Free Haunted by Kelley Armstrong

days.”
    He shot a grin my way. “Much too long. Now you’ve brought me a replacement opportunity, and I’m not about to let it slip past.”
    “So I’m stuck with you?”
    His grin widened. “For now and forever.”
    I muttered under my breath, grabbed his hand, and teleported us back to my marker.
     
    Before we were close enough to the hospital for the phantom bouncer to recognize me, we skipped around to the back. Once inside, we went in search of our haunters. Didn’t take long to find them. Just had to follow the screams.

 

    7
    WE WERE IN A DARKENED THERAPY ROOM. THE SHOUTS came from the adjoining room. Using my Aspicio powers, I cleared a peephole in the wall and looked through. Kristof slid onto the desktop to wait, knowing only I could see through the holes I created.
    Three people sat in the next room. The oldest was a woman in her late fifties, seated behind a steel desk. She wore a multicolored caftan, enormous loop earrings, and a necklace with an ugly wooden elephant slipping trunk-first between her breasts. The elephant looked scared. I didn’t blame him.
    The woman was leaning back in her chair, writing in a small notepad. Over her head, a huge poster screamed, YOU ARE THE CAPTAIN OF YOUR OWN SHIP . The photo was the famous Titanic shot of Leo and Kate with their arms spread on the bow. Stick me in front of that poster for an hour a week and I’d be ready to commit myself.
    A man and a woman, both in their late twenties, both dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, sat across from the therapist. The woman had one foot pulled under her, just as comfy as could be. Her neighbor was so tense he seemed to be hovering above the chair, poised to leap up at any provocation.

    “No, she’s right here!” the young man said. “Why can’t you see her?”
    “Tell me what you see,” the therapist intoned.
    “I’ve told you!” the man said. “I’ve told you and I’ve told you and I’ve—”
    “Barton,” the woman said. “Remember what we say? Anger has no place in our house. Like trash, we must take it to the curb.”
    “God, what a bunch of horse crap,” the younger woman said, yawning as she stretched her legs. “Tell her she’s a bitch. A stupid, blind old cow.”
    “You’re blind,” he said to the therapist. “If you can’t see her sitting right here—”
    “For God’s sake, Bart. Stop being such a pussy. She’s a bitch. Say it to her face.”
    “No!”
    “What, Barton?” the therapist asked. “What’s she saying to you?”
    Barton clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. The younger woman leaned over and whispered into his ear. He tried to brush her off, like a buzzing fly, but his hand passed right through her face.
    “Go on, tell her,” the ghost urged Barton. “Better yet, take a swing. Smash her smug face in. Now, that’d be real therapy.”
    Barton leapt to his feet and took a swing…at the ghost. When his fist passed through her, he threw up his hands and howled. Then he stopped and slowly turned to the therapist, who scribbled furiously. The ghost convulsed with laughter.
    I clenched my fists and turned to Kristof.
    “Can I smack her? Just one good smack—”

    “Oh, we’ll do better than that,” he said. “But first we have to find the others.”
     
    Again, the ghosts gave themselves away, this time not by making patients scream, but by sitting around chatting about it. No one knows why some mental patients can see ghosts. Maybe mental illness breaks down the boundary between possible and impossible, so, like small children and animals, the brains of the mentally ill weren’t always jumping in to edit their perceptions. Or it could be that these people have necro blood, but their families have strayed from the supernatural community. When they began hearing voices and seeing apparitions, everyone around them would assume the problem was psychological.
    So when we came across a group of four people, laughing about how they’d made a patient piss his pants,