A Gulf War soldier stood at the end of Sharla Mickler’s bed, staring at her in quiet desperation, before fading into the darkness around him.

 

Sharla lay still, her heart whacking against the walls of her chest loud enough to cause an echo in the mostly empty bedroom.

 

“Holy cow. I did it.”

 

Now what?

 

He hadn’t stayed long enough to communicate, but maybe that would change in time. She hoped so, because this whole ridiculous scheme might be her last chance for happiness. Finding happily-ever-after with a ghost would probably startle her grandmother into sitting up in her grave and whacking her noggin on her casket lid.

 

Sharla shoved the handmade, wedding ring quilt aside and sat up. The room had returned to its normal early August temperature, which meant hotter than hell in Brisban, North Carolina. A white body-hugging, baby doll T-shirt and baby blue, boy shorts was about all she could stand to sleep in, and if she hadn’t been expecting a ghostly visitor, she wouldn’t have been wearing even that.

 

With a yawn she stood and moved to the window. Staring out at the quarter-moon night, she debated whether to go back to bed or drag out the Ouija board and try communicating with the soldier.

 

Grandma Ida Wilson had always cautioned her about playing with the Ouija. Unpleasant things tended to enter where they had no business being—among the living.

 

But soldier boy certainly hadn’t looked unpleasant. In fact, he was as good-looking as all get out. A man in camouflage never failed to make her heart scamper deliriously through Carolina blue skies. Not literally, of course, but if you were romantically inclined, you’d get the point.

 

Sharla pulled the curtain aside and glanced at the house next door to hers. A movement in the shadows caught her attention. Apparently, her very-much-alive good-looking neighbor, whom she had yet to meet, couldn’t sleep either. She had been awakened by a ghost. What was his excuse?

 

The soldier appeared next to her, startling a squeak from her throat. He opened his mouth and roared long and loud, screaming into her face, pulling the muscles of his neck and jaws into tight cords. White light exploded around him, momentarily blinding her.

 

Sharla dropped the curtain, backed up against the wall, and stared at him in wide-eyed bewilderment. Okay, maybe he’s not so friendly. Maybe he’s a rogue soldier who hates the military and everything it stands for. I know I’d be ticked off if I got blown up by a roadside bomb.

 

Just my god-awful luck if that’s the case. Sharla scooted along the wall, hoping to beat a hasty retreat across her bed.

 

Her bedroom door flew open and her dark-haired neighbor raised a sawed-off shotgun and blasted the ghost into a million particles. He pulled the trigger again, and the ghost vanished in a dusty vapor, dragging his roar with him into whatever realm ghosts existed.

 

Silence descended, except for the sound of their labored breathing.

 

Sharla stirred and pushed away from the wall. “That was my ghost.”

 

“Your ghost?”

 

“Yes. At least until you shot him. Now he may never come back. What were you thinking? You can’t kill something already dead, anyway.”

 

“I was thinking of your safety.” He lowered the gun. “I wasn’t trying to kill it. The gun’s loaded with rock salt.”

 

“My safety?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

He frowned. “Because, some ghosts are dangerous.”

 

“How many times have you heard of a ghost killing anyone?”

 

“They don’t need to kill you to be dangerous.”

 

“I’m going downstairs for some tea. Would you like to join me?” Sharla brushed by him and rushed down the steps, avoiding the groaning one that always gave her the creeps. It sounded like an evil ninety-year-old woman, who dwelled under the stairs, moaning just for the hell of it.

 

As she pulled the pitcher of sweet tea out of the refrigerator, her knight in misguided armor stepped on the groaning stair and a few seconds later arrived at the kitchen entrance.

 

“What’s your name?” she asked.

 

“Greg Chadwick.”

 

“Sharla Mickler.” She poured two small glasses full—no sense in being up and down the rest of the night having to go pee—and handed one to her new friend.

 

 “Do you live next door?”

 

Greg drained the glass and handed it back to her. “For now.”

 

“What is it that you do, Greg?” She sipped at her tea, leaning against the sink. “Besides shoot helpless ghosts with rock salt in the middle of the night?”

 

“I hunt evil spirits and put them out of our misery.”

 

“Ah, a Dean and Sam Winchester wannabe, but soldier boy wasn’t evil.”

 

“How do you know?” he asked, growing more irritated at her by the minute. She could tell by the way his forehead sprouted wrinkles every time she questioned him about something.

 

Sharla shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

 

“Look, it’s late. Do you think you can sleep here all by yourself?”

 

Sharla laughed. “I’m not scared of ghosts, especially one I conjured up.” She rinsed the glasses and set them in the drainer.

 

“Conjured?”

 

“Yes, with that.” She gestured toward the Ouija board.

 

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head, and then reached in his back pocket for his wallet. He extracted a card and handed it to her. “If anything happens that you can’t handle, call and wake me.”

 

Wake him? Who’s he kidding? The man never sleeps. “I think I can handle one ghost.”

 

“Sharla, this house has a bad reputation. Most of the stories are just urban legends, but a young woman did disappear from here about six months ago. I dug up the newspaper article. Be careful.” His gaze wandered over her scantily clad body. “I’d wear more clothes, if I were you. Not all danger is of the spirit variety.”

 

“I don’t dress like this outside my home. And you’re the only male blatant enough to kick down my door and rush to my rescue, even though I didn’t need rescuing. It certainly didn’t leave me enough time to get dressed for company.” Sharla pointed to her busted front door. “By the way, you’re gonna fix that, right?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll do it sometime tomorrow. Can you lock yourself in your bedroom?”

 

“If not, I’ll put a chair under the doorknob.” She smiled and toyed with one of the glasses on the drain board. “It should at least keep out living males with impure thoughts on their minds.”

 

His eyes grew smoky, but he decided not to take the bait. “Okay, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lingered a moment longer, his gaze wandering over her body once again, before heading toward the front door.

 

As Greg exited the house, a curious feeling flooded her body. Suddenly she was feeling incredibly sexy.

 

Mind back on soldier boy, pronto, Sharla.

 

The soldier was of Native American decent and hadn’t seemed too friendly, but he’d appeared desperate and frustrated, rather than angry. But how could she really know? After all, she wasn’t exactly the smartest judge when it came to men’s characteristics.

 

On the point of chasing after Greg and begging him to sleep on her couch, she sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the Ouija board instead.

 

Could it truly be an instrument of the devil as her grandma had always claimed? Had she conjured up an angry spirit?

Ooh...I can't wait to see where you're going with this!

Boy, I'm hooked...!! Great beginning....

Betty Sullivan La Pierre