Free Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb Page A

it weights the air as if it carries many burdens. It feels, if not ancient, then very old.
    “Had it since Guadalcanal,” Mr. Carlotta told me once.
    I don’t know if that’s true, or if one ghost has been swapped for another. In the past few years, I’ve sensed it’s the same one. Why it chooses to haunt Mr. Carlotta, I can’t say, although I’m certain Mistress Armand would be willing to take a guess.
    But that’s all it would be. My theory? Ghosts latch onto emotions, either an overabundance of them or a complete lack, depending. It’s why you so often find sprites annoying a humorless person. They think it’s funny.
    Sometimes it is.
    But in Mr. Carlotta’s case, I suspect this spirit merely wants to commiserate. Maybe it was a soldier, like he was during World War Two. Maybe it suffered a great loss and feels that same loss in him. But it makes the air hard to breathe in here, dims the overhead lights. A well of sadness forms in my chest.
    “Let me see if they have any coffee in the staff break room.”
    Mr. Carlotta waves away my suggestion. “You won’t catch this one with that swill.”
    He’s right about that.
    “Go home, Katy-Girl. I’ve lived with this ghost for many a year. One more night won’t matter.”
    “I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” I tell him. “With the Kona blend.”
    “Extra cream and sugar?”
    “Of course.” I lean down and let him kiss my cheek.
    “Close the door and shut the light off on the way out?” His voice is quiet, just shy of plaintive. I don’t want to leave him here, alone, in the dark. But I do.
    On my way toward the lobby, a quavery voice calls out.
    “Katy, dear, is that you?”
    I pause in front of another resident’s door. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Mrs. Greeley?”
    “I wanted to tell you how much I’ve been enjoying your grandmother’s visits.”
    I push open the door. The room is shrouded, the space lit by single nightlight. Not that Mrs. Greeley needs it. She’s blind. I’m conscious—maybe self-conscious—about how I step, as if Mrs. Greeley can detect worry and stress in my footfalls. When I reach her bed, I take her hand.
    She folds my hand between hers. “Are you all right, my dear?”
    Nope, I’m not fooling her. “Tired,” I say. “I went to the séance, then pushed Mr. Carlotta all the way here.”
    “Old fool. He should’ve called for the shuttle.”
    “I wanted to walk,” I say.
    Her skin feels papery thin against my own. She is so frail, her fingers like twigs. And yet, despite her blindness, I suspect she perceives more than the rest of us combined.
    “I haven’t seen your grandmother for a few days,” she says.
    “It’s a busy time of year. Close to Halloween. Sprites like to make mischief then.”
    Mrs. Greeley chuckles. “Indeed they do. If you see her before I do, tell her I’d love to continue our chat.”
    “I will,” I promise.
    The night manager meets me in the hall, a few doors away from Mrs. Greeley’s room.
    “Oh, Katy, I’m so sorry.” He’s the sort of man who wears his anxiety all over his face, and now lines crease his forehead. “We’ve had her in for testing. Her memory is fine. Why she insists that she can talk to your grandmother, no one can figure out.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “But it’s not. You already do so much for the residents here. That you’re reminded of ....”
    He can’t bring himself to say your grandmother’s death , so he lets the sentence trail.
    “Every single time,” he adds, with more conviction.
    “It’s really okay,” I insist. “In some ways, it’s like my grandmother lives on through Mrs. Greeley.”
    The night manager looks unconvinced. He crinkles his forehead, multiplying the lines there, then gives me a shrug. “How was the séance?” he asks.
    “A waste of time.”
    With that, I leave, before I can confess more, before I can tell the night manager that Mrs. Greeley does talk to my grandmother. For my grandmother still makes rounds