The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees. Granny shivered and set her drink on the end table. Eyes widening, she reached back and pulled the afghan around her. Without a convenient afghan, a film of goosebumps spread across my neck, flurried down my spine and over my arms, where the hairs waved around like hundreds of tiny, headless snakes. Uh oh, definite signs the visitor hadn’t gone. And the sea salt was still scattered over by the patio doors.

I rubbed my arms and hoped Howard would appear. This wasn’t a ghost I’d met before. Nor was it a previous acquaintance or former resident, now a spirit, who had crossed over and dropped back by for a visit, as they can do for short periods. My psychic senses told me that, and I’ve learned to listen to that inner voice from experiences—both bad and good.

Trucker pricked his ears, and Miss Molly stirred in my lap. They stared at my desk. Alert, Granny shifted to follow their gazes. The silence in the room closed in like a weight, and I glanced at Casper: two a.m. plus thirty-three minutes.

Trucker growled, and Miss Molly spat that damned weird meow-ser. The phone rang, and Granny and I both jumped. Miss Molly leapt, claws digging into my thighs through the caftan. I yelped, but the cat and dog scrambled to my desk, into their get-ready positions. Trucker sat, ears perked and tongue lolling out. On the desk, Miss Molly patted a black paw against the receiver, a chastising glare for my slowness on her cream and black face. Rubbing my scratched thigh with one hand, I hobbled over and grabbed the phone in mid-ring with the other. Not bothering with caller ID—it had to be Katy—I muttered an irritated, "Hello."

For a few seconds, only choking, unrestrained sobs from a woman on the verge of emotional madness were audible. "Katy? Katy, for heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?"

She gasped—and sobbed hysterically again.

"Katy!" I demanded. "What’s going on?"

She gurgled and hiccuped. "He’s . . . he’s dead!"

Relieved and amused, I soothed, "Sir Gary’s been dead for a long, long while. He’s a ghost, remember?"

"No!" she burst out. "Not Sir Gary! The man in my pool! He’s dead! Oh, God, Alice. Please help me!"

Kathy Lynn Emerson, author of Deadlier Than the Pen

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