“Will, look. I offered to pay for that ‘the door is ajar’ thing.”

“The chlorofiend? You killed it with a chain saw, Murph.”

And so on and so forth, until my blood—or maybe ectoplasm—was practically boiling.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I snapped, finally. “You’re stalling. Why?”

Morty blinked at me in surprise. Sir Stuart burst out into a short bark of laughter from where he lounged against a wall in the corner.

Murphy looked at Mort closely, frowning. “What is it?”

“Dresden’s getting impatient,” Mort said, his tone of voice suggesting that it was something grossly inappropriate, if not outright impolite. “He, ah, suspects that you’re stalling and wants to know why. I’m sorry. Spirits are almost never this…”

“Stubbornly willful?” Murphy suggested.

“Insistent,” Mort finished, his expression neutral.

Murphy sat back in her chair and traded a look with Father Forthill. “Well,” she said. “That… sounds a great deal like Dresden, doesn’t it?”

“I’m quite sure that only Dresden knew several of those details he mentioned in passing,” Forthill said gravely. “There are beings who could know such things regardless of whether or not they were actually present, however. Very, very dangerous beings.”

Murphy looked at Mort and nodded. “So. Either he’s both sincere and correct, in that Dresden’s shade is there with him, or someone’s been bamboozled and I’ve let something epic and nasty into my house.”

“Essentially,” Forthill agreed, with a small, tired smile. “For whatever it’s worth, I sense no dark presence here. Just a draft.”

“That’s Dresden’s shade, Father,” Mort said respectfully. Mort, a good Catholic boy. Who knew?

“Where is Dresden now?” Murphy asked. She didn’t exactly sound enthusiastic about the question.

Mort looked at me and sighed. “He’s… sort of looming over you, a little to your left, Ms. Murphy. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s tapping one foot, and he’s looking at his left wrist every few seconds, even though he doesn’t wear a watch.”

“Do you have to make me sound so… so childish?” I complained.

Murphy snorted. “That sounds like him.”

“Hey!” I said.

There was a familiar soft pattering of paws on the floor, and Mister sprinted into the room. He went right across Murphy’s hardwood floors and cannonballed into my shins.

Mister is a lot of cat, checking in at right around thirty pounds. The impact staggered me, and I rocked back, and then quickly leaned down to run my hand over the cat’s fur. He felt like he always did, and his rumbling purr was loud and happy.

It took me a second to realize that I could touch Mister. I could feel the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.

More to the point, a large cat moving at a full run over a smooth hardwood floor had shoulder-blocked empty air and had come to a complete halt doing it.

Everyone was staring at Mister with their mouths open.

I mean, it’s one thing to know that the supernatural world exists, and to interact with it on occasion in dark and spooky settings. But the weird factor of the supernatural hits you hardest at home, when you see it in simple, everyday things: a door standing open that shouldn’t be; a shadow on the floor with no source to cast it; a cat purring and rubbing up against a favorite person—who isn’t there.