Free Into the Light by Sommer Marsden

Things That Go Hump In The Night
    My name is Martee Hollywood. My father wanted a boy. When I emerged, kicking, screaming, and pissed off as usual, he went with the name anyway. According to Pop, he compromised by giving me the “more feminine” double e at the end of my name.
    My mother swears she tried to change his mind. She blames it on the pain medication.
    The Hollywood was Holstein, once upon a time. Pop was a talent agent. Holstein just doesn't cut it when you're sweet-talking a club owner into using Rita and Her Dancing Donkeys! in their dinner theater. And so the Hollywood moniker was born, and it stuck. I was thirteen before I knew my real surname was Holstein. By then, it was too late. I was who I was. I still am.
    In case you're wondering what a girl with a name like Martee Hollywood does for a living, I'll fill you in. I'm a psychic medium.
    You can stop laughing now.
    I was born that way. Just like I was born with a double e at the end of my name instead of the standard y . It's the hand I was dealt, and I've chosen to play it. A girl's got to make a living (I use the term loosely) and it's best to use your natural talents. My talent happens to involve dead folks.
    Let me take a moment to clarify. A medium is always a psychic, but a psychic isn't always a medium. Psychics operate mostly on their highly sensitized intuition and deal with past, present, and future. Most specialize in the future. A medium can have a heart-to-heart with a deceased individual. I'm both. I can tell if you'll marry your new beau and then have a chat with your dead Aunt Ida.
    My “gift” became evident when my first imaginary friend turned out to be the spirit of a little girl who'd lived in my family's house during the fifties. She'd been run down by a Studebaker driven by the middle-school principal. She told me he was drunk as a skunk and dozing off at the time he hit her. From what she says, he never felt the impact. Went on with his life while hers suddenly ended. So much for my “gift."
    I spend my time working for the Seekers, a paranormal research team started by my best friend and former lover, Trip Ericson. We get distress calls more than you'd think, and they're not all about thumps in the attic. We run the gamut of the paranormal. Last week a woman called because the full moon is approaching, and she suspects her husband is a werewolf. I say she's off her meds, but hey—you just never know. That much I've learned.
    I've actually fallen in love with my work. It gives me something to do. As of this writing, a personal life is just a pipe dream. Who can hump the handsome blind date with a ghost staring over her shoulder? Maybe you can, but, to be honest, it freaks me out.
    * * * *
    "The new owner called last night,” Trip said.
    We sat in the van and stared at the neglected Victorian monstrosity. The paint was a faded pink with sickening aqua gingerbread trim. Everything about the house looked crooked. The steps slanted to the left, the porch tilted to the right. I was getting vertigo just looking at it.
    "Upset?” I asked. I took a sip of bitter, cold coffee and shivered. Even coffee can't stay hot in thirty-degree weather.
    "Not really. Unsettled would be a better description."
    "Ghosts do that. They unsettle us."
    Make no mistake—there were ghosts in this house. More than one. I was too far away to tell how many, what genders, or what their stories were, but I knew they were there. I could feel them even as I sat at the crumbling curb out front. Ghosts tend to stick to their territory. I'd make contact the moment I crossed the threshold.
    "Mikey coming?” I asked.
    "He should be here any minute. He's bringing Missy and Liz with him."
    "The whole gang,” I noted.
    "I thought you'd be happy.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled black hair and lit a cigarette.
    "I'm thrilled. I'll take all the help I can get."
    Mikey is Trip's cousin and constant partner in crime. They are inseparable, and I'm almost