The Séance

The Séance
Heather Graham

A channel for the dead–a warning to the living A chill falls over Christina Hardy's housewarming party when talk turns to a recent murder that has all the hallmarks of the so-called “Interstate-Killer” murders from fifteen years before. To lighten the mood, the guests drag out an old Ouija board for a little spooky fun…and that's when things become truly terrifying. Summoned by the Ouija board, the restless spirit of Beau Kidd, the lead detective–and chief suspect–on the original case, seeks Christina's help: the latest killings aren't copycat crimes, and he wants his name cleared.Back in the real world, cop-turned-writer Jett Braden is skeptical of Christina's ghostly encounters, but his police sources confirm all the intimate details of the case–her otherworldly source is reliable, and the body count is growing. The spirits are right. The Interstate Killer is still out there, and Christina's life is hanging in the balance between this world and the next.

Heather Graham

The SÉance

For Mary Walkley, with many thanks for many things,

and with very best wishes to Leigh Collett

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Prologue

Christie opened her eyes.

Everything seemed to be as it should be. The small porcelain clock on the mantel—Gran’s favorite, brought over from Ireland—sat in its place, the seconds ticking away softly. A night-light burned in the bathroom, because she didn’t like total darkness.

The air conditioner hummed.

The clock chimed softly.

It was midnight.

Then she realized what was wrong. Granda was in the room. He was watching her from the old white rocker that faced her bed. He was smoking his old pipe and rocking gently, and he smiled as she opened her eyes.

“Granda?” she murmured.

“Ah, girl, I woke you,” he said. “I didna mean to do so.”

“It’s okay, Granda,” she told him, curious. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, my girl, just the way it is,” he said, and he leaned toward her. “I want you to be good to Gran, that’s all, Christie. Be there for her.”

She almost laughed aloud in protest. She was twelve years old, and she didn’t even live near Gran, so she could hardly be much help to her. “I’m a kid, Granda,” she reminded him. “I can’t even go to the mall by myself.”

She was rewarded with one of his deep and endearing smiles. “So y’are young, girl, so y’are. But children can give a lot of love.”

She frowned, surprised suddenly that he looked so good, and that he was so calm, just sitting there, rocking, the pleasant odor of his pipe tobacco so strong. Gran had been on him about that pipe lately. And he had tried to stop smoking it to please her, which had been easy enough, since he’d been sick in bed so much lately. That was why she was there then, actually, when she should have been back home and going to school. They had come up to help Gran. Of course, Gran wasn’t alone. Christie’s uncle, her mother’s brother, and his wife and two sons lived in the area, but Christie suspected that her grandmother needed her mother. Certainly her mother believed that daughters had more of a bond with their parents—or maybe daughters were just more useful.

“She should know it, aye, she should, but you make sure she knows I love her, eh?” Granda said.

“Oh, Granda. She knows.”

“And your mom, too. But she has your da, and he’s a good man.”

“Mom loves you, too, Granda,” Christie said firmly, feeling it was important that he really understood that.

“Aye. And you love me, too, eh, moppet?”

“Of course!”

“Gran is the one who will miss me most.”

“What are you going on about, Granda? You’re not going anywhere!”

“Be there for her,” he said, then rose and set his pipe on the mantel. He came to the bed, sat by her side and scooped her into his arms against his chest, and held her as he had often done when reading her a story—or making one up. She seldom knew what was true and what wasn’t, because Granda had, so Gran told her, the gift of blarney. But she loved him and loved his stories, and all her friends loved him, too, because he had such a way with the tales he’d brought over from the old country.