By Simon R. Green
Meet the operatives of the Carnacki Institute—JC probability: the group chief, courageous, fascinating, and virtually unbearably smug; Melody Chambers: the technological know-how geek who retains the antisupernatural apparatus operating; and satisfied Jack Palmer: the terminally gloomy telepath. Their challenge: deal with Ghosts. Lay them to relaxation, ship them packing, or simply kick their nasty ectoplasmic arses…
Their most modern task takes JC and the group to a small state village, web site of a famously haunted hotel. before everything, JC thinks that the spirits within the King’s fingers are extra the stuff of city legend than whatever that wishes the Ghost Finders’ services. Then one tale jewelry real: the story of a visitor trapped by means of an strange thunderstorm who retired to her room for the night—and vanished.
Trapped via an strange thunderstorm—like the person who starts off raging outdoors almost immediately when they arrive…
As the workforce investigates, they're compelled, one after the other, to stand a few tough truths approximately themselves, their relationships, and the haunting itself—truths which can push satisfied Jack over the sting into the insanity that he has regularly feared...
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Meet the operatives of the Carnacki Institute—JC probability: the group chief, courageous, fascinating, and virtually unbearably boastful; Melody Chambers: the technology geek who retains the antisupernatural gear working; and satisfied Jack Palmer: the terminally gloomy telepath. Their project: deal with Ghosts.
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Additional resources for Spirits from Beyond (Ghost Finders, Book 4)
Good black suit, a little too small, clutched briefcase, freckles of gray in the hair. No rings. He did not seem startled or doubled over with desire as they sometimes were. He was calm, his answering smile measured and almost sweet, like a photograph of a soldier lost in a long-ago war. Coolly, without taking his dark eyes from hers, he turned over his left palm and rested it on the creamy brown edge of his briefcase. His hand was covered in a mark she first thought horrible—it snaked and snarled, black and swollen, where fortune-teller’s lines ought to have been.
At the end of each day they tell her all they have learned of living. It is necessary work. No family has been so often formally thanked by the city as hers. _______ On the other side of the street: a fortune-teller’s shop. Palm fronds cross before the door. Inside are four red chairs with four lustral basins before them, filled with ink, swirling and black. Orlande lumbers in, a woman wrapped in ragged fox fur. Her head amid heaps of scarves is that of a frog, mottled green and bulbous-eyed. A licking pink tongue keeps its place in her wide mouth.
It folds itself, origami-exact, in midair: it has papery eyes, inky feathers, vellum claws. It stares down the long avenues, searching for mice. This is the life cycle of Palimpsest fauna. Yumiko leans against the door post, holding her arms out like a sister who had never hoped to see her dear one again. She is not wearing her schoolgirl’s dress any longer, but a red scrap that clings to her waist like a spool of yarn pulled tighter than breathing. With a local girl’s surety she guides Sei inside—a little scalloped bell chimes, and Imogen looks up from her parchments with a stern face, her black hair soft around a neck just slightly too long for a woman to wear in company.