My family attracts ghosts.

I guess you could say it goes both ways: my family attracts ghosts, and ghosts attract my family. My mom meets all of her husbands through her work: she and my Dad met at an auction after they got into a bidding war over a possessed Victorian-era porcelain doll. It's still in our living room, and still creepy as hell. My mom and stepdad met while triaging a haunted carousel at a Six Flags. All around spectacular first date material.

If Clara is a very public-facing paranormal investigator — so public-facing that her business cards actually read "ghost hunter" — then my mom and stepdad are the opposite. They do their work quietly: show up, handle whatever needs to be handled, collect payment — or hassle the right people for payment — and leave.

They're each subscribed to at least sixty different local newspapers. They have the business cards of about eight-hundred rural cemeteries (contrary to Hollywood superstition, Native American burial grounds are no more likely to produce hauntings than any other type of burial ground). They scrape for modest gigs on messaging boards, even the goofy ones like SpookSpotters. Conspiracy theorists have overly active eyes and ears, although they're usually wrong about what they're seeing and hearing.

I honestly wish my parents had been dentists or something. I wish they'd met at a toothpaste convention and had bonded over fillings.

I'd even have preferred paranormal researchers to paranormal investigators. They sound like the same thing, but paranormal researchers don't do nearly as much fieldwork. They mostly sit in a lab and hold spectrometers up to rock chunks from ancient Aztec altars. That's what my brother Griffin ended up doing with his paranormal experience. From our sparse conversations about his work, I've gathered that it's remarkably hard to get funding to study ghosts, given that certain religious authorities find it distasteful to study the deceased.

That's part of the reason research into the paranormal is still so limited. As a result, we don't know even know why hunters attract ghosts. You'd think, if anything, it would be the opposite.

There are a few theories. One is that it isn't comfy to be a ghost, existing halfway between the living and the beyond, so they actively seek their own destruction. Another theory is that like attracts like; a mutual affinity for the dead and the damned draws ghosts and hunters naturally together.

Yet another theory is that any paranormal encounter leaves a residue, a mark, an omen. An energy that ceaselessly calls to the unthinking dead. Like attracts like.

I find the third theory absolutely disgusting and disturbingly probable. I sometimes have nightmares in which I'm drowning in ectoplasm, surrounded by a ring of encroaching, clamoring ghosts, desirous of the dark ghostly energies that have plagued me, like a miasma, since childhood.

It makes me want to go home and take a bath just thinking about it.

But, I'm already out. Might as well force myself to stay out. At least for a little while.

I push through the door into the bar and feel the flush of warm bring life back into my cheeks. I rub heat into my hands and give myself a halfhearted pep talk: you're not allowed to go home for at least two hours. You came all this way.

I spot my friends immediately. The spotting is mutual. Theo cheers and shakes Jen's shoulder, who looks up in surprise. Jen turns to Landon and says something that I imagine amounts to: "I didn't think she would come."

I didn't think I would, either. But I do worse with guilt than I do with people.

Theo waves me over to their small territory at the end of the bar. I scan the pub to see if I can spot any of my students besides Theo. This was a mistake; of course I can. Moxxie is one of the only pubs within walking distance of campus and they're horrible about checking ids. I count four students enrolled in one of my two sections of WRIT102, and they all look glaringly underage. One pivots in my direction and I glance away, flushing.

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You know what? I just need to own it. I make solid eye contact with my student, who gives me a flustered wave and a please-don't-tell-my-RA sort of look.

Saturday at eight, Moxxie is predictably swamped. I scoot into a little person-sized hole of air beside Theo. He is looking much better; you wouldn't guess he'd spent his morning panic-texting me. Raya, by contrast, looks like she hasn't slept in weeks. She's wearing a cozy cardigan over what looks to be pajamas, and her eyes droop from the combined weight of one domestic haunting and an upcoming thesis defense. My guess is that if Theo hadn't convinced her to come celebrate her birthday, she wouldn't even be here.

"Hey," Jen says, running her finger around an empty pint glass. "Sorry, if you're looking for a grader, we don't TA for people younger than us."

Everyone laughs. I put an arm around Theo. "Actually, I already have a TA. He's undercover, pretending to be a really old student taking WRIT102 for no reason."

"It's great," Theo says, stacking his arm atop mine. "It means I don't have to grade papers, or hold office hours, or teach anything."

"True," I agree. "But your essay on a famous author of your choice is still due Sunday at 10."

"Aww," Theo releases me. "I didn't realize I was that deep undercover."

I motion for the bartender and hear Theo whisper to the group, "I'm going to phone it in." Another peal of laughter breaks out amongst the group and Theo leans over the bar to look at me. "See, Nitiya? Not weird."

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I wonder why I was so afraid of this. Why I'm so afraid of everything. A few students at the other end of the bar are pointing at me, and when I smile at them, they freeze. This is actually a little fun.

Tonight is the first night I get tipsy in weeks. Over the course of an hour, Jen and Landon soften a bit. I learn about Jen's summer internship, which definitely wins Boring Job Bingo: writing technical documentation for a security contractor. Landon has just moved to my old desk by the window and is working on a novel; most creative writing master's students end up writing a novel for their thesis. I don't know anyone who's gotten theirs published. Mine is languishing on a shelf in my apartment somewhere. I printed a copy for Clara, Griffin, and my Mom, but as it has nothing to do with ghosts, I can't imagine they've opened them.

The only person seemingly not enjoying herself is Raya. She keeps to herself, sequestered at the end of the bar behind Theo, who keeps hugging her and refreshing her cider. She's holding her cardigan around herself like it's her only anchor in this sea of drunk people. I'd hoped the phone call from Clara — me — would've put her mind at ease until the real Clara arrived, but if Theo told her about the call, it doesn't look like it's helped.

I want to ask if they've followed Clara's — my — instructions, opening all their windows and unplugging their electrical devices. I asked Clara for additional advice to give them, but last I checked, she still hadn't responded. Typical.

Theo has his arm around Raya and is whispering something to her. She is looking away, pale and exhausted. I check in with myself and find that my hand is clutching the warding coin. My mind surfaces an idea that is simultaneously great and horrible.

Ugh, Nitiya. You have to.

I wrestle with myself for a painfully indecisive moment. In a move I know I'll be proud of later, although right now it feels like I'm ripping my own guts out, I stand up woozily and remove the necklace.

I'll only be for a few days.

"You feeling okay?" Landon asks.

"Yeah," I say as my stomach cartwheels. "Be right back."

It's the right thing.

Before I can change my mind, I march over to Theo and pull him aside. Raya gives me some annoyed side-eye. I take Theo's hand, turn it over, and drizzle the chain into his palm. My hand lingers for a moment before I force myself to pull away.

He looks at me incredulously. Raya is watching with a similar expression. Evidently, Theo has told her what the coin does. No wonder she was mad at me for not giving it up sooner.

Happy birthday, Raya. You deserve some sleep.

Theo wraps both hands around the coin like it's the last morsel of food on Earth. My stomach clenches and I make myself smile at him, though I imagine my expression is hideous. By then, the coin should have worked its literal magic and rid them of their ghost.

If I'm still alive by then, I think. And then, Stop being melodramatic. Remember your ghost stats. Trust the stats.

Is it right to trade my own peace of mind for theirs?

I kick myself for second-guessing. Their apartment is haunted. Mine is not. I will. Be. Fine. I am an adult, with a job, and experience in the paranormal, and I will be totally safe on my own for a few days, and why do I have to keep reminding myself of these facts?

"Thank you," he says, and it's the most genuine I've heard Theo sound. I just nod, make my way to the bathroom, and recuperate in a stall. Head resting in my hands, I repeat to myself: You did the right thing. You did the right thing.

While I'm repeating my self-congratulations, an underlying thought creeps through: Tonight is going to suck.