Raising The Dead. Mara Purnhagen

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      Mara Purnhagen cannot live without a tall caramel latte, her iPod or a stack of books on her nightstand. She has lived in Aurora, Illinois; Kalamazoo, Michigan; Dayton, Ohio, and Duncan, South Carolina. She currently lives outside Cleveland, Ohio, with her family, two cats and a well-meaning ghost who likes to open the kitchen windows.

      Visit Mara online at her website www.marapurnhagen.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/mara.purnhagen

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter One

      I was not morbid, but I had already written my epitaph: Here lies Charlotte Silver, who died at 17 from excruciating boredom. Composing an appropriate epitaph was an old trick I used to keep myself awake during one of Dad’s lectures. The historical ones were particularly painful, even when I was supposed to serve as his assistant and had little jobs to perform, like setting up the PowerPoint presentation and making sure we had enough copies of his book for the signing afterwards.

      I looked out at the eager crowd. The ancient auditorium was filled to capacity, people drawn in by the allure of listening to a semifamous paranormal investigator despite the raging weather outside, which the local meteorologists said was an effect of the latest hurricane to batter the South Carolina coast. Dad had been speaking for almost an hour, and the mostly middle-aged men who comprised his core audience were still dutifully taking notes and nodding in excited agreement.

      “Originally, it was not pumpkins that were carved for Halloween, but the more plentiful turnip,” Dad said.

      That was my cue. I retrieved a tiny turnip from our box of props and handed it to him, then sat back down. A few cameras flashed. The audience liked to take pictures of Dad, and I knew they liked to get me in the shot, as well. We looked so much alike, both of us tall and with the same straight, dark hair. There was no mistaking that I was Patrick Silver’s daughter.

      “You may ask how it was possible to carve such a small gourd and insert a candle into its belly.” Dad held up the withered vegetable. More nodding from the audience. “The answer is simple. Europeans used to grow much larger turnips.”

      I handed Dad a bigger turnip, this one made from papier-mâché. He lifted it up and the audience applauded. They actually applauded. I felt sorry for them. Then I remembered that I was the girl spending a Friday night listening to her dad’s stock speech on the history of Halloween and handing out turnips. I had no right to judge others.

      “Now,” Dad said, clapping his hands together. “Who wants to talk about ghouls?”

      After the lecture, Dad signed copies of his books while I packed up our props and shut down the computer. Once everything was packed, I sat on the edge of the stage. Through the auditorium’s open doors I could see the long line for Dad’s book signing and knew I was stuck for a while. I let my legs dangle off the stage. Thunder rumbled outside, the lights flickered inside, and I hoped the auditorium was equipped with a good backup generator. As the daughter of paranormal investigators, I wasn’t scared of the dark—or much else. But the thought of sitting in a vast, windowless room with a crowd of anxious people made me uneasy. How would I find my dad in the dark? I was identifying the nearest exit when I heard a familiar voice.

      “Nice job.”

      “Noah?” He was standing near the back of the huge room, but his voice echoed towards me. My heart beat a little faster. “What are you doing here?” I asked as he walked down a side aisle.

      He hopped up onto the stage and sat next to me. His khaki rain jacket was covered with dark patches of water and his brown hair was spiky from the rain. “How could I pass up a chance to hear about the true origins of Halloween rituals and traditions and their impact on modern society?”

      “So you read the flyer. Why are you really here?”

      He sighed. “We lost power at our apartment. My mom decided we should go to Shane’s place. I knew you were here, so I asked her to drop me off. Can you give me a ride later?”

      “Sure.” I suppressed my inner urge to squeal. Noah came here because he knew I was here? That was positive. Although his only other option was to hang out with his mom and her new boyfriend, and I knew he’d rather pour Tabasco in his eyes than watch the two of them swoon over each other. Shane was like an uncle to me, and while I thought his new relationship with Noah’s mom was wonderful, I could see how it might bother Noah. A week earlier he had walked into his living room to find Shane and Trisha locked in a passionate embrace, and he said he still had nightmares. Noah believed that moms should wear loose-fitting jeans and kiss on the cheek only.

      Another growl of thunder caused me to flinch. “I can’t believe this storm is getting worse. I thought hurricane season was almost over. How bad is it outside?”

      Noah swung his legs in rhythm with mine. “Lots of downed power lines. There’s a flash flood warning, too.”

      “I wish I was home.”

      “You don’t like thunderstorms?” He sounded surprised.

      “No, I do. But I like to enjoy them from home, where I can curl up on the sofa in my pajamas and keep a flashlight nearby.”

      Noah laughed softly, a sound that warmed my stomach and caused it to flutter at the same time. “I know what you mean. When I was a kid, my brothers and I would turn the dining room table into a fort whenever there was a bad storm. We’d sit underneath it and Mom would bring us cookies.” He smiled СКАЧАТЬ