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and while they call themselves witches, it’s a little different. And not all witches are Wiccan.”
    “Okaaaay,” I said with a smile. I didn’t know Maya well; maybe she was pulling my leg.
    “You don’t believe me?”
    “A couple of years ago I didn’t believe in ghosts, and now I have a rather uncanny ability to communicate with them. So by and large I don’t rule anything out anymore. But someone who calls themselves a natural-born witch?”
    “I know what you mean. But the thing is . . . she knows things, is all I’m saying. And she can fix things. Strange things. Like I say, I don’t ask a lot of questions. But I have a lot of respect for her abilities.”
    “That’s fair.”
    “So anyway . . .” Her dark eyes slewed around the attic. There wasn’t anything active to see other than the dust motes careening around in the shafts of light from the tiny dormer windows. “Are you seeing ghosts now?”
    “No, nothing right now.”
    “Good.”
    “But . . . I could have sworn I saw these guys move.”
    “They seem to be quiet now,” said Maya. She sounded calm, but I noticed she was giving the dolls a wide berth, and not turning her back on them. “So should we carry on?”
    “First I want to try something.” I pulled a piece of newspaper out of one of the boxes full of packed items, tore it into small squares, and placed two on each of the mannequins, one on their shoulders and the other in their laps.
    “What’s that for?” Maya asked, her dark eyes huge and questioning. “Did you . . . cast a spell? Does newspaper keep poppets down, somehow. . . . ?”
    “No, of course not. I thought this way I could see if they moved—the paper will be disturbed. I mean, they don’t seem dexterous enough to put the papers back where they were.”
    Now
Maya was looking at me as if I were crazy. “Mel, no disrespect or anything, but what if the air currents when the door opens and closes blow them off?”
    “Hmm, good point.” I shrugged. “Oh well, it was just an idea. It’s not like I know what I’m doing.”
    Maya smiled. “Anyway, since that newspaper isn’t enchanted and able to keep those guys still, I’m getting out of here.”
    As I followed her out of the attic, I tried to think what could have happened the night Adam was here. According to what Inspector Crawford had been willing to share with me, the authorities were assuming Adam had hung from the chandelier and then fallen, but what if . . . ? Could the mannequins have attacked him, somehow? Come alive in the night as in the legend? And could they have strangled him, and then he fell down the attic stairs and down the main stairwell? And the damage to the light fixture was something else entirely?
    Get a grip, Mel
. These mannequins hadn’t killed anyone. And ghosts, if there were any, couldn’t kill, could they? And why would they?
    And for that matter . . . I hadn’t made contact with any ghosts but Adam here in Spooner House. If Reginald had killed himself here, it would stand to reason that he might have a presence as well somewhere . . . wouldn’t he?
    Downstairs, Maya and I packed the remaining couple of boxes, then did a walk-through to be sure we hadn’t missed anything. She took the bedrooms, while I checked the main floor.
    I found Adam in the parlor, lounging on a wine-colored brocade settee in front of the stone fireplace. He was staring at his smartphone.
    I whispered: “Does that work?”
    “I’m not getting any reception.” He frowned as he stood and wandered the room, holding his phone high and low, staring at the screen. It was like a cell phone commercial for the afterlife. He kept tapping at it, bewilderment on his face.
    I knew one day I would be joining his ranks—we all would. In the immortal words of Mark Twain, there was no escaping death and taxes. But I hoped I wouldn’t linger in the sort of confused limbo that afflicted so many ghosts I had encountered. I didn’t know