughter there with her. And there's some hot new eye candy next door to distract them both from their troubles. He appears to be single and just around Zona's age. Could his arrival be the universe making amends for everything it's put her through?

 

Maybe the universe isn't feeling as generous as Louise hoped. There’s something lurking under that mans surface charm, something…dangerous? And who's the woman they can hear him in all-out shouting matches with on the other side of the fence? When the woman seems to disappear without a trace, imaginations run wild. Or at least, Zona hopes it's just her mother's imagination...

 

The Man Next Door is available at Amazon.

 

Book Excerpt:

The House

The house on Glenwood Avenue had taken on an air of darkness. Not simply because the previous owners had painted its adobe outside dark gray and trimmed it with black, although that hadn’t helped. It was what had happened inside the house even before they moved in.

Elder abuse. Louise Hartman, who lived next door, had been the first to spot it. The single man rarely let his grandmother out, and he never let anyone in, no matter how many cookies they came with. He was the only unsociable person on the whole street. Louise had known early on that he was hiding secrets.

But there are things you can’t hide from people who pay attention. And Louise paid attention. The curtains were always drawn, and the son rarely left the house. Neither did the old woman who had arrived with him, not even to care for the roses which were starting to wither from lack of attention. Lawn service had been stopped and weeds were popping up everywhere. Neglect! cried the house. Often old cars with nefarious looking drivers showed up after dark. Drugs, for sure. The place sent off keep away vibes and the neighbors all did. Including Louise. A woman living alone had to be careful.

One day the old woman in the house next door got out. Louise had been checking her mail and saw the poor soul. She was skinny as a wraith, wearing dirty women’s pajama bottoms and an equally dirty men’s t-shirt. Her hair hung in greasy, gray strands, and when Louise hurried over to say hello she saw the woman had bruises on her arms. Yes, older people had thin skin, and they tended to bruise easily, but this woman had too many to have just bumped against a counter. When Louise asked about them the woman had looked mildly puzzled for a moment, then replied that little Sammy was strong.

Louise had seen little Sammy. He was a mammoth. And obviously brutal. Louise had called the authorities, and it wasn’t long before Sammy was no longer around, and neither was the old woman. According to the rumor mill, a relative had stepped in and moved her across the country and put the house up for sale.

Then had come the middle-aged couple with the dog. Happily married, both working, but with time for a chat by the mailbox. One daughter, married, about to give birth to the first grandchild. Perfect. They would bring back the happiness that had lived in the house when Louise’s daughter Zona was growing up and laughing children had run back and forth between the two homes.

But tragedy struck only a few months later. The wife died suddenly. No one knew quite how. The funeral was small and private, the wife cremated, and the man gone almost instantly. The house went on the market again. And sat, waiting, like the neighbors, to see what would happen next. People came and looked at it, but it remained empty.

Louise didn’t blame them. A miasma enshrouded the place and she could almost feel … a presence hovering over there, peering over the property line, whenever she went up her own front walk. Her daughter insisted Louise was imagining things. A house was just a house. It didn’t have a life of its own. And no, Zona hadn’t felt any creepy vibes since she’d moved in with Louise. Of course, Zona was dealing with so much in her own life she probably wouldn’t recognize a creepy vibe even if it came up to her and rattled her bones.

Could a house absorb the emotions of the people who lived in them? Did bad vibes linger long after those people had moved out? Once infected, did that house become a magnet for more of the same?

Louise hoped not. She watched as the realtor put a sold sign on the front lawn. Maybe the new owners would dispel the gloom. Maybe she wouldn’t shiver every time she walked past the place.

Or maybe this unsettled feeling she was getting was a premonition.

– Excerpted from The Man Next Door by Sheila Roberts, MIRA, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

 

About the Author

 

Sheila Roberts is a USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestseller - and a fan favorite. She has seen her novels turned into movies for the Lifetime, Hallmark, and Great American Family channels. Before settling into her writing career, Sheila owned a singing telegram company and played in a band. She is happily married, and when she's not traveling, she splits her time between the Pacific Northwest and Southern California. You can visit her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100044180452595 and Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/sheilarobertswriter/.

 

Her latest book is the romantic comedy, The Man Next Door.

Discover Courtney Floyd's Higher Magic today!

 

HIGHER MAGIC

Author: Courtney Floyd

Publisher: HTP/Mira Publishing

On Sale Date: October 7, 2025

9780778387640

Hardcover

$30.00 USD

"Higher Magic is my catnip. By what dark arts I know not, Floyd has summoned up a wonderful wizard-grad-school slice-of-life, replete with organizing, romance, anxiety, camaraderie, and courage. More please!" —Max Gladstone, NYT Bestselling Co-Author of This is How You Lose the Time War

In this incisive, irreverent, and whimsical cozy dark academia novel for fans of Heather Fawcett’s Emily Wilde series and R.F. Kuang’s Babel, a struggling mage student with intense anxiety must prove that classic literature contained magic—and learn to wield her own stories to change her institution for the better.

First-generation graduate student Dorothe Bartleby has one last chance to pass the Magic program’s qualifying exam after freezing with anxiety during her first attempt. If she fails to demonstrate that magic in classic literature changed the world, she’ll be kicked out of the university. And now her advisor insists she reframe her entire dissertation using Digimancy. While mages have found a way to combine computers and magic, Bartleby’s fated to never make it work.

This time is no exception. Her revised working goes horribly wrong, creating a talking skull named Anne that narrates Bartleby’s inner thoughts—even the most embarrassing ones—like she's a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Out of her depth, she recruits James, an unfairly attractive mage candidate, to help her stop Anne’s glitches in time for her exam.

Instead, Anne leads them to a shocking and dangerous discovery: Magic students who seek disability accommodations are disappearing—quite literally. When the administration fails to act, Bartleby must learn to trust her own knowledge and skills. Otherwise, she risks losing both the missing students and her future as a mage, permanently.

BUY LINKS:

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/higher-magic/0615d80624fb528c

https://bookshop.org/p/books/a-killer-motive-original-hannah-mary-mckinnon/22162887?ean=9780778387671&next=t

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/higher-magic-courtney-floyd/1146736155

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Higher-Magic-Novel-Courtney-Floyd/dp/077838764X

Excerpted from Higher Magic by Courtney Floyd. © 2025 by Courtney Floyd, used with permission from HarperCollins/MIRA Books.

CHAPTER ONE

You should be writing. hexing people who tell you that you should be writing.

—NOTE ON THE BLACKBOARD IN THE MAGE STUDENT COPY ROOM, EDITED IN ANOTHER HAND

 

THE CLASSROOM DOOR SHIMMERED, AND I SCOWLED AT IT. Twenty minutes ago, the door had been normal. Mundane, even. A steel slab with a hydraulic hinge that had a nasty habit of seeming to swing slowly shut before slamming all at once. It opened onto a fluorescent-lit room overstuffed with motley desks and accessorized with a decrepit whiteboard. Inside, I’d drawn my containment circle using a piece of chalk pilfered from the lecture hall down the way and cast my working. Then, I’d stepped out for a coffee.

Now, two minutes late to my own class, I pressed my palm to the door and felt a frizzle of static ghost its way up my arm and into my hair. My bangs went blowsy. I swatted them out of my eyes and shook the sting from my hand.

So much for making a professional first impression.

Of all the ill-starred winter terms I’d experienced in this program, this one was already well on its way to being the worst, and it was only day one. If I was being fair, it wasn’t the door’s fault. Someone else teaching in this room had thrown up a ward to penalize late students. I was going to have to take it down, or spend the next ten weeks fighting with it. But I wasn’t in the mood to be fair. Not with an 8 a.m. class to teach and a meeting with my advisor immediately after.

Sighing, I levered the door handle down and pushed through the field of prickling magic. Thirty-five

heads—according to my course roster—swiveled in my direction as I stalked toward the front of the room. I pretended not to notice them, smoothing my bangs with my fingertips in an effort to compose myself.

“Hey! The professor’s going to be here any minute, dude. Stop messing around,” someone called out.

As a young, femme, and heavily tattooed instructor who habitually dressed in faded jeans and the nicest clean top I could find in the laundry basket—today’s wasn’t wrinkled . . . much—I was used to that reaction. Instead of replying, I set my satchel on the long table that served as the room’s makeshift lectern and fished out a dry-erase marker.

Concerned whispers soughed through the room. I ignored them, scrawling information on the board:

Spell Composition I

Under that, I added:

Ms. Dorothe Bartleby (she/her)

As I wrote, the whispers quieted until the only sounds were the squeaking of my marker and the high-pitched flickering of the fluorescent lights.

When both my nerves and the room were well and truly calm, I turned back around with a flourishing bow that triggered the working I’d cast earlier.

Students gasped and giggled as syllabi winked into existence above each occupied desk and slowly fluttered into place. They wouldn’t be as impressed if they knew my housemate, Cy, had given me his spell for the working just a couple days earlier. Still, their delighted bafflement was almost enough to make me smile, despite the morning’s irritations.

“My name is Dorothe Bartleby, but you can call me Ms. B.”

I paused to gesture at the board. “I teach Spell Composition I. If you’re here for another class, this is your cue to exit.”

A couple of students scurried out of the room as inconspicuously as possible. Which of course meant that the sound of their packing, bags zipping, and sneakered tiptoeing on the waxed vinyl flooring was so loud it was pointless to continue until the capricious classroom door swung shut behind them.

The remaining thirty-three or so students watched me warily. Smiling, I reached for my heavily annotated copy of the syllabus.

“This course is part of a learning community with Ms. Darya

Watkins’s Herbalism 101. The work you do in Spell Composition I will complement your work in that class. By the end of the term, you will have drafted and revised two academic-quality spells.”

The corresponding groan came from nowhere and everywhere at once, an overwhelming expression of sentiment that shuddered me back into freshman year. My shoulders tensed with the sense-memory of panicked drafting, late-night grappling with the arcane rules of the Mage Language Coven’s style guide, the growing certainty I’d never be a real practitioner because I couldn’t even format my grimoire citations correctly on the battered electric typewriter I used for my assignments.

I took a breath and dropped my shoulders, forcing myself to focus on the students in front of me. Someone had helped me, and I would help them. They might still hate the class at the end. Hec, most of them probably would. It was a gen-ed, designed for gatekeeping and consequently loathed by the student population. But they’d make it through. I’d see them through.

Quiet settled in as I regarded them.

Tangled auras, pained grimaces, sleep-crusted eyes . . . This group was so starkly different from last term’s Spell Composition I students that I couldn’t help a sudden rush of sympathy. There was something special about the off-cycle students, the unwieldy or unlucky or un . . .something few who’d fallen out of the campus’s natural rhythm. And it wasn’t just that I had recently become one of them.

Students who took this course in fall term, as admin recommended, tended to be bright eyed and happy-go-lucky, brimming with the magic of sun-dappled October days and pumpkin-flavored beverages. But it was January, skies glowering with rain clouds, and these students were in for a bumpier ride. They knew it. And they’d persist, despite it.

I looked at them and they looked back at me, wearily expectant.

“Most of my students come to class with a very specific preconceived notion,” I told them. “Maybe it’s self-imposed, or maybe it’s something you were told again and again until it stuck.”

I stalked back to the board and scrawled a giant number across it.

“According to our preclass survey, eighty-five percent of you self-identify as ‘bad spell writers.’ That’s bullshit.”

The class gasped and tittered.

“You’ve been hexed, or hexed yourselves, into believing one of the biggest lies in academia—that there’s only one kind of ‘good spell writing,’ or that only certain kinds of practitioners can be good spell writers. Bull. Shit.”

Fewer titters this time, because I’d gotten their attention. Hexing was a serious accusation—workings intended to cause harm violated the student code—and right about now they’d be trying to sort out whether I meant it literally or metaphorically. The thing was, it didn’t matter whether someone had literally hexed them to think of themselves as bad spell writers. The only thing that signified was that 85 percent of them did. It was part of the story they’d learned to tell about themselves. And reality reshapes itself around stories.

“Does anyone have a hunch about why I’d say that?”

Silence. Stillness. As though I was a predator who could only hunt when prey was in motion or making sound. I folded my arms and waited, even though the approximately seven seconds that went by felt like an eternity.

Finally, a hand climbed skyward.

“Yes? You in the striped shirt. What’s your name?”

“Alse. Um, Alse Hathorne.”

“Hi, Alse. Any thoughts?”

“Well . . .” Alse fidgeted with their glasses and scrunched their face, as if uncertain whether their thoughts were worth sharing. “It’s okay to speculate. Take a wild guess.”

Alse huffed. “Okay, thanks. It’s just . . . When you said spell writing isn’t just one thing, it made me wonder what actually counts. Like, am I writing when I’m flipping through old grimoires for research? Does daydreaming about what I want my spell to do count?”

Their tone was half-sincere, half-sarcastic, but I could work with that. I smiled, waiting to see if any of their classmates had a response before sharing mine.

A blonde in a pink tie-dye T-shirt waved, excited.

“Um, yeah, Reed here. Like, are we writing when we select spell ingredients?”

More hands flew up, and for a little while I forgot it was an ill-starred term. I lost myself in discussion.

 

BLEAK REALITY CROWDED BACK IN AS MY STUDENTS FILED OUT OF THE classroom. In a matter of minutes, my advisor would be giving me the come-to-Hecate talk I’d been dreading since last term. Her email yesterday hadn’t said that, but I could read between the lines of her vague Let’s chat. Can you stop by my office tomorrow?

A knot formed in my stomach as I repacked my satchel.

Every mage student got two attempts—and only two—to pass the Branch and Field exam, our program’s version of the qualifying exam that marked the transition from coursework to dissertation work. I’d failed my first attempt, and this term I’d get one last chance to convince my committee that I had what it took to be a mage.

Except, I wasn’t certain I believed it anymore. I had magic, sure. I was one of the lucky few born with the ability to see past consensus reality to other possibilities. But I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not in the way my housemates did. They were stars in their respective branches, innovating and winning awards. I was squarely middle-of-the-pack among my fellow Thaumaturgy students. A mediocre practitioner in a branch that I’d heard laughingly referred to as the underwater basket weaving of Magic more times than I could count. It wasn’t true. Thaumaturgy was so much more than a catchall for the bits and bobs of magical scholarship that weren’t interesting or important enough to make it into the curricula of Necromancy or Alchemy or even Divination. But my branch’s undeserved reputation didn’t help my confidence.

And now Professor Husik wanted to chat. She was going to tell me I didn’t get a second attempt, after all. That my first try had been so egregiously bad the committee wanted me to pack my things and go. I was so engrossed in the thought that it took me a minute to notice the student who’d stopped in front of my desk, smiling nervously. I blinked a few times, forcing myself to refocus.

“Sorry—”I dredged my memory for the student’s name “—Alse. Do you have a question?”

Alse rummaged in their bag. “Not a question, really, just, uh—”

They handed me a piece of paper and backed away quickly, as if the slightly crumpled page was actually a detonation charm. A ghost of static tickled up my arm as I skimmed the photocopied text, achingly aware that I was going to have to sprint to my advisor’s office to make it on time.

It was an accommodation letter. The requests were common ones: time and a half on exams, an extra week to compose spells, use of an object-based sensory working to manage attention and focus.

I looked up. Alse had used the time to shrink into themself.

“Thank you.” If only I could will away their nerves with my smile. “I know these letters don’t always give me a full picture of how I can best support you. I’d love to chat about that. Can you make it to my office hours today?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“My last professor nearly exploded when I gave her the letter.”

I couldn’t help but wince. Some faculty took the letters as a personal affront, rather than expressions of students’ desire to be able to actually do the work.

“Is everything okay?”

Alse shrugged. “Sure.” Their tone wasn’t convincing, but every nerve in my body was shouting at me to get moving.

“Okay, good. The directions to my office are in the syllabus. Now, I apologize, but I have to run to another meeting.”

I was halfway down the hall and already out of breath by the time that traitorous classroom door slammed behind me. When it slammed again, signaling Alse’s departure, I’d rounded the corner and hauled open the stairwell door.

I swore under my breath as I climbed. Most elevators on campus were too old and slow to be relied on in a rush. But teleportation wasn’t an option—not even for disabled students.

A group of them had lobbied administration for a change to the policy last year. Their requests were met with a volley of excuses. Teleportation was banned in the student code of conduct due to its disruptive nature and disrespect to the hallowed halls and grounds of this fine institution. It was federally restricted. Over and above all that, though, it was expensive.

I shoved the thought aside, taking the stairs two at a time. I had until the last full moon of term to pass my exam and convince my committee, and myself, that I deserved to be here. That I was ready to advance to mage candidacy, write my dissertation, and join the ranks of full mages out in the world.

I didn’t have time to worry about anyone else’s problems. Even without my advisor’s cryptic summons, I had more than enough of my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Courtney Floyd is a neurodivergent fantasy author who grew up in New Mexico, where she learned to write between tarantula turf wars and apocalyptic dust storms. She currently lives at the bottom of a haunted mountain in the woods of Vermont with her partner and pets. Higher Magic is her debut novel. 

Courtney has a PhD in British Literature and a penchant for irreverent literary allusions. Her short stories have appeared in publications including Fireside Magazine, Small Wonders, and Haven Spec, and her audio drama, The Way We Haunt Now, is available wherever you get your podcasts. Find her online at courtney-floyd.com. 

SOCIALS:

Website:                       https://courtney-floyd.com/

Instagram:                    https://www.instagram.com/cannfloyd/

BlueSky:                       https://bsky.app/profile/courtney-floyd.com

Goodreads:                   https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/52370149.Courtney_Floyd

Blog Tour Stop: The Dating Prohibition by Taj McCoy

 

THE DATING PROHIBITION by Taj McCoy

On sale: September 2, 2025

ISBN: 9780778368588

MIRA

Fiction; Romance

$18.99

320 Pages

 

Buy Links:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Bookshop

Google Play

Apple

 

“Taj McCoy’s writing positively crackles with energy, wit and humor.” —Jayci Lee, author of Booked on a Feeling

In this spicy new rom-com, an ambitious entrepreneur working to get her speakeasy supper club off the ground is pushed off balance when her childhood crush turns up, hotter than ever––then tells her she's off-limits.

Now that Kendra’s returned home, she can’t help feeling like a kid again—back in her big brother’s shadow, trying to get her restaurant off the ground while his new venture is flying high right out the gate. It doesn’t help that everyone refuses to stop calling her Keke, the childhood nickname she loathes.

The only bright spot is her longtime crush BJ. He’s been her big brother’s best friend for most of her life, and he’s always been that cool, chill guy who was easy to talk to and made her laugh. Now he’s looking at her like she’s all grown up, and there’s nothing childish about the chemistry brewing between them. Even better, he takes her dreams seriously, and he’s ready to help her make her supper club a reality.

But then BJ extinguishes the sparks flying between them, insisting nothing romantic can ever happen because she’s “off limits.” As her investors fall through and her best chance at fulfilling her professional dreams points toward leaving home again for a fresh start, will BJ be ready for love before Kendra moves on? Or will he sweep her off her feet when she least expects it?

For fans of:

·         Brother's Best Friend

·         Spicy Rom-Com

·         Childhood Crush

·         Off-limits Romance

·         Ambitious Heroine

·         Second Chances

 

Excerpted from The Dating Prohibition by Taj McCoy © 2025 by Taj McCoy, used with permission from HarperCollins/MIRA Books. 

Snort! Kendra jolted awake, her face pressed against the cool window shade. She forced a cough to clear her throat, her cheeks coloring as she realized she’d been snoring. Her eyes darted around to see if anyone in the neighboring seats had heard, and she rushed to wipe the side of her mouth, checking for drool. No one in the row in front of her seemed to have noticed anything, and she was thankful that most of the first- class passengers were wearing noise-canceling headphones and watching in-flight movies.

Pull yourself together, girl. Taking a deep breath, she covered her face with the palms of her hands, willing herself awake.

The sweet woman next to her patted her arm with a chuckle. “You must have been tired, dear. You missed the meal and everything!”

Thank god I didn’t have to pay for this upgrade. Kendra yawned and nodded in agreement. “I’ve traveled quite a bit in the past two weeks. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.” I could honestly go back to sleep right now.

“Are you heading home?”

Home.

She smiled tightly. “Yeah, something like that.” Truth was, she’d been a tumbleweed for the past two years. Home was wherever she decided to rest her head, though she’d been craving a place to plant her roots—something she hadn’t been sure she’d ever do when she left. And she never fathomed that she’d have a desire to return to the US to do so.

A chime sounded before a flight attendant spoke over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our de- scent into Reagan Washington National Airport. As we pre- pare for landing, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright and locked position. Your lap- tops should be put away and . . .”

Kendra offered a small smile to her neighbor. “Are you returning home?”

The woman shook her head, the scent of her gourmand perfume wafting over Kendra in waves of vanilla and toffee. “My daughter’s. She’s going to be induced next week. My fourth grandbaby!” She grinned with pride and rummaged through her purse, which she cradled in her lap protectively.

“Aw, congratulations! That’s so exciting.” A cell phone was shoved in her face, showing three smiling kids, two missing their front teeth. “They’re very cute.”

Once they landed and arrived at the gate, Kendra helped her row mate with her bag and headed toward baggage claim as her phone pinged with a text message.

 

Lani: Is you here yet?? Inquiring minds (aka your nosy brother and your parents) want to know . . .

 

Kendra: The eagle has landed.

 

Lani: Tuh! I know you haven’t returned from Gulliver’s travels with a big ass head SMH. Make sure you look like somethin before you waltz your ass up in here . . .

 

She rolled her eyes and sent her cousin a middle finger emoji before tucking her phone into her pocket. Returning home hit different now that Kendra was deemed a failure—it felt like tucking tail and admitting defeat after desperately trying to carve an uncharted path with nothing but hope and a blunt instrument. Whether anyone would admit it, the hushed tones of the family whisper network turned up the volume on every inadequacy and failed attempt, and once again the grumblings shone a spotlight directly onto Kendra. Always the fucking black sheep.

Kendra sighed, muttering to herself as she approached her fifth red light in a row. “Now they’ll get to harp on the fact that I’m late.” She glanced at the clock on her dashboard and shook her head with annoyance.

Having run home just long enough to drop off her suit- case and pick up her car, she’d rushed back out before her family started blowing up her phone. DC traffic was only predictable in that it was inevitable, and finding parking was next to impossible. Sometimes, the search for parking took as long as the commute. That never stopped Kendra from wanting to drive—yes, one could take the Metro or ride- share to a destination, but that meant having to depend on too many outside variables when she was ready to leave— she was too much of a control freak to depend on the time- liness of others, and when she wanted to go, she wanted to go. Waiting on others to do what she was more than capable of doing herself drove her up the wall. Being the baby in the family didn’t mean that she was any less capable than Big Bro.

 

Being away from home for two years left her second- guessing directions and she cursed under her breath as she missed her exit from the same traffic circle twice. At some point, people enjoying the park would begin to think she was casing the neighborhood. Kendra bit her lip, her eyes widen- ing as a car sped into the lane to her right as she attempted to maneuver over to catch the exit on her third try. She slid into the lane behind the Prius that had come out of nowhere and finally made the right turn out of the roundabout from hell.

Kendra zipped through the congestion on Rhode Island Avenue, having dropped all of her belongings off at the English basement apartment below her brother’s row house. The family golden boy. Logan had stopped offering the basement as a vacation rental when Kendra announced her return to town, and she’d eagerly agreed to help launch his new business for a month or two of free rent. Her best friend and cousin’s name appeared on the center console screen of Kendra’s Audi Q3, and she pressed a button on her steering wheel to answer her phone via the car’s Bluetooth system as she stopped at a traffic light. “Hey, girl, hey!”

“You’re late, you know,” Lani quipped in a hushed tone, evoking an immediate eye roll out of Kendra. “Everyone’s waiting for you to make an appearance! Logan said he hasn’t even seen you yet.”

“Yeah, that’s the beauty of smart locks—there’s no longer a need for me to knock on Logan’s front door and ask for a key to his basement. It’s bad enough that the prodigal child has to return and immediately ask her big brother for help for the umpteenth time.” Kendra chewed on her bottom lip, willing her face to express less of her reluctance to come back to the DMV area. It wasn’t that she didn’t love DC—she did—it was just that she was always hidden by Logan’s shadow. It wasn’t his fault, and Kendra looked up to Big Bro for everything he was able to accomplish, but sometimes his success sucked up all of the oxygen in the room.

“Now, don’t be dramatic, Keke,” Lani chided in her sing- songy voice.

Kendra bristled at her childhood nickname. “And remind me again why you couldn’t just let me come and stay at your place? You know that I’m not above bumming it on a couch.”

Lani tsked nonchalantly. “Come on, girl, no one should be subjected to that much sex. Can’t have you telling my aunt and uncle about my sexcapades. Your mom already thinks I’m too fast anyway.”

Kendra smirked. You are. “She already knows you’re fast, heffa.”

“You told her?!” Lani’s hushed growl made Kendra cackle. “You really don’t remember trying to sneak a boy into our house when you were staying with us for spring break?” She’d been grounded for the rest of high school and subjected to regular lectures about the birds and the bees. Auntie Mack refused to be a grandmother early, so she made herself an impactful prophylactic. Logan and all the boy cousins were tasked with looking out for Lani and Kendra, as if the lot weren’t all

pussy-whipped themselves.

“Uh, that was a teenage mistake. Does Auntie Al think I’m fast too? You haven’t told her anything recent, right?” Lani’s whispering was more of an exasperated shout with the volume turned down. “If she thinks I’m up to anything, she’ll tell my mom, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Girl, your mom has known since you started wearing all that eyeliner in middle school,” Kendra chuckled. “And that mulberry lipstick? You thought you were serving. You’d hit ’em with the duck lips and hands on your hips anytime some- one tried to take a picture.”

Lani groaned. “Shut up, there’s a difference between duck lips and a smize. And thought? Bitch, I was stuntin’ on them hos.”

Kendra could practically hear the hair flip on the other side

of the line. “Mmmkay, well, back to what I was saying. I could be at your place hearing sex-foolery, but instead I’m up under Logan . . . again.” Thankfully there was a main floor between Kendra’s unit and her brother’s bedroom, so she was absolved from having to hear his sexcapades, but still.

“Well, but it’s only temporary, and besides, the savings is

good for you while you’re still in the planning stages of opening up your own spot.”

“Why must you be reasonable?” Kendra whined. Every- thing Lani said was true, but the closer she got to the bistro location that Logan and his wife, Shonda, were opening together, the more Kendra’s stomach performed a Simone Biles– level floor exercise—one of those extra good ones that would eventually be named after her because no one else could perfect it the way she could.

“One of us has to be reasonable, so suck it up, buttercup. Now, what’s your ETA?” Lani was resistant to Kendra’s shit— she had a no-nonsense approach to pretty much everything and didn’t believe in coddling unless she needed it herself. It didn’t help that, as cousins born two weeks apart, they’d been best friends since they shared a playpen. Lani knew all of Kendra’s tactics.

“I’m about to park. Give me a minute or two to gather myself, and then I’ll be in.” Well, maybe five minutes.

“Bet. Oh, and be careful when you walk in here, Keke—

Stanley just waxed the floors.”

“Noted.” Kendra steered her car into the first open parking spot. “I’ll be in there in a few.”

“’Kay, bye.”

The phone disconnected, and Kendra took a deep breath. What is awaiting me inside? She cursed herself for not asking who all would be present to help put the finishing touches on the restaurant before its opening in a few days. As she closed her eyes to meditate, her phone rang again. She jabbed at the button on her steering wheel. “We literally just hung up, Lani.”

“Well, don’t sit out in your car forever either. Someone already mentioned that they saw you pull up.”

Kendra rolled her eyes, kissing her teeth. “Get off my phone, ma’am. I need a sec.” Leave me be!

Lani dropped her voice to a gruff whisper. “Bring yo’ ass

in here, ho. A certain someone been askin’ about you.” She drew out the last word teasingly. “Take a fuckin’ hint,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

Kendra’s face scrunched up as her head tilted, her mind racing to run through the list of everyone she expected to be present in these final days of prep before the big launch. “Who?”

“Mr. Big and Sexy, the chocolate drop himself.”

Huh? Kendra blew out a breath loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Cousin, that description applies to half of the brothas in the DMV. Can you be more specific?”

“If you don’t carry your behind on   You know what?

We don’t have time for this.” Lani’s hushed tone changed to a loud call. “Hey, look, y’all. I think that’s Keke’s car right there!” Voices in the background converged into a jumble drowned out by a peal of villainous laughter.

I’m gonna kill her. “Lani!” Kendra snapped as the call disconnected. So much for a moment of peace. She inhaled deeply, exhaling through her mouth before wiping the scowl from her face and climbing out of the car into a light breeze that made her pull her coat lapels closer to her neck. She flung her tote bag over her shoulder as she crossed the narrow side street to enter the front door of the brightly lit restaurant with a giant banner and the word PALATE set between a set of cutlery. “Here we go,” she muttered.

As Kendra stepped onto a narrow welcome mat just inside the glass door, which had been propped open to allow in the sharp almost-spring air, the scents of fresh paint and oranges wafted toward her. She peered around the dining room in search of the chocolate drop Lani was hinting about, making eye contact with her brother, Logan, and her sister-in-law, Shonda, whose face brightened as she headed toward the end of the bar to show some love. “Hey, you made it!”

“Yeah, I . . . whoa shit!” Kendra took one step forward and slipped, fully expecting to be met with the well-polished lacquered hardwood when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her and righted her, the warmth of a large hand imprinting the small of her back as her legs wobbled. “Right, careful with the floors . . . Thanks,” she laughed with embarrassment.

“Been a long time, Kenny,” a gravelly baritone voice caused her head to jerk upward. His sturdy six-foot frame drew closer, holding her against his hip so that she could steady herself. The scents of smoky oud and tobacco emanated from his skin. Kendra gulped as her eyes widened. Damn, he got even finer.

BJ Stephens glowered at her curiously, the same way he had when they were teenagers, and Kendra’s cheeks warmed as she took in his smooth umber skin. She’d never seen him in jeans and work boots before, but the look suited him.

“Hey, B, long time. How you been?” She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck as his wound around her waist. As she turned her head to peck his cheek, he moved slightly and her lips landed at the angle of his jaw, just below his ear, his closely-groomed beard soft against her skin. Her eyes bulged as she stepped back, unsure whether he’d think she tried to kiss his neck on purpose. Clumsy and awkward . . . we’re off to a great start. She made space between them, willing her cheeks not to broadcast her embarrassment. She cleared her throat before looking up at him.

BJ’s dark, spectacled eyes trained on her, his expression unreadable. “Good. But you’re the one who’s been gone. How were your travels? Last I heard, you were cooking your way through Asia and Europe.”

Kendra beamed, nodding. “I loved every minute of it. Ap- prenticed under a few chefs, caught up with a few cousins when I hit Thailand and the Philippines. Collected a ton of cooking techniques and recipes. Made some new friends and gave a few lessons on Creole cooking.”

“You didn’t make new friends at the expense of old ones, I hope.” The corners of his mouth twitched, drawing Kendra’s attention to his full lips. It always took a lot to make BJ smile. A laugh was even more rare but craveable. As long as Kendra had known her brother’s best friend, she never was good at reading him. Once in a while, he’d allow his face to show his playfulness, but most of the time, his underwhelmed, almost gruff expression remained constant. Joy, pain—even annoyance—were less common expressions than the general grumpy-observer vibe he gave off. But behind the prickly mask was an intelligent, loyal, good human who often put others before himself.

“Never that,” she laughed. They’d known each other for over two decades—ever since her family had relocated from New Orleans to the nation’s capital. Kendra had been in middle school, and Logan was just about to start high school. He met BJ his first day of classes, and they became fast friends after almost coming to blows over the attentions of the same girl. Logan had brought BJ home for some of Momma’s cooking to make amends, and the rest was history—Momma won over many hearts with her Creole family recipes, and BJ’s was no exception. Logan had been lucky. Truth be told, BJ would have whooped his ass.

BJ was a gym rat to the core, but as focused as he was on macros to build muscle mass, he made two exceptions without question: Momma’s cookin’ and good whiskey. As he solidified his place within the family’s inner circle, he’d always been the one to mediate Kendra’s arguments with her brother—a dependable voice of reason who wasn’t quick to pick sides.

Kendra and Logan never fought physically—Momma would never allow that—but Kendra would cut to the white meat with her words, and when she went low, Logan went straight to the depths of hell. “You still enjoying the professor life? I heard you were awarded tenure while I was out of the country. Congratulations are in order! I was really excited to hear the news. You’ve worked so hard to get to this place.”

His head bobbed as he smoothed a hand over his facial hair. The top half of his dark, shoulder-length locs were twisted and tied back away from his face as he regarded her intently. “Thanks! Yeah, it’s been good so far, but I’m on sabbatical this semester. I need to do some research for my next book proposal.”

BJ taught courses on historic preservation, focusing on heritage conservation, architectural history and preservation, urban planning, and adaptive reuse. Most of it went over Ken- dra’s head, but she loved that he focused a good amount of his work on Black heritage tourism. The way that he highlighted the importance of transforming abandoned sites to frame and highlight pivotal points in history had always been a source of inspiration for her.

Kendra tilted her head. “About that, actually, maybe I can pick your brain about something later. I’ve got something brewing businesswise, and it’s right up your alley.” She tapped his arm with her fingers and admired the results that his hard work in the gym had developed.

BJ’s eyebrows rose, but Lani slid across the floor Risky Business–style right into Kendra’s arms before he could respond. He nodded brusquely and sauntered back toward the bar, where Logan was installing some shelving.

“Bitch, you made it!” Her cousin squeezed Kendra tightly before stepping back to assess her appearance, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. Lani was all about vibrant colors, and Kendra’s palette was much more neutral, so she was al- ways being bullied to step outside of her comfort zone and into prints that she found too busy, too bright, too attention- grabbing. Lani was in a pair of ripped, acid-washed blue jeans and a loud color-blocked sweater with bright red sneakers. She narrowed her eyes at what she would consider to be low frequencies emanating from Kendra’s look.

Kendra dropped a hand onto her hip and posed. “Don’t play me, I know I look good.” Her coffee-colored duster over a white cropped tee and white high-waisted jogger pants hugged her curves and made her feel clean, like fresh air after a hard rain. She’d pulled her thick, silk-pressed tresses into a sleek ponytail, and per usual, her shades sat on top of her head like a headband. Kendra ran her fingers through her pony- tail, curling the ends around her index finger, and popped her tongue playfully.

Lani leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Mmm-hmm. And a certain someone noticed too.”

“Who? Stanley? I wouldn’t exactly describe him as a chocolate drop. Maybe more like a hazelnut latte.” Kendra tilted her head, assessing the occupants of the room. There was Logan and Shonda, BJ, Auntie Al, Shonda’s sister Bree, Kendra’s par- ents, and Stanley, who was staring at Lani like she stole some- thin’. Logan had a team of people that he’d walked back toward the kitchen, who Kendra assumed were the new restaurant staff. BJ was carrying cartons of wine and spirits down to the basement cellar. Kendra’s mom and Aunt Alisa were pretending to wipe down the counters, but they’d been hovering over the same spot at the bar pointing at Kendra and whispering. The family motto should be: “Subtlety? We don’t know her.”

Stanley’s tall and lean build was squeezed behind some shelving that he was putting together for a wall display. Ken- dra’s dad, Braxton, was reading the assembly instructions aloud to Stanley, whose attention remained trained on Lani, who seemed completely unaware. Kendra made eye contact with Shonda across the room, gesturing slightly with her chin toward Stanley, and Shonda’s smile grew wide. She nodded slowly, steepling her fingers like a mastermind with an evil plan. Kendra winked in response.

“Not Stanley, silly. BJ was asking about you,” Lani whispered, her arm entwined with Kendra’s to keep her from slip- ping again.

BJ? Kendra’s face screwed up into a giant question mark. “Huh? Why?”

Her cousin shrugged. “I’ve been clocking it for the last week. Anytime your name was brought up, he was all ears.”

“I mean, we’ve known the guy a long time, so that doesn’t feel out of the ordinary to me. We haven’t seen each other in years.” Kendra’s last post before her travels was in Silicon Valley. She often returned home for the holidays, but BJ al- ways went to be with his parents in Charlotte. When Kendra had been laid off from her role as a chief data officer for a thriving startup that was absorbed by a tech giant, she’d taken her generous severance package and savings to do some soul- searching around the globe. BJ had checked in once in a while to ask where she was and how she was doing. He’d always been thoughtful in that way.

After visiting family in Thailand and the Philippines, Kendra went to parts of Europe and finished off her trip in New Orleans spending quality time with her Granny. Each destination brought her new adventures and lessons in the culinary world and in determining what tools she would use to pave her path. Everyone in the family had built a legacy in their own way, and it finally felt like Kendra’s turn.

“There’s my ray of sunshine!” Kendra’s dad opened his arms and wrapped her into a warm hug, the scent of tobacco smoke lingering on his jacket.

She squeezed him tight, tucking her chin for her father to kiss her forehead. “Daddy! Mmm, what cigar were you smoking? It smells spicy.”

“Your brother bought me a box of maduros, so we decided to have some coffee and sample them before we got started today.” Her dad’s bronzed skin and thick, straight hair was tousled with some sort of product. Born in Los Angeles to a Filipino mother and a Thai father, he was the embodiment of California, wearing a jean jacket over a light sweater and slacks. When he met his wife, Regina, at George Washington University, he embraced DC with her, setting down roots, eventually convincing Auntie Al and Uncle Ronnie to move up from New Orleans to experience all four seasons. Their time in DC was cut short as they moved back to New Orleans when they started their family––free childcare was worth the return, thanks to Granny and PawPaw.

Once Kendra and Logan were old enough to fend for themselves, Braxton and Regina moved back into their DC home, which they’d rented out while down south. Auntie Mack fell in love with Charleston, and Kendra’s maternal grandmother remained in New Orleans alone now that Paw- Paw had passed. Her paternal grandparents remained in Los Angeles, giving her a reason to get some California sunshine whenever possible, but she’d caught them on their annual trip to visit family during her time in Asia.

“That’s a bold move to start with a maduro, but you know I like those. Especially if the coffee happened to be Irish.” Kendra shared a knowing glance with her father as she pulled back, his arm still around her waist.

Braxton Porter kissed his daughter’s cheek, lowering his voice to barely a whisper before winking at her mischievously. “Your brother and I may have already had an Irish coffee or two out on the patio. Don’t tell your mother.”

Kendra giggled, raising her hands in surrender. “Your secret is safe with me.” They walked toward the bar area, which was painted a deep emerald green with creamy quartz countertops and golden fixtures. The herringbone pattern in the cherrywood flooring gleamed with gradients of reddish browns. “Wow, this place is gorgeous,” she gushed.

Natural light flooded in through massive picture windows dressed with velvet curtains the color of the faintest blush. On the windowsills were decorative vases and small plants, like succulents and snake plants—ones that didn’t require a lot of attention. On the walls were several blown-up photographs from Logan and Shonda’s travels as they’d hit different countries on their bucket list and sampled different cuisines to find the right balance of flavors to feature on their menu of global fare. BJ had busied himself hanging another portrait, and Kendra studied his profile, taking in the broadness of his shoulders and the way his Henley sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, the fabric over his chest and arms hugging his physique. This man just gets better with age . . .

“Yo, can you chill, cuz? You are lookin’ at him like he’s a

four-course meal and you wanna come back for seconds . . .”

Kendra froze, her neck and cheeks immediately coloring at Lani’s observation. “Say it louder, I think the kitchen staff didn’t hear you!” Kendra hissed, her attention snapping away from the strong arms lifting a black-and-white photograph of a wine cellar full of barrels on a long wall leading toward the unisex bathrooms.

BJ glanced in her direction before returning to his task and leveling the frame. Heat crawled up the column of Kendra’s throat, her skin boiling as she stared her cousin down.

“If he heard you, I swear on all things holy that I will tell your mom all about how her favorite cashmere sweater got ruined.” Kendra wiggled her fingers like she was casting a spell on her cousin.

“You wouldn’t.” Lani’s eyes darted around in a panic. As teenagers, she and Kendra snuck out to meet some boys, and Lani swiped her mom’s ultrasoft cardigan to wear over a barely there tank top and coochie cutters. The fast heffa swore the sweater added a level of sophistication to her look. Suffice it to say that it was St. Patty’s Day, and she spilled a green pint of beer on the luxe creamy knit, leaving a giant mint-colored swatch that she couldn’t explain. Instead, Lani framed the family dog and asserted that he’d dragged the sweater outside into the grass. Auntie Mack was devastated.

Kendra’s sinister smile spread like the Grinch stealing Christmas. “Try me.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

 

Oakland-born law grad Taj McCoy is committed to championing stories that include Black and multiracial women of color, plus-size protagonists, Black love, Black joy, and strong senses of sisterhood and familial bonds. Taj started writing as a small child, enjoying her first publications in elementary school. When she's not writing, Taj may be on Twitter boosting other marginalized writers, practicing yoga, sharing recipes, or cooking private supper club meals for close friends.

 

 

Social Links:

 

Author website: https://www.tajmccoywrites.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/tajmccoywrites

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/the1whowill

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20626681.Taj_McCoy

 

Book Spotlight: The Keeper of Lonely Spirits

 

The Keeper of Lonely Spirits

Author: E.M. Anderson

Publication Date: March 25, 2025

ISBN: 9780778368526

MIRA Hardcover 

Book Summary:

For fans of UNDER THE WHISPERING DOOR by T.J. Klune, the sweet comfort of THE VERY SECRET SOCIETY OF IRREGULAR WITCHES is combined with the endearing grump of A MAN CALLED OVE, in this cozy fantasy about an immortal ghost hunter who must forgive himself for his tragic past in order to embrace his found family. 

In this mesmerizing, wonderfully moving queer cozy fantasy, an immortal ghost hunter must confront his tragic past in order to embrace his found family. 

Find an angry spirit. Send it on its way before it causes trouble. Leave before anyone learns his name. 

After over two hundred years, Peter Shaughnessy is ready to die and end this cycle. But thanks to a youthful encounter with one o’ them folk in his native Ireland, he can’t. Instead, he’s cursed to wander eternally far from home, with the ability to see ghosts and talk to plants. 

Immortality means Peter has lost everyone he’s ever loved. And so he centers his life on the dead—until his wandering brings him to Harrington, Ohio. As he searches for a vengeful spirit, Peter’s drawn into the townsfolk’s lives, homes and troubles. For the first time in over a century, he wants something other than death. 

But the people of Harrington will die someday. And he won’t. 

As Harrington buckles under the weight of the supernatural, the ghost hunt pits Peter’s well-being against that of his new friends and the man he’s falling for. If he stays, he risks heartbreak. If he leaves, he risks their lives.

Excerpted from THE KEEPER OF LONELY SPIRITS by E.M. Anderson. Copyright © 2025 by E.M. Anderson. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HTP/HarperCollins.

A spirit was lurking in the stairwell of the historic steps on Savannah’s waterfront.

For months, the steps had been even more treacherous than usual. Not only tourists but folks who had lived in Savannah all their lives had slipped going up or down—skinned knees, scraped hands, laughed nervously and said they must have missed a stair or misjudged the height. A few accused friends of pushing them, but said friends vehemently denied it, accusing the accusers of clumsiness in turn.

At last, a tourist had broken a leg and threatened to sue the city. Never mind the signs at either end, warning users the steps were historical and therefore not up to code. The signs probably would have prevented the success of such a lawsuit, but the city, tired of complaints, hung caution tape across the stairwell, and closure signs for good measure, and turned their attention to other things.

Unbeknownst to them, the unassuming old white man standing before the steps in the wee hours of a mild April morning hoped to solve their problem before the sun rose.

He didn’t look like a ghost-hunter. He was tall and thin, with blue eyes, a hawkish nose, and thin lips that rarely smiled. Just now, a messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. Dressed in flannel, jeans, and work boots, he looked like a farmer—which he wasn’t but had been in his boyhood some two centuries ago.

Now he was a groundskeeper. At Colonial Park Cemetery for the present, but not for much longer if all went well this morning.

He thumbed up the brim of his flat cap, contemplating the stairwell and the spirit therein. No corporeal form, but a haze of color and smell and emotion, a rotted greenish brown that smelled like Georgia’s coastal salt marshes but more. The whole stairwell was mucky with fear. Windows rattled in the buildings on either side.

The groundskeeper glanced down the street, saw no one, lifted the caution tape and stepped under it.

A cloud of fear enveloped him. Rot oozed on his tongue, a phantom feeling of sludge. When he’d been young and freshly cursed, the spirits’ swell of emotion had overwhelmed him. He’d drowned in it, unable to separate the feelings of the dead from his own. They’d scared him, the feelings. The voices, not that they were precisely voices. For decades, he’d avoided them when he could, ignored them when he couldn’t. Even Jack had never known about them.

These days, the dead comforted him: company he didn’t fear losing and never got to know too well. The closest to death he ever came. A reason for him to live, if there were a reason when life had been too long already.

Of course, there was the curse. But the curse wasn’t a reason to live so much as the thing keeping him alive.

The windows rattled harder. The rusting metal handrail in the center of the steps groaned.

The groundskeeper sucked in his cheeks, hoping he at last had good information. He’d spotted the spirit right off, soon as he’d visited the east end of River Street, but he’d had a devilish time finding anything out about it. When his usual hunt through libraries and newspapers failed him, he’d resorted to riding around with the tourists on three of Savannah’s many ghost tours. The last had set him on the right track, after two hours on a cramped trolley beside an Ohio teen who never once let up complaining.

This ghost tour was nothing, the teen had said. He’d spent loads of time in the cemetery back home, and it was way scarier. He’d seen ghosts at home. He’d thought they were going to see one on the tour, too, and didn’t their guide have any better ghost stories?

The groundskeeper, of course, had actually seen several spirits on the tour. But in the absence of anyone under age twelve, he was the only one. As the trolley bumped over the cobbles, tilting alarmingly on the steep ramp down to River Street, the tourists saw the still water, the three-story riverboat Georgia Queen docked alongside the quay, the dark windows of the nineteenth-century storefronts lining the near side of the street. The groundskeeper saw the dead.

Most ghost tours—most ghost stories—were largely hogwash, but they often contained nuggets of truth. In this case, the guide had told the tragic tale of two tween girls who had disappeared less than a year ago. The police had barely bothered looking for them; the disappearance had never been solved. Their ghosts had allegedly been spotted over a dozen times in the last six months, always on the waterfront: they’d ask strangers for help, only to vanish when people tried to take a closer look. Hogwash—partly. The spirit in the stairwell was a newer one, young and scared, so the groundskeeper had investigated any disappearances reported in Savannah in the past year. In a newspaper article dated nine months back, he’d found a small paragraph mentioning the disappearance of two tween girls and instructing anyone with information to go to the police. Less than a week later, one girl had been found, traumatized but alive, at which point all information about the incident had dried up. The other girl, the groundskeeper reckoned, had never been found and was likely dead.

What there were of the spirit’s memories fit such a story. It remembered neither life nor death, only the confused terror of its last moments. The clearest glimpse the groundskeeper had gotten was the frightened face of a girl: the one who’d been found. This, then, might well be the girl who hadn’t.

He’d returned to the waterfront this morning to find out. To send her on, if he could, into whatever awaited in the hereafter, before she did something worse than break a tourist’s leg.

“Layla Brown,” he said.

The spirit twisted toward him. He let out a soft breath. Finally. The right name. A name alone often wasn’t enough to calm a spirit, but names had power, his mam had always said. This spirit’s name had been buried nearly as deep as his own: Peter Shaughnessy, a name no one now living knew and the last connection he had—aside from an old pocket watch—to his family and the place he’d been born and raised and cursed.

“Layla Brown,” he repeated more forcefully.

The spirit shuddered. The nearest window splintered.

“Sure, there’s no need for that. Ain’t here to bother you none. Here to help, is all.”

She hung over him like a storm cloud. His heart stuttered, but he reassured himself that she couldn’t touch him. His messenger bag was filled with iron, salt, yellow flowers, various herbs.

She could bust a window over his head, though. If she was stronger than he thought, she could whip up a wind that’d send him tumbling down the steps, same as if she’d pushed him herself.

“Died bad, it seems,” he said softly. “Never found. That right?” The rot soured, her fear tinged with regret. She wasn’t strong enough to take form, but a faint whisper echoed in his ears. Even that much took more power than most ghosts had, but speech took less than corporeality.

Keisha.

And he knew what she wanted.

“They found Keisha,” he said. “Whatever happened to you, she didn’t share in it.”

The spirit wheeled and shifted. Wind moaned, ruffling his shirt and the caution tape behind him. Images flashed before his eyes like a slideshow. That same frightened face he’d seen before: Keisha. A rough hand gripping a thin wrist. The steps, slick with rain. A sudden burst of pain in her temple, a scream, sneakers squeaking. Then, nothing.

She was remembering her death.

The wind howled in the stairwell. The groundskeeper slipped, gripped the shaking handrail. Shivered, blinked the images away before they could overwhelm him.

“Layla!” he shouted. “Layla Brown!”

A window shattered. The groundskeeper ducked, hoping the building was empty at this hour. Glass rained on his cap. She’d gripped onto his words about what had happened to her, same as she’d held tight to her fear the past nine months. If he didn’t remind her of something else soon, there’d be no calming her.

He dug into his messenger bag, searching for the beaded bracelet he’d stashed there yesterday afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to use it, if he didn’t have to, aware of its importance and concerned so small a thing might be destroyed or lost in the confrontation.

“Layla Brown,” he repeated, more forcefully than ever as the wind threatened to swallow his voice. The caution tape fluttered, ripped itself from its fastenings, and blew away. “Look here.”

He thrust the bracelet out.

The wind died. The windows stopped rattling. The handrail stilled. A thin, butter-yellow strand of affection threaded through the greenish brown of the spirit’s fear.

A new memory emerged. Two girls, younger, maybe ten or so, singing loudly and off-key to a pop song as they braided embroidery floss into friendship bracelets. They shouted out the chorus and fell giggling to the ground, pelting each other with lettered beads.

The bracelet in the groundskeeper’s hand was grubbier now. The embroidery floss was fraying; the lettering on one of the beads had worn away. But it was still legible.

Best friends 4ever.

Keisha Adeyemi had tied it to a fence post during the candlelight vigil for Layla Brown held outside their middle school not two days ago.

“Keisha’s all right,” the groundskeeper said. “Newspaper didn’t say much but that she’d been found, but she left that for you.”

The spirit softened. The rotten fearful smell lessened, the feeling of sludge on his tongue with it. He breathed deep. Used to it, he was, after dealing with the dead for so long, but it was a relief nonetheless when they calmed down.

“She’s all right,” he repeated. “But you been scaring people— hurt some of ’em, too. Aye, you have.”

She rattled a window, not as vigorously as before, annoyed with the accusation. She’d never hurt anyone in her life, she insisted.

“In life, maybe not. Now you have. Best for you and everyone else if you let go of all that fear and move on, now you know Keisha’s all right.”

The handrail groaned, swaying back and forth. The nearest support rattled, then ripped out of the ground, bending the rail and leaving a crack behind. For a moment, he thought he was losing her again.

Then the shaking stopped.

Eyeing the ghost, the groundskeeper bent to examine the crack. Wedged into the stone was a friendship bracelet matching the one in his hand. More of the lettering was worn away; the braiding was frayed and broken. The groundskeeper plucked it carefully from the stone with a handkerchief, like it was made of diamonds and pearls instead of embroidery floss and plastic beads. The spirit sighed around him.

“This one’s yours, is it?” She confirmed it. He hesitated. “You understand,” he said, “likely they won’t find who done this to you even if I send it along.”

She agreed, going gray like the Spanish moss draping Savannah’s many live oaks. Not scared, now. Just sad and regretful, wishing she weren’t dead.

The groundskeeper ignored that particular wish. His own wants, to the extent he allowed himself any, tended the opposite way. He empathized with the dead, understood them. But he envied them, too.

“No helping that, now. I’ll make sure whoever you want to have it gets it. Promise. But you got to let go. All right?”

She twisted over the twin bracelets in his hands, faintly yellow again. Glad to know her friend was okay, if nothing else.

He wished he could do more for her. Spirits of children were his least favorites. Not because of the spirits themselves—they were no worse, nor better, than any others. He just didn’t like knowing how young they’d died, and so often terribly.

“Tell me about Keisha,” he said.

She didn’t speak, of course. Instead, she shared memories. Two girls on the swing set, daring each other to jump off the higher they flew. Painting each other’s nails in a bright purple bedroom. Holding hands, skipping home from school in the rain. In every memory, both of them, together.

The groundskeeper’s insides twisted. It’d been a long time since he’d been that close with anyone. He said nothing, did nothing, merely stood as silent witness to the ghost’s memories of the friend she was leaving behind.

The spirit glowed softly gold, shimmering like morning mist.

As the memories faded, she faded alongside them, until at last she winked out.

The stairwell was dark and empty, the air clear. Layla Brown’s fear had gone along with her.

The groundskeeper breathed deep, feeling like a weight had lifted off him. For a moment, he was satisfied. Another spirit sent on, at peace now, he hoped. Living folks saved further trouble, even if none of them realized it.

Then he looked at the bent handrail, the busted support, the shattered glass, and he sighed. Easier to deal with a haunting’s aftermath when the spirit was confined to a cemetery, where there was less to destroy and destruction could more easily be explained by natural phenomenon.

He stuck the support back in the stone and reattached the rail, swept the glass to the side. He found the caution tape a ways down the street. Best he could, he hung it back across the stairwell’s entrance before trudging uphill and uptown to tie the two friendship bracelets back on the fence by the school.

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Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-keeper-of-lonely-spirits-original-e-m-anderson/21435412?ean=9780778368526&next=t&affiliate=397

Author Bio: 

E.M. Anderson (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent writer and the author of The Remarkable Retirement of Edna Fisher. Her work has appeared in SJ Whitby’s Awakenings: A Cute Mutants Anthology, Wyldblood Press's From the Depths: A Fantasy Anthology, and Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction. They have two master’s degrees and a feral passion for trees, birds, pole fitness, and Uncle Iroh. You can find them on Instagram, BlueSky, and Tumblr at @elizmanderson.

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