ON A HOT MIDNIGHT IN LOS ANGELES, CHARLIE COOPER—Coop to his friends—hung suspended by a thin wire a few feet off the floor of Bellicose Manor’s dining room, hoping he wasn’t about to be eaten by a monster.

“Careful,” whispered Phil.

“Of what?”

“Just careful. Don’t want you to break a nail.”

“That’s really thoughtful. Now shut up.”

Phil Spectre, freelance poltergeist, continued scrabbling around inside Coop’s head. It felt like rabid ferrets were using his frontal lobe for a scratching post.

“Cut it out,” said Coop.

“I can’t help it. Your skull is so thick I get claustrophobic.”

Coop—tall, sandy haired, in his mid-thirties—pulled himself slowly and steadily along the wire, careful not to touch anything. To his relief, Phil was quiet for a minute. Those few seconds let Coop concentrate on the job at hand. He looked around, and while he couldn’t see the wall safe yet, he knew where it was hidden.

Bellicose Manor didn’t stand so much as flop on a hilltop, like a giant Gothic carbuncle, in Benedict Canyon. The house wasn’t an eyesore per se, but rather a soul-sucking nut punch to anyone who hung around the place too long without an invitation. This was by design, just one of the many magical defenses the Bellicose family paid for to keep the nice things they had in their house in their house. Anyone who was anyone had at least a few spells sprinkled around their place. How else would people know that they had things nice enough to steal? This idea had eventually trickled down to Hollywood hipsters and even some middle-class families. The kind that had a soft spot for government conspiracies and UFO conventions. You know the type, the ones crazy enough to believe that monsters and magicians actually existed and walked side by side with them down the Pop-Tarts aisle in Safeway. This paranoia led to a thriving industry in bogus wards and do-it-yourself witchproofing, proving once again that con men had been separating people from their cash since long before the first witch invited the first black cat for a ride along.

“Wendigos,” said Phil suddenly. “I bet they have a Wendigo. Big place like this. Family has money. A vampire would be gauche. A hungry Wendigo, that’s the way they’d go. It’s probably right past the dining room table.” He went quiet again. Then, “Or something with tentacles. Which do you hate more? I can’t remember.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It’s coming back to me. Is this a good time to discuss your fear of intimacy?”

Coop was sweating, and it wasn’t just from exertion. His hand slipped and grazed the side of an antique wooden chair, one of several similar chairs surrounding an impressive dining room table. Bellicose Manor was stuffed to the ceiling with impressive bric-a-brac, most of which would kill you if you touched it the wrong way.