Chapter 1: Grumpy Girls
Colby 

The fact that Colby Asher was dead didn’t mean he couldn’t still have a good time. It just meant most of his fun came at other people’s expense.

To be fair, he didn’t have many options. He couldn’t play lacrosse anymore. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t even read unless it was over someone’s shoulder, and haunting a college campus meant most of the reading wasn’t particularly entertaining. He couldn’t party—sure, he could watch, but not participate, which wasn’t fun. His conversation options were limited to other dead people who also couldn’t do much of anything. He had to find his fun where he could.

And nothing was more fun for Colby than messing with the first-years on Move-In Day. 

The rising sun set a hazy, humid glow over the graveyard, and from where Colby sat on his favorite bench, he watched the gentle waves of the St. Mary’s river shift from pearly pink and gold to shimmering blue. Well, he didn’t actually sit, because ghosts can’t sit, but the sensation of arranging himself there provided some much-needed normalcy to his unusual existence. 

Colby peeked over his shoulder, scanning the graves for movement, living or otherwise. 

Nothing.

He popped up and dashed along the low brick wall, weathered and worn with age, toward the tall black iron gate separating the graveyard from St. Mary’s campus. Slowing when he reached Trinity Church Road, the curving lane that connected the college's older, western side with the newer eastern half, he turned toward the dormitories.

By now, they’d be full of nervous first-years and overemotional parents.  Prime targets for some pranks.

Colby shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts—still unsure whether they qualified as pockets, since physical objects passed through him and the clothes he’d been wearing the day he died. To his left, bright river waves glinted through flowering trees and shrubs of the campus gardens. Orange lilies drooped along the road’s edge, suggesting the heat of summer was still clinging to the last days of August. The humidity used to bother Colby when he was a student here. But ghosts never feel the heat. 

They never feel anything.

“Where ya headed, Scamp?”

Colby stopped and cringed. So close.  

Moll Dyer trudged behind him in her own version of familiar normalcy: arms stiff at her sides, hands clenched into fists, glaring at Colby. Wisps of dirty blonde hair streaked with gray fluttered from beneath her white cap bonnet, framing her face. Her posture was rigid, her stride firm—still strong despite her middle age. A few paces ahead of her, a phantom dog trotted up to Colby, tongue lolling in time with its wagging tail.

“You know it’s Move-In Day, Moll.” Colby knelt in front of the dog, a scruffy brown collie-terrier mix. He couldn’t pet the ghostly animal, but it was still pleasant to pretend. “Hey, Cari. Tell her not to hassle me today.”

“Don’t hassle you.” Moll’s lilting Irish accent took none of the bite from her words. “So ya can hassle those poor kids and their mums and dads? They’re already overwhelmed, mothers crying, kids don’t know where they are. And ya take yer fun scaring the daylights out of ‘em.” She stopped in front of him. “It’s selfish and sick.”

Cari retreated back to her mistress, as if recognizing she was risking her own well-being by showing sympathy to Colby. Colby stood up; the top of Moll’s head barely reached his shoulder, but the fierce scowl she aimed up at him filled the space. 

“You don’t mind when I pick on them while they’re getting drunk down at Church Point,” Colby argued.

“Because by then, they’ve been here a while! They’ve had time to make friends, get comfortable. Mess with ‘em then all ya want. Leave ‘em alone today.”

Colby flashed his most practiced, disarming smile. “I won’t be rough with them, Moll. I’ll just tease them a bit.”

She swatted her hand at his tousled golden-brown hair, which did nothing but expel some of her negative energy. “Don’t try to charm me, Scamp. Yer not as cute as ya think ya are.”

He grinned. “Yes, I am.”

Her expression remained rigid, glaring up the inches he had over her. Of all the ghosts at St. Mary’s, Moll Dyer was the toughest nut for Colby to crack. As he had countless times, he tried to imagine her alive, when Maryland’s first colony was barely a town. Her clothing suggested she was someone of wealth or importance—a deep green gown patterned with pink and gold flowers, trimmed in white lace—but the shabby, tattered condition of the dress and her gruff, belligerent attitude didn’t fit that station. 

She was a ballbuster by modern standards; in the 1640s, she’d have been downright terrifying.  

“Come on, Moll. Don’t pretend you didn’t get into some messy shit when you were my age.”

“Pfft.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Ya think a lass yer age in my time was allowed to get into any kinda shite?”

“I think you would have purposely looked for the shit for precisely that reason.”

Her face was still tight with disapproval, but he spotted a twinkle in her eyes. 

He’d won.

“Go easy on ‘em,” Moll said. “Just little things to make ‘em wonder.”

“Absolutely!” Colby continued down the street, grinning over his shoulder at her with his tongue between his teeth. “I’ll give ‘em some good stories to start the year off right.” 

His first target was always Queen Anne Hall. First-year girls were so jumpy, it almost took the fun out of his pranks. 

Almost. 

The hallways were crowded with bustling movers as Colby scanned for potential pranks. Nothing major yet; six years of this existence had taught him to warm up. He couldn’t truly touch or interact with physical objects, only manipulate the energy around them, which required focus and control—two traits Colby generally lacked when he was alive.

One open dorm room revealed a girl taping posters to her wall. A perfect, classic warmup.

The energy in the room buzzed through his spirit, because Colby himself was all energy too. At least, that was his theory. None of the ghosts knew for sure what they were now. He extended his awareness to grasp that energy, channeling it to the poster corner. The paper was thin, so it didn’t require much effort to tug it loose. It fluttered down over the girl’s head.

She groaned and swatted it back into place.

Colby channeled again, shifting his focus to the other corner, and tugged it loose.

“Damn it!” the girl snapped. Colby chuckled and left her struggling under the falling paper.

Other rooms suffered more of his favorites: hiding single socks, tipping water bottles, moving scissors or pocket knives used for opening boxes. In his wake, he left a chorus of stressed parents yelling, “I put them right here! Where are they?”

He followed a father carrying a large, open box of linens down the hall. Colby released a wave of pressure against a washcloth on top, tossing it to the floor. The father sighed and stopped to scoop it up. Colby let the man get a few paces farther, giving himself a moment’s rest, then pulled the cloth again. And again. The father was swearing by Colby’s fifth pass. 

“Impressive,” Colby said to the man as he walked away. “Not many hold their patience that long. I salute you, sir.”

He didn’t stay long in Queen Anne. He never stayed in any of the dorms longer than an hour so as to wrap up his mischief before the families started leaving.

Even after six years, Colby still couldn’t stand to watch mothers cry.

He moved on to the cluster of dorms known as The Hill, and the first co-ed building, Prince George’s Hall. The lobby bustled with scurrying students and families, with Resident Assistants directing traffic. He was ready for a challenge now. No more socks or poster corners. It was time to get creative. He strolled down the first hallway, glancing in rooms for ideas. 

“Why do you have so many books? Haven’t you ever heard of a Kindle?”

Colby perked up at the sound of a harsh female voice from the room at the end of the hall. Someone was stressed. 

The room in question revealed a girl—presumably the stressed one—standing with her arms crossed and the weight of her stocky, athletic frame shifted over one cocked hip, glaring at the trundle bed across the room. Specifically, at another girl kneeling beside it, setting hardcover books on the small shelf underneath.

“I have a Kindle.” The second girl’s voice was as soft as a breeze. “But I like to keep hardcovers of my favorites.”

The first girl huffed and turned sharply away. “Well, they take up a ton of space. You’re not going to use any of my shelves if you run out of room.”

Colby squatted beside the Book Girl. He could tell that once she stood she’d be short, possibly shorter than Moll, which made her already curvy figure seem fuller and softer beneath a flowing green top and denim shorts. Her round face appeared flushed—or that could have been the freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. Wavy amber hair fell to her shoulders, and her brown eyes shimmered with restrained moisture, though her expression was composed. 

Her shoulders dropped a bit, then lifted her posture, as if she were consciously trying to make herself taller even on the floor. She cleared her throat. “Do you like to read?”

Colby glanced at the roommate, who was checking her phone. Her face scrunched. “Sure, but we’ll have plenty of reading for classes. And that better not mean you’re going to be holed up in here twenty-four-seven. I want to be able to bring people over.”

“Of course. I mean, no, I won’t be here all the time. Maybe we could work out a schedule—”

The roommate sighed. “It should not be this hard.”

Colby narrowed his eyes, letting enough of his irritation with Roommate surface to make his presence known. 

Book Girl shivered as she stood, hugging her arms around her soft waist. Roommate made no such movement, clearly not registering the drop in temperature that meant she’d pissed off a spirit. 

“My dad says anything worth doing is always hard,” Book Girl offered, a hesitant attempt at a smile lifting her cheeks.

Roommate continued scrolling. “I don’t think existing in your own bedroom falls into that category.”

“Agreed,” Colby said, moving closer to Roommate. He studied her phone screen: a series of vicious texts to someone about her obnoxious antisocial roommate who had the personality of a folding chair and clearly didn’t enjoy vegetables or exercise and would probably snore all night long. Colby’s anger simmered enough that he didn’t need to reach for much energy to swat her phone to the floor. 

“Shit!” Roommate screeched, diving to catch her phone. She huffed and tossed her thick curls over her shoulder. “Look, the only reason I’m here is because my original roommate backed out—”

“I’ll bet she did,” Colby said drily.

“So we don’t need to be best friends or anything. You do your thing, I’ll do my thing. Don’t touch my stuff, stay on your side of the room, and let’s get through the year.” Roommate snatched her purse off the desk and stuffed her phone into it.

Book Girl’s face fell, but her voice remained steady. “That sounds fine.”

Colby was not letting Roommate leave without making his opinion clear. He scanned the room, the bed, then spotted her ID lanyard and keys resting on her desk. 

Bingo.

He crouched beside the desk, gathering the energy around him. 

As Roommate reached for the keys, Colby flicked his hand and swatted them off the desk. They fell to the floor with a tinkling clatter.

Both Roommate and Book Girl froze, staring down at the keys. 

Colby’s spirit sagged; heavier objects always took more out of him. But he smirked despite his fatigue. “Pretty cool, huh?” 

Beneath her freckles, Book Girl’s face had gone pale.

Roommate swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she gingerly picked up the keys and hurried out the door.

“Wait!” The tinge of panic sharpened Book Girl’s timid tone. Her eyes flitted around the room.

Shit. Now she was upset and scared. Colby shook his head. Idiot.

He couldn’t afford more time to rest, not when she appeared to be hurtling toward a panic attack. He stretched out to the energy around them, funneling it into his core to drag his voice up from the deepest part of his spirit. “You’re safe.”

Book Girl would have heard only an airy whisper, but she winced like his voice was a clap of thunder. Colby slumped; moving objects was one thing, but the effort it took to speak always left him exhausted.

“Oh come on,” he muttered at her wide brown eyes. “If you knew how hard that is, you’d give me a little more credit.”

The tiniest hint of a true smile broke across her frightened face.

Colby steadied himself in front of her. He tapped her nose with his finger, or would have, if his spirit didn’t pass through living beings. 

She shivered and gasped. He grinned. Did she feel him? It wasn’t impossible, but rare for living people to feel the ghosts’ presence. He took in her wavy amber hair, her freckled honey-gold cheeks, her thick curves that would be a dream for late-night cuddling. 

She was cute. 

“Don’t worry,” Colby said, but not with enough force for her to hear. “You and I are going to be friends. And I take care of my friends.” He swiped her nose again and chuckled as he walked out.

The front lobby was empty now. His defense of Book Girl had ruined his playful mood for PG Hall. Hopefully things would be more fun over in Caroline Hall.

But he stopped inside the narrow entryway.

A leg was sticking out between the main entrance double doors. 

A very nice leg, naturally curved, ending at a delicate foot in a beige slip-on walking shoe. 

The leg grunted.  Then the door jerked backward, and a girl emerged, carrying a large plastic bin while struggling to wedge the heavy dorm door open with her hip. 

She was cute too. A little taller than Moll, with creamy golden skin and silky black hair pulled in a high ponytail. She was wearing a gray St. Mary’s College T-shirt, but her knee-length black leggings were what held his attention. This girl had the kind of legs that would have made him hustle to carry that bin for her, when he was alive.

She shoved the door hard with her butt and it swung back enough for her to lift the bin through. She stumbled into the entryway and stopped in front of Colby, puffing a sharp breath to blow a loose lock of hair out of her face. “Excuse me.” 

He never took the time to check out girls anymore; what was the point? But whoever she was waiting for was doing him a favor, giving him an excuse to savor this beauty. 

Her eyes flashed upward. They weren’t so much blue as deep gray tinged with navy, the color of the St. Mary’s River before a storm.

“Dude, move. I need to get by.” Her voice grew louder, sharper, thunder accompanying the storm. 

He grinned. She was sassy too. Maybe he wouldn’t go over to Caroline yet. Whoever she was pissed at was in for some serious fun. He looked over his shoulder.

Behind him, the lobby was empty.

But the girl was still in front of him, the weight of the huge bin hunching her petite frame. Her jaw tightened as she hitched the box a bit higher. “You’re obviously too inconsiderate to help me, but could you at least step aside so I can carry my incredibly heavy box to my room?”

Colby blinked. His amusement dropped. 

Her piercing eyes widened. “Hello? What is your problem?”  

“Can you—” He couldn’t make himself say the words. “Do you—”

She huffed a frustrated sigh and stepped left around him, her ponytail swinging  through his chest. “Asshole,” she tossed over her shoulder, stomping past him.

Colby whirled around, jaw agape as the inky hair and perfect legs disappeared into the stairwell.