Excerpt from Of Ghosts and Geeks

by Molly Ringle

published by The Wild Rose Press, 2011

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Chapter One

Gwen Walberg clutched her new tissue-wrapped treasure to her chest, trembling with excitement as she hurried out of the book fair. Could she really have paid a mere seventy-five dollars for a first edition of Nathaniel Honeypost's Fantastic Mythologies, illustrated by the unrivalled Martha Carleton Shaw? The book's bindings and typesetting looked old enough to have been printed in 1873 as the title page claimed. The tired elderly man who sold it to her clearly had no idea what he possessed--he had seemed downright grateful to place it in her hands.

Shutting herself into her car in the convention center's parking garage, Gwen peeled open the tissue paper for another look. Okay, admittedly, the book's value was lessened by the pink lace a former owner had glued to its cover, along with the ink scribbles on the front leaf--mostly the name "Violetta" paired with the names of mythical heroes, inside the shapes of hearts and clouds. Still, if the book was authentic, it had to be worth thousands of dollars. Gwen rewrapped the book and started the car, her fingers tingling.

Imagine the fame! Finally some recognition in her department at the college, something worthy of publication. They might even make her a full professor, but she wouldn't get her hopes up, not until she knew.

The gate lifted at the garage's exit, and Gwen sped out of downtown Seattle and into her quiet suburb.

An hour later, after calling three different experts (on Honeypost, Shaw, and rare books, respectively), Gwen whooped aloud in delight and danced around her living room, rattling the vintage Star Wars action figures that crowded her end table.

The book was genuine. Only five known copies existed in the world, all of them in museums, and now she owned a sixth. Oh, she would show them now, those snotty professors in her English department, never inviting her to their brunches and Christmas parties. She could even leave this college, its dinky campus cowering beneath Northwest clouds and overgrown maples. That's right, goodbye, minor leagues. After this, she'd have offers from Harvard, Cambridge, Oxford!

The phone rang, and her heart clutched up in dread. Maybe one of her experts was calling back to say, "Sorry, I was wrong. It's a fake."

Gwen answered. "Hello?"

"Gwinnebago! How's Girthmore College?"

Gwen wilted in relief, along with some annoyance. "Uncle Bert. Um, things are good, but right now I-"

"Don't worry, Gwen, I won't take up much of your time. I only wanted to invite you to our seance tonight. My group's hosting a French medium. We're hoping to contact Marie Antoinette!"

Gwen winced. Her Uncle Bert, the only other academic in the family, was a parapsychologist, and frequently embarrassed his friends and relatives with his enthusiasm about ghosts, telekinesis, and other impossible things. He insisted he'd held numerous conversations with souls from beyond, a claim that had Gwen and other family members worrying that he probably required psychiatric medication. But he seemed mentally acute in every other way, so they kept putting off the issue--and dodging his seances.

"Thank you for thinking of me, Bert, but I have a lot of grading to finish tonight. Maybe next time?"

"Ah, too bad. Yes, next time I'll give you more advance notice and save you a seat! We'd love to see you." Uncle Bert paused. "Do you have a lover in the house, Gwen? I'm sensing a vibe of delight from you, an aura with an 'enamored' quality."

"Uncle Bert! No." Gwen felt her face get hot, and not merely because it was a muggy May afternoon. "I'm...working on a very satisfying lit project right now. That's all. Nothing that would interest anyone else." She added the last sentence quickly, not ready to share her discovery yet, especially with someone as unpredictable as Uncle Bert.

He chuckled. "Sure, Gwen. If you want to call it a project, that's what we'll call it." He sounded like he was winking.

"I should get back to work now. Goodbye, Uncle Bert."

"Later, dear." Still cackling at his own joke, Bert hung up.

Gwen set down the phone and turned away, instantly brightening at the sight of her new acquisition. She lifted it from her dining room table and kissed its front cover. "Oh, you are a thing of beauty."

She looked around her small house with regret. Living alone--twenty-nine years old and still never married--she had no one to share her good news with. Her parents lived in California and endlessly mired themselves in badly planned do-it-yourself home improvements. Her sister and brother-in-law, in the Portland area, had a new baby, as did the local couple who Gwen considered her best friends. Even if any of her nearest and dearest had time for her exciting news, they wouldn't totally grasp what was exciting about it. Still, she itched to tell someone, and would make an intrusive phone call if she had to.

The sound of a lawn mower rattled to her ears from her open kitchen windows. Carrying the book, Gwen darted into the kitchen and peeked out.

Paul Chang pushed the gas-powered mower across her backyard, his shaggy black hair fastened in a loose ponytail. He wore grass-stained jeans and a red plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Gwen smirked. Silly young dude was probably trying to look like the Incredible Hulk--like he was just so muscular his shirt wouldn't even contain his biceps. All right, he did have good muscle tone, but you'd expect that from someone who hauled around yard-waste carts all day.

Still, her heart lightened with excitement. Gwen had bumped into him in a bookstore downtown a month ago, and they'd had a surprisingly fun conversation about comic-book heroes who were based on ancient myths. Therefore Paul might in fact appreciate a rare mythology book.

And it was just common courtesy that made Gwen stop before going out, and peer into the small oval mirror next to her kitchen door. She removed her glasses since she wasn't reading at the moment, and made sure her dark brown bangs weren't frizzing out, and that the rest of her hair lay smooth down her back. Baring her teeth, she checked for any blueberry fragments from that muffin she'd scarfed down as lunch. Finding none, she straightened her Wonder Woman T-shirt and darted outside in search of Paul.

She followed the noise of the mower around to the side of the house. "Paul! Come look at--hey! No! Don't cut those!"

Chapter Two

Scowling, Gwen shoved the rare book beneath her arm, waiting impatiently for him to acknowledge her.

Paul turned, shut off the mower, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. He squinted at her through thick eyelashes. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"The daisies! Why are you mowing them?"

He cast a confused glance along the ground. "These tiny ones?"

"Yes! They're beautiful. Why would you cut them down?"

"They're in the grass. You wanted the grass cut, right?"

"Yes, but not the daisies. They make this gorgeous spangled carpet of-" She stopped before she started comparing her lawn flora to some scene from a fantasy movie. "Don't cut those!" she repeated.

Paul blinked at her, as if finding her crazy. "Then you want to let the grass grow on this side? Because I can't exactly mow the grass and dodge the daisies. I'm not getting down there with a teeny pair of scissors."

Gwen clenched the book tighter against her side. Forget showing antique treasures to this jerk. "Just don't cut this side," she said through her teeth.

"Fine." His voice gentled. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know. They'll grow back, really. Mowing's probably even good for them, now and then." His mouth eased into a smile, complete with a gleam of gorgeous white teeth.

Paul Chang's smile, when he used it, probably did melt most women's tempers. But Gwen felt herself above such tricks, and refused to let it soothe her. "Fine," she grumbled, and headed back toward the house.

"Was there something else you were going to say?" he called after her.

"Never mind!" She shut the kitchen door, harder than necessary.

Sinking into a seat at the table, she opened Fantastic Mythologies. The brilliant colors and flowing lines of Shaw's artwork acted as the balm she required, spreading wonder and peace into her mind.

Martha Carleton Shaw was her favorite artist of all time, not only for the romance and lifelike detail she poured into her paintings, but because Shaw's vision had inspired fantasy and science-fiction artwork for over a century now. Not bad for a Victorian-era woman, Gwen thought with admiration.

Myths had served as the inspiration for human storytelling since the dawn of history. Even when Gwen taught college students the works of Charles Dickens, Leo Tolstoy, or Jane Austen, she found ways to bring mythology into the analysis. But sci-fi and fantasy contained, in her opinion, the strongest and most fascinating reworkings of myth. Her favorite courses--when the department allowed her to teach them--focused specifically on those. Sure, she heard the mutters of "Trekkie" or "Tolkien freak" among the faculty, but the students loved that stuff. Hell, those professors were just jealous none of their courses were so popular.

So to acquire a book that combined two of her central loves in one--the groundbreaking artwork of Shaw, depicting ancient myths from around the world--would have been a treat by itself. But to have it be a pricelessly rare book too...

"Oh, how I love you," she promised the volume, as she turned a delicate page and beamed at a two-page spread depicting Valhalla from Norse mythology, all golden pillars, studly warriors, and fair valkyries.

"Now, which is better?" she mused aloud. "Lending you to museums for an obscene fee, or hoarding you and enjoying you every night in the comfort of my own home?"

Naturally she expected no answer, so it came as a great surprise when someone caressed her arm with a freezing hand.

Gwen jumped, thinking in the split second before she looked up, Did Paul get his damn hands wet in the hose and then sneak in here for some reason?

But when she did look up, it was certainly not Paul she beheld.

It was a young woman, tall and perhaps once pretty, but now looking as if she'd been dragged through several thorny hedges upside-down. She wore a long gown of faded purple, its buttons ripped open to the top of her bosom. Her long brown hair teetered halfway in its up-do; several locks had come loose and hung about her face and shoulders. Her skin was deathly white, and marred with cuts and scrapes, but her eyes gazed in avid delight at Gwen.

All around her body, she gleamed faintly, with a bluish light. And Gwen could see straight through her, to the bookcases and the solar-system mobile in her living room.

Gwen's hands and lips went numb as she processed what she was seeing. "My God," she whispered.

"So you're my new owner," said the ghost. "Oh, this is going to be such fun!"

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