Read an Excerpt A Corpse at the Witching Hour by Debra Sennenfelder

Every twenty years, a woman died at Osbon House. Many people believed it wasn’t unusual to have deaths in homes, especially in old ones. Others thought Osbon House was haunted by Rudolph Osbon, and he was re-enacting the murder of his wife before his suicide on their wedding anniversary — Halloween.

Hope joined Marcus at the desk. She hated that she was going to ask because she wanted to be in the “people die all the time in houses” camp, not the “it’s a haunted house” camp. But she had to know.

“You wouldn’t know when the last death in Osbon House was?”

Marcus tidied the brochures on the desk, then looked at Hope. The corner of his lips curled up. “You mean the last time Rudolph re-enacted the death of his wife?” It was clear to which camp Marcus belonged.

Hope shrugged. She wasn’t about to commit herself either way. Not until she saw the ghost with her own two eyes.

“Give me a moment…I remember…Trudy. Trudy Gilligan! She fell down the staircase 

while cleaning the house. Poor woman. Broke her neck if I recall correctly.” He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Twenty years ago. Yes! I remember because my youngest niece was born a week before, and my sister dressed her up in a pumpkin costume.”

Hope swallowed hard. “Twenty years ago tonight she died in Osbon House?”

“Just like Cornelia Fletcher,” Marcus said. “And the others before her.”

Hope wasn’t sure if it was the dramatic tone of Marcus’ voice or the reminder of so many deaths in one house that had her nerves skittering and wanting to bow out of helping Drew. But, of course, she was being silly because she still didn’t believe in ghosts.

“Normally, I would dissuade both of you from talking about death,” a familiar sharp, judgmental voice said from the other side of the room.

Hope winced as she angled her body to fully view Maretta Kingston, Jefferson’s mayor. She wore a perpetual scowl on her thin face, which was softened by a new layer of bangs. It appeared she was trying a new hairdo. Though on any age, bangs were risky. Hope had firsthand experience with that experiment and the grow-out wasn’t pleasant.

“But considering that old house brings in tourists because of its ridiculous ghost story, I’ll overlook it. This time,” Maretta said looking over the rim of her glasses. She was a formidable person with a clear vision of what she wanted for Jefferson. She’d made it no secret that the one thing she didn’t want was Hope playing amateur sleuth again.

Hope arched a brow. It sounded as if Maretta was doing her a favor by allowing her to speak her mind. She probably should thank the mayor, who she’d known since childhood, for the pass. 

“Good morning, Maretta.” Hope forced a smile before returning her attention to Marcus. 

“About what you were saying…if what you say is true, then…” She couldn’t even bring 

herself to say the words.

“There will be another death at Osbon House tonight,” Maretta said. Clearly, she had no trouble saying those words. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had the unfortunate task of finding one too many dead bodies like Hope had.

“We can’t let that happen.” Hope’s gaze bounced between Maretta and Marcus. Why weren’t they nodding in agreement?

“What do you propose we do?” Maretta pinned a pointed stare on Hope. Her small eyes narrowed while her thin lips pursed. “Cancel Halloween?”

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