Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven by Linda Welch Page A

beanbag faced
a forty-two-inch plasma television on a black console with stereo units on the
lower shelves. A small wooden table with seashells set into the trim sat next
to the couch and a blue leather armchair completed the décor. A fire smoldered
in a small fireplace surrounded by black and white tiles.
    Glass
beads in shades of orange, tied back either side, hung over the door Magenta
had used. Travel posters of tropical paradises fought for wall space with
pictures of movie and music idols. Yellow sticky notes dotted a mirror above
the fireplace.
    It
was worse than the worst coed dorm room imaginable. I wanted to close my eyes.
     A
toilet flushed in the adjoining room, followed by water running. Jack looked a
question at me. I shook my head and mimed no . Neither of us should watch
Magenta at her ablutions.
    We
waited ten minutes. Jack and Mel prowled the room. I wanted to chew my
fingernails but could I? I decided against trying.
    Magenta
did not emerge from the bathroom when the door finally opened. Nope. Someone
else did.
    Shorter
than Magenta, this gal wore her hair cropped short and teal-blue, partly damp
and partly fluffy from being rubbed with a towel. Black jeans and a tight green
T-shirt hugged a trim figure. The shirt almost matched eyes fringed with long,
thick blond lashes. With those eyes, a pert little nose, wide mouth and the
hair color, she could be a high-schooler.
    But
she must be Magenta, unless someone else hid in the bathroom all along.
    Mel
stood nearest the bathroom. I got her attention and jerked my head. She gave me
a puzzled look. I head-jerked again. Wide-eyed, she nodded and stuck her head
through the bathroom wall.
    She
popped out. “A wig and a ton of makeup.”
    “Okay,
I heard you,” Magenta said. “Who’s there?”
    She
sounded different, too, her accent decidedly American Northwest.
    “Are
you Magenta?” I asked.
    “Yes.”
Her eyes widened; she stuttered, “Who are you?”
    “I’m
Tiff.”

Chapter Six
     
    “Wow!”
Magenta backed across the room and landed sprawled on the couch. She bent over
her knees, dug fingers in her blue hair and repeated, “Wow!”
    Her
head jerked up, her gaze sharpened. “Are you still here?”
    “We
are. Can you see us?”
    “We?”
She squinted. “Kind of. I see a . . . you’re hazy, wavering. Are you a tall woman
with pale hair? And a couple blurs, kind of smoky columns.” Her gaze shot to
Jack and Mel. “Three of you?”
    “Nice,”
Jack huffed. “She sees you okay but Mel and I are blurs .”
    “Oh
boy.” Magenta put her fingers over her mouth and laughed through them.
    “She’s
hysterical,” Jack said.
    “Not.”
She let her hands flop at her sides and looked at the ceiling. “This is huge!”
    “Pull
yourself together, honey,” said Mel.
    Magenta’s
gaze shot to Mel. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you’re ghosts , in my
living room, talking to me!”
    “Not
for much longer if you keep this up,” Jack said.
    She
muffled a chuckle with one hand, then pasted a serious expression on her face.
“You’re right. I suppose we should introduce ourselves?”
    “I’m
Tiff.” My hand swept the room. “They’re Jack and Mel.”
    “Why
are you astounded to see us?” Mel asked.
    Jack
disappeared into the bathroom.
    “I’ve
seen hazy shapes, now and then,” said Magenta. “And I heard voices chattering
when I was thinking of something else, though they stopped when I concentrated.
It led me to dream up Madam Magenta. Real ghosts have never come to my house. Why are you here?”
    “Just
one second.” I strode to her. “What do you mean, dream up Madam Magenta?”
    Jack
strutted into the room. “Dark makeup, the wig, the clothes, the accent. Colored
contact lenses? You are good , girl!”
    “Magenta
is an act?” I said. “But what you told Mrs. Williams . . . you do speak
to the departed.”
    She
threw her arms wide. “I’m a big fake.” Frowning, she scratched her nose with
one finger. “I thought I