Reviews are injurious to health
‘Countryside House. Available for immediate occupation. Rent negotiable.’
The advertisement caught my eye, with the word ‘immediate’ being the chief attraction. I connected with the agent, a smooth-talking man named Keys. After expressing my urgent need to get away from the city, I added that neither had I murdered someone nor robbed a bank. I was just looking to keep a low profile, which is exactly what a murderer or a thief would say.
On the contrary, Keys didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he extolled the values of Harrington Hall and proposed an amount well within my shoestring budget. This should have been my red-flag moment, but when you are used to life throwing football-sized lemons at you, you start hoping that something amazing happens once in a while, just to even things out.
Keys invited me for a viewing. He emphasized that if the Hall met my taste, I could move in. I liked this arrangement though everything about it screamed shady. While packing, my taser was the first item to go into my bag; naïve I was, stupid I was not. Keys didn’t sound like a serial killer, but then neither did Jack the Ripper.
On the bed lay my identity card which read ‘Luna Cooper, Assistant Editor, The Weekly Tattletale’. That right there, was the source of my strife. I tossed it into my suitcase with a vengeance. One talked about work-life balance; in my case, staying alive was a balancing act, but not in the way you think. I’ve always loved writing and reading books. Strangely, my woes also began with a book. The author had sent a copy to our office, asking for an honest opinion. Being rather new to the job, I didn’t realize that honesty has a certain element of subjectivity.
The novel in question was named ‘Stormy Passions,’ and written by M. Vitale. My editor, Ed, assigned me to write a full-page review. My Editor’s full name is Ed Shallow. His first name described his vocation, and the second, his temperament. Whoever named him must have been clairvoyant.
I managed to read ‘Stormy Passions’ with great difficulty. Walking blindfolded on a narrow plank over shark-infested waters would have been more pleasurable. The book was not worth the paper it was printed on. If the writer wanted honesty, he’d get it. I submitted a scathing review with words that cut sharper than a blade.
Ideally, my piece should have been cleared by Ed, but as luck would have it, he was down with the flu. As a consequence, my work found its way to the Weekly Tattletale’s Book feature section, unapproved. Following this faux pas, many things hit the ceiling, including my future employability. In an unfortunate twist, I learned that M. Vitale stood for Marco Vitale, the retired mobster, better known by his nickname ‘The Knucklecracker’. That also explained why I’d initially assumed he was a chiropractor.
Why would a dreaded gangster want to write tasteless erotica? Why didn’t he write about his life instead? True crime did sell; Netflix would love it. Marco’s could be a sequel to their hit series, Narcos. It had all the gory elements too, because Marco had been notorious for cracking umpteen knuckles with his trademark hammer.
Blissfully oblivious to repercussions, I published my review titled ‘A Masterclass In How Not To Write.’ All hell broke loose. Marco was furious and accused us of sabotaging his book. A hysterical Ed told me to disappear for a few days, out of concern, for his tarnished reputation and my untarnished knuckles. Ultimately, I had to pay the price for being a knucklehead.
I couldn’t crash at my parents’ house; it would invite too many questions. Being an introvert, I didn’t have many friends. Ultimately, I decided to find a place in the countryside to lie low. It was only a matter of time. Things would invariably cool down. Marco would get started on his next book and forget about me.
A blessing for me, but a blow to readers worldwide.
Always read the fine print
I stared at the imposing structure in front in disbelief. Harrington Hall wasn’t some run-down cottage. It was a mansion!
“Quite something, isn’t she?”
The voice belonged to a man with a paunch and a chubby face. He extended his pudgy hand.
“I’m Keys, the agent. You must be Luna. What do you think?”
If Keys thought he was taking me for a ride, he’d soon discover that my elfin appearance was deceptive. My black belt in Karate could vouch for that.
“Mr. Keys, for a house like this, why is the rent so cheap?”
He hemmed and hawed about real estate and weather. Tossing my head dramatically, I picked up my bags and attempted to leave. This was the negotiation tactic I used at the local flea market. Thankfully, it worked with agents too.
“Wait! Harrington Hall is rumored to have a teeny-weeny ghost.”
“The house is haunted?” I screeched. No wonder the rent was cheap!
A sense of déjà vu gripped me. Like the time I ordered a pair of socks at half-price and only one of them was delivered.
“Harrington Hall was owned by Lord Clearwater. After his death, his sister was his only surviving kin, and the house came to her possession. She had no interest in occupying it for the siblings had never gotten along. The place remained locked for years.”
“Is it still locked?”
“Last year, Lady Clearwater had a change of heart and tried to rent it out. No one could stay for more than a week. They claimed to hear unusual noises and movements at odd times.”
“Am I your guinea pig?” I demanded.
“Nobody has been harmed. It’s just vicious hearsay. Stay for a few days. Feel free to leave anytime. Besides, I reside in the neighbouring village and am just a call away.”
My instincts screamed that I should run. The only thing stopping me was the memory of Marco’s fuming face. Being hunted or being haunted; which was better? Ghosts weren’t real. Marco, on the other hand, was real. Really real.
Decision made.
“If you manage to stay, the curse on this mansion will be lifted forever,” Keys gushed.
This man must watch too much Disney.
“And then, something wonderful will happen!” he continued.
“Err…Happily ever after?”
“No. I’ll be paid my commission!” he beamed and handed over the paperwork.
How bad could this be? Ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach, I signed. My name should have been Lunatic, not Luna.
Keys opened the door, and I hauled my suitcase over the threshold, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Would I survive this?
A paranormal proposal is put forth
I didn’t just survive, I thrived. Harrington Hall was heaven – there was an elaborate hallway, five spacious rooms, a kitchen, and a locked cellar in the basement below for storing wines. The ornate chandelier and the drapes added to its old-world charm. To think I had almost turned down this opportunity! If there was a ghost; he was a considerate one, for he never bothered me. If all haunted houses were like this, I would happily sign up for more.
A week sped by since I moved in, and I cooked, cleaned, read, and wrote. It was the perfect idyllic existence. No specters spooked me, no skeletons tumbled out of the cupboard, and if there were any unusual sounds, I didn’t hear them. But then, I was a sound sleeper and as my ex-boyfriend, Jake claimed that not even an earthquake could awaken me. Ultimately, it was Jake’s infidelity that awakened me, and that’s ‘why’ he was now an ‘ex’.
Procuring supplies was easy – the ever-efficient Keys made sure everything was well-stocked. I did visit the village once or twice when I wanted fresh air. But for most of the time, I preferred to lounge about in my haven.
My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was Ed. For a change, he had good news. I wasn’t fired, yet. However, I was advised to work virtually for some more time as Marco was still on the prowl. The company did not want to undertake any liability or some gobbledygook.
That wouldn’t be a problem at all. The virtual working. Not Marco prowling. That still posed a problem.
In hindsight, I was living my best life. No office politics, no traffic, no overbearing boss, and a mansion to myself. Life was good. This realization called for a celebration. But where was I to get booze? I recalled the cellar in the basement – could there be a bottle of bubbly there? I deserved it. After all, I was doing social service by cleansing the besmirched building’s name. Lady Clearwater, whom I hadn’t met yet, must be elated with my efforts. She surely wouldn’t mind a minor indulgence on my part. Every tenant must be offered a ghostbusting bonus.
Emboldened, I made my way down to the cellar with my bunch of keys. The steps were narrow and dark. Now one may wonder why anyone would venture into a dark cellar in a house that had a reputation for being haunted. But we have already established that logic isn’t my strong suit.
The door was locked. After trying out different keys, I located the right one. The door swung wide open with a loud creak. On turning on the switch, light flooded through the dark basement, and I gasped. This wasn’t a cellar. This was a library. Even better! Who needs alcohol, when you have books?
Like a kid in a candy store, I explored the library and its many shelves that were dust-filled and bulging with rare books. The ageing books hadn’t been accessed for a while; the pages were delicate, and I had to be careful not to damage them. There was a shelf dedicated to giant copies of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Adjacent to it was a shelf filled with romance novels. I grabbed one and made myself comfortable on a chair. A gust of icy wind blew around me. I ignored it and continued reading. Being a fast reader, I skimmed through the pages quickly.
Was there a window open somewhere? The draft was killing me. I tightened my shawl around my shoulders and flipped a page.
“How I’ve missed this! It’s been years since I read a book,” an eerie soft voice jolted me out of my reverie.
I turned sharply, to see a silvery phantom-like faceless form hovering about. My throat went dry, and my heart wanted to jump out of my chest. What do you say when you meet a ghost?
Hi, hello. Please go away.
In utter panic, I made a cross symbol with my trembling fingers. “I’ve seen The Exorcist, and I know how to get rid of you!”
“My lady, sorry if I scared you. I meant no harm.”
“Sure, that changes everything,” I cried sarcastically.
When a problem confronts you, you face it. But when a ghost confronts you, you RUN.
I bolted, but bad luck prevailed. I stumbled and fell to the ground.
“Are you hurt?” the grey apparition asked as it glided around.
“Try immersing your ankle in a basin of cold water. Tie it up with a garter if it is sprained.”
“The ankle will survive. Not sure about me, though. Who are you?” I demanded.
“I can’t remember. Someone who died here in this library, perhaps?”
Was I like that boy in the Sixth Sense who could see dead people?
“Why has no one else seen you?”
“Nobody has shown any interest in reading here…except you.”
I had come for alcohol. No one needed to know that though.
The ghost seemed well-behaved and well-mannered. More importantly, he showed no sign of wanting to pull me over to the other side.
“What do you want?” I inquired, a little less hostile and a little more calmer.
“Imagine being trapped in a library, but not being able to read! The travesty! The pages slip through my diaphanous fingers every time. It’s frustrating!”
“Why are you here in the first place?”
“I’m confined to this library and cannot leave it. All I know is that I need patience.”
“I get that. I’m impatient too. But my mother says good things come to those who wait,” I consoled.
“I’ve been waiting for a long time to discover my purpose…” the apparition rued.
“That’s not just a paranormal problem. We the living also don’t know what we want.”
The phantom flitted, leaving speckles of silver here and there. The silver dissolved haphazardly, only to reappear and reassemble as a blob.
“What do I call you?”
“I don’t know. No one’s spoken to me for so long, I can’t remember my name.”
“Why don’t we call you Grey?”
It was a nice name, contemporary and gender-neutral, though a little shady, pun intended. The phantom didn’t have any objection to this suggestion. Remembering my manners, I introduced myself. “I’m Luna by the way.”
“Greetings, Miss Luna! I seek my salvation amongst these books.”
“A noble pursuit for sure.”
“I cannot read them because of my form. Can you help me? Will you be my reading companion?”
What?
I, Luna Cooper, was being demoted from Assistant Editor to Ghostreader.
“Err. I’ll sleep over your proposal, and let you know.”
I hobbled out, with a heart that beat faster than a racing stallion, resolving never to set foot in there again.
Had I been dreaming? Did I strike up a conversation with a spectre? Sadly, it was also the most interesting conversation I had had in a year with anyone, living or dead.
For the greater part of the day, my mind kept circling back to the shadowy occupant of the cellar. By evening, my curiosity got the better of me. After two hours of intense research on the internet, namely Quora, Reddit, and Wikipedia, I was assured that most ghosts were friendly. I went back to the library with this newfound confidence.
“Grey! I’m back!”
He appeared suddenly, startling me; a silvery mist with no clear contours.
“I did research. Google told me that souls are caught between life and death when they have an intense unfulfilled wish. Perhaps, yours is to experience the joy of reading. Once you satisfy that desire, you can be on your way to the pearly gates!”
“Who is Google?”
“It’s a search engine.”
“Like a train?”
“No. More like an encyclopaedia.”
“I don’t like encyclopaedias.”
“Noted. What would you like to read today?”
I pulled out a book and settled on a chair as Grey positioned himself behind me to read.
The different shades of Grey
Once I overcame my fear of being either possessed or dispossessed, I warmed up to the ghost. Every day, I spent time with Grey. Some days we read quietly, other days I read out to him. He mostly listened, speaking only occasionally. They didn’t make men like him, nowadays.
A month sped by, and we fell into a comfortable routine, reading several books together. It was strangely soothing. If this was lunacy, so be it. Grey still kept sighing to himself about being patient. A part of me wanted him to attain closure. But perhaps he could stay for some more time? What madness was this?
Sometimes, madness made more sense than sensibility. In any case, who got to decide what normal, abnormal, or paranormal was?
Ed and I caught up over video calls. He remarked how happy and healthy I looked and that the countryside air must be doing wonders for me. We discussed the possibility of my return which was further delayed because the threat of the Knucklecracker was far from over. It was the awards season and ‘Stormy Passions’ hadn’t been shortlisted for a single award, not even the paid ones. While I attributed it to the wretched writing, the plotless plot, and grotesque grammar, Marco blamed it on a ‘biased review that was nothing less than a personal attack’. The existence of ‘Stormy Passions’ was a personal attack on literature, in my opinion.
It was rather cold and quiet at Harrington Hall today. I wasn’t ready to descend into the cellar library yet. On an impulse, I embarked on a stroll to Keys’s village. Walking outdoors in the warm sun was a welcome change. The countryside was a lush green, and the houses that dotted the landscape were quaint and picture postcard-pretty. The village folk generally kept to themselves, and my presence didn’t invite much attention.
I bought bread and milk from the local store. The owner, an old man, was quite garrulous.
“Miss, are you staying at Harrington Hall?”
I nodded.
“Unhappy place that house. Lord Clearwater’s parents passed away young. My cousin, Henry, used to work for Lord Clearwater. He had a fall and died.”
Who died? Lord Clearwater? Henry?
This is why punctuation is so important in text and dialogue. Anyway, why did I care? Also, why did some people make it their life mission to share useless trivia?
After assuring the old man that I appreciated his concern and was perfectly fine at the Hall, I returned. Truth be told the conversation did leave me unsettled. Could I find a family tree in the library and make a list of potential Clearwater family members who could qualify to be Grey? Knowing who the specter was might help discover his purpose.
I made my way down to the library, meaning to ask my ghostly friend about Lord Clearwater, the hapless Henry, and other unfortunate deaths. I didn’t get a chance. The wraith seemed agitated and pensive, refusing to speak.
“Patience!” he whispered repeatedly, dissolving into little clouds of silver, and reappearing randomly.
Should I offer him water? It would go right through him. Additionally, there were no mops here.
When I was young and threw a tantrum, my mum would offer to read out a story. That always calmed me, and was a better idea than telling myself to be patient.
“Grey, don’t be blue. Let me read out a story; it’s hilariously bad!”
‘Stormy Passions’ by M. Vitale had made its way into my bag. My plans for it had involved a bonfire. But it might be just what I needed. I began reading.
“He watched her heaving bosom with anticipation. Her eyes opened with a mischievous, teasing twinkle in them. She was as fresh as a daisy, not a lock out of place, resembling a radiant Goddess. Her satin nightdress enhanced her voluptuous curves. How he longed to quench his thirst.”
“Luna, stop!” Grey implored.
“My feelings, exactly. Gross misrepresentation. We, women, wake up with drool on our faces and an urge to rush to the loo. This author is deluded!” I snorted.
Silvery sparks were seen, and gentle hiccups were heard. I assumed this was Grey chuckling.
Just a girl and a ghost bonding. No big deal.
“Do you have a special someone in your life?” Grey mumbled softly.
This was the first personal question the ghost had ever asked me.
“Jake. We parted ways though.”
“Did he put you in a compromising position? That rake!”
Before Grey could unleash his rage on Jake-the-rake, I clarified. “Any positions I put myself in were pleasurable for both of us.”
“What?” Grey flitted in confusion.
“Jake is history. I ghosted him.”
“Ghosted?”
“Oops! I didn’t mean to offend you. What about you? Did you have anyone special?”
Grey glided around, vanishing into shelves and emerging out of them. By now I was familiar with his quirks. He would come to me when he was ready.
He whispered, “If I’ve ever lived, it was for her. If I ever breathed, it was for her. I can’t remember myself, but I can remember her. She was here, many times, in this very library.”
Dates in libraries! How romantic, I thought. Pubs and parties were overrated anyway.
“Lady, when you find true love, hold it so tight, that even death can’t do you apart.”
I felt a lump in my throat. Now THAT was stormy passion!
Could Grey be Lord Clearwater’s ghost? Was he missing his wife or his betrothed?
Too many questions, and a moody spirit who was in no mood to answer them. I tried to ask Grey if the name Clearwater meant anything to him, but he returned a blank stare.
Or what I assumed was blank, because he didn’t have a face.
Lady Clearwater clears the air
The next day, when the doorbell rang, I jumped out of my skin. Of late, I was quite comfortable with ghosts. It was humans who scared me. It couldn’t be Keys; he wasn’t due till Thursday. At the door stood an elderly, elegant lady. This must be Lady Clearwater. She gave me royal grandmother vibes.
“Hi, Luna! I’m sorry to drop in unannounced.”
“Lady Clearwater?”
“You can call me Patty. Thank you for lifting the curse that has plagued Harrington Hall. The agent sings praises of you. Can’t remember his name – something that rhymes with cheese.”
“Ah, Keys! Cheesy gentleman, indeed.”
“Are you busy? Keys mentioned you work.”
“Not at all. Come in.”
I served Lady Clearwater tea, hoping she wasn’t going to serve me my eviction notice. Additionally, I didn’t want to break the news to her that the curse hadn’t been lifted, in all likelihood it was going around in frantic silvery circles in the basement.
“It’s been several years since I set foot in this house,” Patty confessed.
“Why?”
“My parents died when I was young. My elder brother George became my guardian. When I came of age, he sent me abroad to broaden my prospects. Years later, he passed away in an accident, leaving me a fortune and this house. I didn’t want to come back. There was nothing left for me, anyway.”
Patty paused; her eyes were filled with a wistful sadness. The house must remind her of her departed family.
“I travelled, saw the world, and lived my life. Now, I’m old and have no one to pass this house to.”
I tactfully changed the topic. Patty asked me about my family and work, and we chatted.
Why hadn’t Lady Patty ever married?
I was tempted to ask her, but I had only known her for twenty minutes.
“Thanks to you, Harrington Hall’s reputation has been cleared. I’ll ask Keys to put it up for sale soon.”
“There is something I need to tell you…”
“I know what it is. You can stay here for as long as you want. The sale will happen only after you move out. I owe you that much, anyways.”
That was a relief to hear. I debated if I should tell her about Grey. On one hand, he could be a member of her family, on the other hand, she might get a nasty shock.
“You have a lovely name; Luna.”
“I was named after my grandmother.”
“In my times they named children after qualities; Verity, Prudence, Patience, Joy.”
I nodded. “Having a name like Prudence can be a pain. Imagine being called Prude for short.”
Suddenly, it struck me.
Patty Clearwater.
Patty, like Patricia, or …Patience.
Lady Patience Clearwater.
Patience. Not a quality. A person.
The pursuit of Patience
I begged Lady Clearwater to follow me. This would be a moment of emotional upheaval – it was not every day you got to meet your brother’s ghost. The ghost had some message to pass on to his sister, that must be why he kept asking for Patience.
Patty looked curious but followed me down the stairs into the library.
“Grey! I’ve gotten Patience with me.”
A flash of silver swirled.
“Patty, meet Grey. I think this is your brother, Lord George Clearwater.”
Patty was staring at the apparition in shock. She had turned white and was swaying unsteadily. For a second, I thought she was going to faint.
“No, this is not George. There is only one person who called me by my full name and not Patty. Henry!” she exclaimed.
Henry, the mystery man.
Grey’s shape transformed from silver to grey to gold. He radiated glinting beams that bounced off the walls.
“Henry, my love, is that you?” Patty sobbed.
A poor man, courting the lady of an affluent house. Of course, Lord Clearwater disapproved. He sent his sister away so that the perfect Miss didn’t have the perfect misadventure.
“Henry was our housekeeper’s son. We were childhood friends. When we were older, we developed feelings for one another. Henry would sneak into the library and conceal love letters in the books for me,” Patty sniffed.
Oh!
“When George discovered one of the letters, he sent me away, ignoring my protests. Months later, I received a letter that Henry passed away in a freak accident. I’m sure George had Henry murdered in this very library!”
What? The diabolic villain!
Grey spoke; his voice was fraught with emotion. “Patience, my heart! How long have I waited for you!”
The silvery mist seemed to engulf Patty. She sobbed uncontrollably.
“What happened to you? Did George hurt you?”
“George called me here after you left. I hoped he’d have a change of heart and bless our union. I was mistaken; his face was like thunder. He grabbed me by my collar and warned me to stay away. He pushed me against a shelf. The shelf wobbled, displacing a heavy book, the Encyclopædia Britannica. It came crashing down and broke my neck.”
This was a twist I hadn’t foreseen.
“Patience, George tried to save me, but it was too late. He hadn’t wanted to kill me; it was an accident.”
“He had it covered up. It was widely believed that you fell off a ladder while cleaning. But the guilt haunted George. He drank himself to death,” Patience sighed.
“My dying wish was to see you one last time. The Universe heard me!”
If that was how things worked, my dying wish would be to date Cillian Murphy.
“Henry, if only I had come here before! But I couldn’t. I refused to return to the Hall, even when George insisted. I couldn’t forgive him, I just couldn’t. When I finally did, I refused to step into the library. It was too painful to relive the time we spent here.”
Patience tried to reach out to Grey, but like grains of sand, he slipped through her fingers.
“Sweetheart, now I must take your leave.”
“I just found you after all these years…are you leaving me again?” she whispered.
“I’ll see you on the other side when your time comes, love,” Grey muttered.
I wiped away a tear. While Patty/Patience bid adieu to Grey/Henry, I scanned the shelves till I located the Encyclopædia Britannica and extracted it gingerly to prevent history from repeating itself. It was hardbound and heavy, and I kept it on the table.
I heard footsteps descending the stairs. Could that be Keys?
“Hiding down here, are we?” a malevolent voice sneered.
From Godfather to Godman
“Marco?”
Marco’s hair was an unkempt grey, and a half-smoked cigar dangled from his mouth. He wielded a hammer in his hand. Here he was in flesh and blood; the notorious Knucklecracker.
“Thought you could run away from me, Luna?”
Patience shrieked, “You are trespassing on my property. I’ll call the Police!”
Marco ignored her and walked menacingly towards me.
“Marco, let’s talk,” I pleaded.
“Women and children can be careless, but not reviewers!” he sneered.
As the hammer loomed large, I wondered if it was the right time to think about Cillian Murphy.
“Amazon delisted me. Goodreads blacklisted me. Sales slumped to single digits, all thanks to your infernal review!”
Grey had crept behind Marco, stealthily.
“Marco, look behind you!”
“Why?”
Sensing the icy draught on his back, Marco turned and screamed. You couldn’t blame him. It takes time to adjust to a ghost.
Marco’s stupor bought me time. I grabbed the heavy encyclopedia from the table and whacked his head with it. He fell to the ground unconscious, dropping the hammer with a thud.
The law hadn’t been able to bring him to book, but a book had managed this feat.
I turned my attention to Grey who seemed to be dissolving into a pool of light.
“Goodbye, Patience, my love. Thank you, Luna!”
“Henry, we shall be reunited someday. And this time for eternity,” Patty wailed.
The light faded, and the library fell dark. It suddenly felt empty, a lacuna created by the absence of a friend.
“What happened?” Marco opened his eyes and groaned. He had developed a nasty bump, the size of a golf ball.
“Stay still. You are hurt, Knuckleberry Finn!”
He stared at me, dazed. I rang up the ambulance and the police in that order. While we waited, I picked up the bloodstained killer of a book; the Encyclopædia Britannica.
“Concussed. Keeps mumbling about seeing ghosts,” the paramedic remarked gravely, as they carried Marco away in a stretcher.
Finally, when the melee had settled and Patty and I were the only two in the library, I mustered the courage to ask her something. No time is inappropriate for a sales pitch.
“Patty, you mentioned letters that you and Henry exchanged. Do you still have them?”
“Yes, I do. Over hundreds of them.”
“May I compile your story and the letters into a book to preserve them forever? Regency romances are all the rage.”
“I’m not a writer.”
“But I am. I’ll be your ghostwriter.”
Epilogue
I’m back at The Weekly Tattletale, and it’s like I never left. I miss Grey but I’m glad he is in a better place, in the giant library in the sky.
As for Marco? He survived his concussion and went around claiming that he ‘saw the light’. I heard that he gave up writing to start a new religious sect. Thank you, God, for taking one for the team! A humble hardbound encyclopedia hastened Marco’s reformation from Godfather to Godman. Words carry weight; so much weight that they knocked sense into his stubborn criminal head!
Lady Patience shared her letters with me. I’ve started work on the manuscript and my pitch. Some publishers have shown an interest already. After all, when you take on an ex-mafia boss, you are elevated to celebrity status, and it’s easier to publish.
I wonder what I shall name my book. How does ‘The Paranormal Pursuit of Patience’ sound?
