Chapter 1

1
Great-Great-Great-Aunt Eleanor was really named Elsie.

She won’t admit it, even though she’s little more than a bluster through a room, thin and gray and dusty enough to sneeze at. Eleanor, she insists. Hint of a British accent.

She was raised in Kansas.

I know about Kansas because of Dog.

Dog tells the truth. Or brings it to me, really. It’s not like he can talk. Living or not, he’s still a dog.

I tried to tell my not-so-great Aunt Monica about this once, and she nearly felt my forehead.

I don’t mention Dog anymore.

And I call the great-great-great-aunt Eleanor. What’s the harm? Dead people deserve whatever names they want, I think, though if I had my choice, I’d rather not wait until dying to rid myself of California. People make comments about a name like California.

“What was your mother thinking?” asks Aunt Monica.

“What indeed?” asks Eleanor.

“Watch it,” I warn the deader of my aunts.

Good thing about ghosts is they’re so much your elders, you don’t need to mind them.

That, and their swats go straight through you.