And all you wanted was a soda.

Or you go to the library to check out a book – oops, the ghost of some librarian comes up to you and wants you to tell her nephew how mad she is about what he did with her cats after she kicked the bucket.

And those are just the folks who know why they’re still sticking around. Half of them don’t have any idea why they haven’t slipped off into the afterlife like they’re supposed to.

Which is irritating because, of course, I’m the schmuck who’s supposed to help them get there.

I’m the mediator.

I tell you, it is not a fate I would wish on anybody.

There isn’t a whole lot of pay-off in the mediation field. It isn’t like anyone’s ever offered me a salary, or anything. Not even hourly compensation. Just the occasional warm fuzzies you get when you do a good turn for somebody. Like telling some girl who didn’t get to say goodbye to her grandfather before he passed away that he really loves her, and he forgives her for that time she trashed his El Dorado. That kind of thing can warm the heart, it really can.

But for the most part, it’s cold pricklies all the way. Besides the hassle – constantly being pestered by folks nobody but you can see – there’s the fact that a lot of ghosts are really rude. I mean it. They are royal pains to deal with. These are generally the ones who actually want to hang around in this world instead of taking off for the next one. They probably know that based on their behaviour in their most recent life, they aren’t in for much of a treat in the one they’ve got coming up. So they just stay here and bug people, slamming doors, knocking over things, making cold spots, groaning. You know what I mean. Your basic poltergeists.

Sometimes, though, they can get rough. I mean, they try to hurt people. On purpose. That’s when I usually get mad. That’s when I usually feel compelled to kick a little ghost butt.

Which was what my mom meant when she said, ‘Oh, Suze. Not again.’ When I kick ghost butt, things have a tendency to get a little . . . messy.

Not that I had any intention of messing up my new room. Which is why I turned my back on the ghost sitting on my window seat and said, ‘Never mind, Mom. Everything’s fine. The room is great. Thanks so much.’

I could tell she didn’t believe me. It’s hard to fake out my mom. I know she suspects there’s something up with me. She just can’t figure out what it is. Which is probably a good thing because it would shake up the world as she knows it in too major a way. I mean, she’s a television news reporter. She only believes what she can see. And she can’t see ghosts.