Most Fosters don’t exactly take pleasure in the kill. We deal with monsters because for some reason, we were the ones gifted with the knowledge to do something about it. We had thwarted a plot, but it hadn’t been the one we’d set out to deal with. We stopped a necromancer, who had been hiding in plain sight. While, as far as we knew Suzy Sourblood, Someone, and Amy One, both shapeshifters and possibly other villains, were still at large.


    I fell asleep on the ride home but was far from restful. A cow’s cry, the thunderous, repetitive beat of the herd hooves, or the grind of the tractor’s engine.


    Grandma filled us in that the Monster Mash we had driven through had pulverized nearly two dozen businesses. Knocked out power for three-quarters of the town, destroyed dozens of cars and trees, and hospitalized a number of individuals and families.


    The first few days in November were quite somber, and the weather reflected the tense mood that plagued leaders, business owners, and even the neighborhood pets. Before this job, Mr. Morris had been right. Assassins, we do get in and get out, and we make sure the authorities never suspect we were there. This time it was different.  Initial news reports and social media posts talked about the town being in shambles, but that was an understatement. This was an aftermath we couldn’t hide from, could we? We followed the reports and kept a low profile the best we could, watching for any hints or comments about us while we licked our wounds and made a plan to be ready in case something was going to backfire.


    After three days, we relaxed, but the world was still on high alert, and we had new questions and a whole new perspective about how we fit into it.


    You’re living on borrowed time. Mr. Morris’s words hung over us, and it was a challenge to step outside, let alone go to campus or follow the newly established city ordinances put into place while the town worked to rebuild. Overall, after a preliminary investigation, reporters announced that the two giant monsters had practically decimated nearly seven city blocks. Federal agencies spoke in multiple new briefs, and their dark SUVs were often seen idling on street corners, city hall, and by crucial areas like school zones, banks, and grocery stores. No one had come forward to take credit for the damage, but city councils and business groups were furious at the apparent stall in the investigation. Thirty-three businesses were completely shut down or temporarily closed pending investigations and excavations. At the same time, authorities removed cars and other debris from the storefronts or whiles while the owners awaited hefty insurance payouts. School districts suspended classes for security reviews for a week, and mental health professionals were booking appointments 6 to 8 months in advance.


    There was little enthusiasm for Thanksgiving, and it was hard to tell if anyone was hopeful. By the time the news broke regarding Mr. Morris and the dismal state of his farm, the investigation tried to link potential perpetrators to the city damage. There were plenty of pundits who spun decent arguments, but most residents outside the city limits had been inside and with the variety of machine parts and the charred remains of his tractors, no one put much thought about it and ruled it mechanical malfeasance.


    I looked out the window and appreciated the natural frost that obscured my presence from the street. There were droplets of condensation, and the three of them reminded me of the three robed ghosts I now understood were the Omens.


    No reservations.


    What did that mean?


    A dog sprinted across our yard, and when it barked, I recoiled, feeling the memory of his claws nearly catching my cheek as he swiped at me. My muscles tensed as I replayed every move I made. I clocked him in the shoulder, and his jaws had nearly snapped my tambourine.


    All right, it''s time to do something.


    I was a feeble newborn calf, hardly able to walk but I persevered and limped from my room, taking a break in my doorway before going out into the hall. I hadn’t looked at the clock, but I felt that it was at some point in the late afternoon.


    On this particular morning, Mom had kept me bedridden as much as she could. When I reached the stairs, I could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Was I ready for an earful?


    No, I needed a distraction.


    I pulled back from the stairs and headed towards the bridge, where I knew Dad would be working.


    I was my dad’s daughter, and I was ready to have a problem to mull over.


    The doors slid open, and I wandered inside. Dad dimmed the lights, and he stood with his arms behind his back between the two front consoles. An image was on the viewscreen, but I realized it was a video call once I saw movement and a few shadows. Silently, I settled into Counselor Troi''s chair.


    Pop had a front-facing camera angled downward toward a long rectangular box with runes stenciled on top of a brown board overlaid on the seams of the transparent case. Inside was the book Mr. Morris had pulled from his pocket and dropped on the ground.


    “There are definite signs of age,” said Pop somewhere off-screen. “Despite the damage from the night, which appears to be superficial, I guess it''s somewhere between. 60 to 80 years old.”


    Dad didn''t respond right away. He seemed deep in thought. And was just letting everything, Pop said, have a chance to sink in.


    “Did you see any brand, initials, or some kind of a mark to indicate past ownership or purpose?” Dad asked.


    “We haven’t opened it yet,” Pop admitted, “When we secured the book in this box, we found that it bulked up.”


    “Interesting,” Dad said.


    “Loose pages or hard card stock,” Pop observed. “


    “There were a few loose cards in the spine, but there''s nothing on them. I’ve had Grandma help me, and we''ve tried every test imaginable. There isn''t anything of interest on the spine, and the paper seems quite ordinary. Which isn''t to say that someone couldn''t be inside or somehow inscribed on a certain page or in a drawing that could be activated if we’re not careful.”


    “We’ll look at every page, and card one at a time,” Dad said. “It’s not every day we get prime insight into our bad guy''s operation.”


    “Unless it’s a wild goose chase kiddo,” Pop said.


    “Unlikely,” Dad said, “Mr. Morris was overly pleased to rub our noses in this information. We wanted to make us squirm.”


    “Well, he succeeded,” Pop said, “I’m still taken aback that he called us Monster Assassins.”


    “My stomach nearly splatted on the ground,” Dad said, “I was sure he was going to hand me a business card with a pirate black spot on it.”


    Pop’s fingers drummed against his workbench. “Son, you realized this changes things. We’ll have to be more careful with the job we take. We’ll have to vet our information. We can’t get caught so unprepared.”


    “I agree,” Dad said, and then he shot a look over his shoulder toward me. I waved and decided it was better to remain silent. “For now, we’ll take it one step at a time.”


    “For all the good it will do,” Pop said, as he inched his hands toward the journal’s leather chord.


    “Moment of truth?”


    “Nice and slow,” Dad said.


    “And then some,” Pop said. “I’ve pulled out all the stops, but we’re not taking any chances.”


    This is one deadly game of Operation.


    Like a trained surgeon or a bomb technician, as far as I could imagine, Pop worked his fingers into the knot and, with careful precision, began to undo the cord. Pop twirled his fingers around a small length before setting it aside. It wasn’t a wide book measuring, I guess it came in between six and eight inches. Once the pressure was released, the wrinkled pages gave a careful exhale. It wasn''t a thick book, but the inserts they had been talking about added to its thickness, and some near the middle had been doubled over.


    “Page one,” Pop said. He pulled the cover back and let his video camera capture every detail. Pop gingerly slipped his finger beneath the paper, and he slid it down the length of the book. He moved slowly, obviously wanting as much time as possible to take cover if some type of danger was to reveal itself.


    “The writing is really finite,” Pop said as he navigated the book''s contents. He went slow, carefully documenting a few pages at a time. “I’m no expert, but most of this was written by the same person, and it was written in sections.”


    Dad cocked his head to the side, and with one hand on the console, he zoomed the image closer onto the page.


    “Is that cursive?”


    “Only in presentation,” Pop said, “but it''s not entirely written in English. I see symbols, accents and letter combinations I doubt there are English sounds for.”


    Dad stepped toward the view screen. “Magic does come from Germanic groups, and some date back to ancient civilizations. We’ll put out some feelers and see if we can pin down a translator.”


    “We should be able to scan the page, and Grandma would know who to ask,” Pop said, “We may even want to explore some handwriting analysis as well. We should know how many people contributed to this composition.”


    “It’s hardly a one-person operation,” Dad confirmed. As Pop advanced a few more pages. “What’s next?”


    “Here are our first inserts,” Pop said.


    Pop extracted a stack of cards and pictures and began to cycle through them. He gave each of them a few seconds on the camera for documentation. When we looked at Suzy’s background, we noticed small visible cues hinting at age, such as discoloration and small portions being distorted. Those images had been digitalized. This was unique because it was a chance to examine the real deal.


    “We’ve got a variety of landscapes, official buildings, and features that will be an adventure to identify.”


    Why do bad guys always have location pictures?  Pop continued without further comment on some advertisements and a set of business cards. They were generic and seemed low-grade. They had probably been printed but were never put to use.


    “Price Fix Inc?” Pop read. “RATE A WEEK LLC?”


    “Fake, I would guess,” Dad said, “What is that last one? It''s larger than the others.”


    “Some big city warehouse district, I suspect,” Pop said, “and it looks like there are a few candid shots.”


    I didn’t quite agree that the pictures were necessarily candid but after the warehouses and a few more street pictures. I could see people walking up and down the streets. The discoloration obscured a few street signs, and while a few people were closer to the mystery photographer than others, I didn’t see any central focus on one particular person or group. There was a man reading a newspaper and a woman attending to a baby on a park bench for the old stroller beside her. There were a few couples in restaurants, and multiple individuals stood, looking through aisles at a library or bookstore.


    “What do you think, Pop?” Dad asked, “Could those be family photos?”


    “They’re not posed shots, so I doubt it,” Pop replied. “The more I look at these pictures and this book, I feel like Mr. Morris either stumbled onto it or someone gave it to him. We can’t read it, so it doesn’t tell us much until we can decipher the writing and figure out who these people are and if they’re important.”


    “Do you know any archivists?”


    Pop laughed. “I do, but they aren’t exactly a reliable bunch.”


    Dad folded his arms. “Sounds like there is a story there.”


    “More like a standoff,” Pop said, in a voice that firmly said, Drop it!


    I watched Pop flip a few more pages. The handwriting was significantly larger and had been drafted in maroon-tinted ink.


    After a dozen pages, Pop came to others that were all blank. Dad zoomed in on the page, and Pop flipped the page back and forth a few times and grabbed a black light, with no happy result. They were empty.


    I decided to interject. “Based on how we got this book. That is underwhelming. How could a book so old and occult in nature have blank pages.”


    “Things aren’t always what they appear,” Dad said. “Are those more inserts?”


    Pop proceeded through the following few pages. These had been written in green ink and the author had been by far the most delicate of the contributors. Pop cleared a page and then extracted an insert that had been folded into four parts. I straightened up as Pop set this out. The insert was a pencil sketch of a cafe table with a latte sitting on top of a saucer and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate beside it. There was incredible shading, careful precision, and detail, focusing on capturing the elements from the cracks in the bread and the different layers. Of everything from the tomato, the lettuce, and the meat, just seeing it made my mouth water, and I felt a sensory tickle when I recognized lines that were meant to simulate steam.


    “That’s pretty impressive artistry,” Dad said. “Are those are pencil drawings?”


    “Pencil or possibly charcoal,” Pop interjected. There are some smudges along the edge, but they''re very minuscule. This artist has an expert-level control.”


    “The images look recent,” Dad said, “The style of bread, the cup. The source image couldn’t be more than a few months to a year old.”


    “We’ve got more,” Pop said.


    He flipped to the next one, which depicted a dozen flags, which were designs I didn’t recognize. It seemed like something recreating the United Nations. But the building wasn''t quite right. I couldn''t quite put my finger on why, though. The following page depicts an alley with a vague statue and multiple shadows peeking from the depths at several angles. The following picture was of a clock sitting on a mantle. Pop smooth out a crease. Then he moved to the next page.


    “Cafe Mystere,” Pop read. With the best French accent, he could manage.


    Who are they? Salad. 2-10-87


    Influential pizza. 4-16- 62


    Do they know Latte? 3/23/49.


    Who is in play? Infinite.


    See drink options.


    Invites are Live 10/31/23


    Reservations TBD


    I gripped the seat when the Omen appeared beside the view screen. The three of them looked at the screen and then I heard the voice graze my ear.


    Emma Foster, No reservations.


    “That is an unappetizing menu,” Pop said as he finished reading the listed items. Some of them he read again to make sure he had read it right.


    I couldn''t help but think the same thing. Pop and Dad shared a few theories, and while they conversed, I reread the menu myself, and I couldn’t push away a sense of foreboding. And then Dad, without word or warning, sprinted up the walkway and began messing with the controls along the arch behind the captain''s chair.


    “In Business School, they always emphasize that you should read the fine print,” Dad said, messing with the controls.


    After a moment, Dad then added, “Pop, can you adjust the camera angle towards the logo at the top?”


    Pop did so, and beneath the banner, a small line of text carried A tagline: We strive to foster a majestic and one-of-a-kind experience.


    Pop, read, and reread the phrase multiple times. Our last name stuck out to me with a zit on my forehead. His voice sounded breathless, and his words cracked even with the tension and horror that the message implied.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    “That''s quite a subtle calling card,” Dad said, “The owners or powers behind this café could have instructed him to give us this book. He might have had a falling out at one point, which could have motivated him to go after the herd and the Ghost Rider.”


    “I’ve heard of societies, leagues, councils, and cabals, but never a cafe,” Pop added, “Is it a place where bad guys hang out? Why have they taken an interest in us?”


    “And more importantly, how do they know about us?” Dad said, “We’ve got to warn the family. Until we know more about them, their operation, and their goals. Everyone has got to be on their guard.”


    “I don’t know if I’m happy or terrified that I now know about them,” Pop said, “It’s a strange name.”


    I raised my hand. “It''s French for cafe mystery.”


    “Cafe mystery,” Dad said. “I''ll give them points for a cliche name, and props for the French touch.”


    “Dad, how do you think Mr. Morris got his hands on this, and how would he know about the café? He didn’t seem like the type of fine dining.”


    “As a necromancer, he could have known, been contacted, or been on a list of patrons.” Dad said, “The last line of the menu talks about reservations.”


    “That tells us something to look for,” Pop said, he picked up the book and then set it back down. “Let’s see if there is anything else.”


    Pops continued and double-checked each picture, making sure that they were clearly seen on the camera. After a new pass at each of the drawings, pop moved through several more pages of multilingual entries. But then, when he came to the last few pages, he found them empty.


    “I am more puzzled and confused by this book,” Pop said. “I expected this book to be overflowing with even more cryptic entries and materials.”


    As he turned the page, he removed a card. A card that said valet was on one side, with the Cafe Mystery logo on the other.


    “I think I see something etched on the card at an angle,” Dad said. “Pop, can you tilt the card toward the wall?”


    Pop did so, and there, shimmering beneath the light, we saw the words reservations solved. The picture clues.


    “Interesting,” Pop said, “So the reservation is a test. Are you smart enough to solve my riddle?”


    “Maybe their enemies come to them,’ Dad began, but he stopped as Pop turned the page and pulled back when he revealed a clock drawing that covered the entire page length, which was ticking, audibly ticking.


    “Pop!” I cried. I could hear the ticking coming through the audio system. Dad stood rigid as the camera pulled back and shook as Pop and probably Grandma were in retreat. We both heard several objects fall to the floor, and the camera began to pan wildly back and forth. Dad called out as we both registered footsteps and muttered cries. Dad dropped his arms and practically yelled.


    “Pop, is everything ok?”


    There was no reply for several minutes, multiple grueling minutes. Dad looked ready to sprint out the door and drive over there. He remains still, and during that time, the video remained active. I could still hear the ticking and awkwardly see the hands. As they continued to move.


    “We''re alright,” Pop stammered from the distance. I heard some footsteps, and then he returned to the camera. It shook as he set it back up, and Dad’s chest relaxed. I spotted a few papers on the floor, but nothing had exploded or been damaged.


    “I was afraid that I had triggered something. I told you we pulled out all the stops.”


    “I’m glad you’re alright,” Dad gasped, “What sort of trick would enchant a paper to be the timer or set up a countdown.”


    “A doomsday clock or some sort of failsafe,” Pop began, but a beep cut him off.


    “Kitchen to the bridge,” Momma''s voice urgently called out, and she repeated herself multiple times.


    Both Dad and I glanced at the door. Mom was in the house and would have just come to the bridge. There was rarely any reason for her to use the com badge. Unless there was a problem.


    Right on cue, the navigation console blinked, and an image appeared on the screen that slightly resembled our front door, only now it was partially obscured by swirling clouds of white mist. Dad raced to the door and wedged between them before they opened. I followed him. We hurried down the hall and cautiously approached the stairs. A hundred possible scenarios rattled through my brain. I didn’t know what time it was, but would Suzy send a henchman into a populated subdivision? She had attacked Main Street, so why not attack a residential area? This wasn’t just problematic; it was a disaster. People would ask questions, and the authorities would knock at the door if we didn’t take care of this.


    One problem at a time. We needed to survive this first.


    Dad descended first, and we met with eyes with Tony, who stood beside the counter. Mom gripped a wooden mixing spoon and looked beside herself as both of their attentions were on the front door. I stepped back and was not in alignment as I saw their pale faces and stunned expressions.


    “What''s going on?” Dad demanded. He was ready to pounce. Mom said nothing but motioned to the door. Everything seemed quite ordinary until thin lines of white smoke slithered through the gap between the door and the floor and along the space that valued up to the door handle with slow, conscious movements. The white smoke licked the door surface, waving back and forth like ripples across a pond after a rock was thrown in. They hesitated, careful only to move a few inches at a time. I looked at Dad, who looked stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.


    I turned to Tony and mouthed. What is it? Tony blinked several times, then shrugged. But then he held up five fingers. I pointed at the clock, and he nodded. Whoever that was had tried to come in five times before Mom had made the call to Dad.


    We were getting infiltrated in broad daylight and cut off with no plan to escape.


    We watched the smoke lines try to work their way around the door for a sixth time. They stretched out along the edge and fumbled with the lock before coalescing around the hinges and returning to try for a seventh on the lock and handle. I nervously wet my lips as a single strand stretched out and stroked the doorknob, but it seemed unable to touch it for some reason.


    “Out the back!” Dad urged. “We can’t chance getting boxed in. If they can get this close to the front door, I do not want them to gain access to the bridge or any of the offices.”


    There were murmurs of agreement, and I was the closest to the back door. I took a step towards it. I saw sunshine peeking through the clouds, and the porch looked clear. I reached for the handle but stopped as new smoky lines came into view, slithering from beneath the bushes and around large rocks, and some even dropped through the barbeque.


    “The back is occupied too,” I hissed with no small amount of dread.


    We should have considered that someone this brazen enough to attack the front door would also take a chance to breach the back door. I pulled back. As the smoke lines reached the steps, they moved up them, creating a condensation layer spreading across the glass. Once completely covered, I watched snowflakes and water droplets coalesce across the surface and spread from edge to edge, from top to bottom. Without any prompting, we headed to the hall. In the direction towards the bridge, it was our only option.


    “Pop was on the line when you alerted us,” Dad said. “We should only have to hold out for a few minutes and-”


    “Dad, look,” Tony urged. He pointed to the back door as three words appeared in the condensation.


    Knock, knock, Fosters. Complete with commas and a period.


    I heard the squelch of an unseen finger making contact with the glass. The unseen writer pulled away with a flourish, but not before adding a period after our last name.


    “Spooky and grammatically correct,” Tony said.


    “Spooky is an understatement,” I said.


    Seeing our name spelled out on the glass did not help the mood. And it only increased our apprehension. I cringed while my parents exchanged glances. Dad whispered to Mom, and they came close to one of us before we moved back to the kitchen. Dad entered first and was about to pull up in the pantry. But then he stopped when we heard the deadbolt click, and the front door swung open.


    “Take cover,” Dad ordered.


    “Not necessary,” said a new voice. I expected it to come from the couch or a chair behind us. They’d be sitting there, looking smug and pleased that they’d caught us unaware.


    No, the speaker was coming from inside the cloud.


    Now that the door was open. The entire entryway and the front porch were completely obscured. The cloud hovered over the rug and had entered more than a few feet.


    “Hold on!” the voice called. “I’m having some trouble.”


    Holy Crap! Someone had managed to infiltrate our house.


    The cloud shifted in size, and much to my surprise, a designer high-heeled boot stepped from the cloud. Or rather, the leg extended from the mist with a pointed toe, and carefully, the leg came down and tapped the ground to make sure they’d have a solid footing. The boots had small buckles and a unique gold trim that ran in vertical lines from the ankle up to about an inch beneath the portion that hugged her calf. A moment passed and its twin appeared, and her hips began to sway back and forth. She wore light blue jeans and had no bulge to indicate she had anything in her pockets, and her belt was a plain design.


    “Wow!” the voice said mesmerized. “Just wow!”


    The whole thing reminded me of trying to fit through a tiny space in the dark. I whipped out my phone and typed out a text since the infiltrator could hear us.


    What are the chances the sexy legs have some backup hidden in the mist?


    Dad handed his phone to Mom who read it and then showed it to him. Dad wasn’t going to take any chances, not after everything we’d been through. The infiltrators stress seemed genuine, but we had no idea if it was an act.


    My phone pinged an alert. It is possible.


    The legs turned, not visible up to her waist. Like a model leaning seductively into a car’s trunk. She set her legs apart, and with some effort, she extracted herself from the cloud''s depths.


    “That’s better,” she said, reaching back into the cloud and pulling out a white pinned striped fedora which she proudly placed atop her head. She had blond hair; softly highlighted with chestnut brown streaks. She was tall, enviously curvy, and proudly modeled a designer jean jacket, covering a plain black stop.


    “Wow, I was not expecting that to be that difficult. I''ve never had this much trouble getting into a place before.”


    She brushed a few lengths of blonde hair from her shoulder and some white dust from her arms. It smudged for the first strokes but vanished as she repeated the process.


    “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dad said, “we’re not accustomed to having uninvited guests.”


    “I imagine so,” she said, taking a look around the room and observing the space like an interior designer would as they prepared for a new design. She didn''t come off judgmental but was reevaluating her initial impression. Dad stepped forward with a resolute glare across his face, and he held a gun right on her.


    “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”


    The girl put her hands on her hips. She didn’t seem phased or surprised looking down the barrel of a gun. “My name is Samantha Spector, or I guess you could call me Agent Samantha Specter. Yes, it''s an M.A.G.E alias. And I’m happy to tell you why I''m here. But first, quick tip, you are good, but you gave yourself away by not asking how I did that or trying to pretend to be in awe with my entrance. If you want to continue to hide in plain sight, I wouldn’t immediately take a tactical position. It’s a dead giveaway. No pun intended.”


    She gestured to the cloud that still lingered behind her. I started to wonder what the neighbors must be thinking.


    Samantha gave a wink. She was confident and quite impressed with herself. “And if you’re wondering I’m the only one who can do that. I specialize in all things ghost, and I’m really good at spotting tails and carefully dealing with spies and informants.”


    Samantha pointed to the door, “You’ll find three goblin corpses beneath the hedges, and a fourth was hiding in your neighbor''s bird fountain. I’ve got three ghouls trapped who I’d wager you’d like to question.”


    Samantha paused and then smiled; a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial. “You’re welcome.”


    “So, you killed all your competition so you can have the honor of taking a swing at us?” Dad snapped. “No one in M.A.G.E knows who we are, and they don’t know where we live.”


    “It doesn’t mean they’re not watching,” Samantha shot back. “M.A.G.E isn’t a tyrannical government, and for now, we don’t have a swamp of career idiots, but there are a lot of smart people, and some of them see the value in off-the-radar, undercover operations. The rest, they’re not happy because based on the little they do know or have guessed. They’re worried you’re a loose cannon. They’re worried you’ll go off the rails and take on enemies you have no real power to deal with permanently.”


    “We have a pretty good track record,” Dad retorted, “but nothing you’ve said changes anything. We’re not going to be blackmailed into enlisting in government service or doing jobs at your colorful request.”


    “I’m not here to blackmail or coerce you into a corner. Heavens no!” Samantha replied. “Believe it or not, I am an M.A.G.E. Agent; everything I’ve said is true and given the spectral activity in this area. I came to investigate it.”


    Samantha took a look at all of us. “I can also promise, for the moment, and it''s lucky for all of you, M.A.G.E’s more aggressive loudmouths. They’re suspicious, but they''re working on faulty information. I promise. They''re nowhere close to figuring out who or where you are.”


    Dad tightened his grip. He was not ready to drop the gun. “So how did you find us? We don''t exactly advertise, and if you’ve been here since all of this started, why contact us now?”


    Samantha shrugged and had a pleased expression, but she was humble enough not to flaunt it in an annoying mean girl sort of way.


    “I’ve been at this for a while, even if you think I look young. I’ve worked hard to blend in and get information, and I also am pretty good at seeing what others don’t. I caught wind that there were operators in town. M.A.G.E has been on high alert, so at first, I was curious if you were agents, but I soon realized, especially after the siege that attacked those high school students. You folks are the real deal, and you’re not like amateurs or the more competent hunters. You handle yourselves like a well-oiled machine. You’re careful, you’re intuitive under serious pressure. It''s not far-fetched to say you’re Monster Assassins because you’re in a category all of your own.”


    “So you’ve been spying on us?” Dad pressed.


    “Kind of,” Samantha said, “but I’ve been busy, and while, at first, I was curious, the enemy of my enemy is a friend, plain and simple.  We were spread pretty thin because there were two other groups of agents who were attacked.”


    “Really,” Mom said.


    Samantha nodded, and the tension in the house began to deflate. “They were a lot quieter than the ones here. M.A.G.E was able to send someone in, and the locals were curious at the abrupt change in management, but life continued normally for them, so they didn’t care. We had to watch, though, because, for weeks, we were worried that the attacker would come back.”


    Samantha stepped forward, her cloud dissipated, and the door gently swung shut.


    Dad maintained his position. “If you’re really an agent, what do you know about a possible Dark Witch in the area.”


    “It’s true,” Samantha said, “Suzy Sourblood, and her friends, not that she has any real friends. I’ve got it on good authority that three warlocks, a goblin kingpin, and a wraith master have been on the move and are coming here.”


    She at us like a teacher wanting an answer. “Any idea why?”


    Dad shook his head slightly. “There have also been some necromancers here too. We believe Fowler’s right hand, R.I.P., was looking for Fowler’s body and was trying to bring him back.”


    “Also true,” Samantha said, “Thankfully that problem has been dealt with.”


    “If that’s true, I’m happy to hear it.” Dad said, “But now, let''s focus on why you’re here and why you forced your way inside.”


    “I wanted you to see just how good I am,” Samantha said, “and as weirdly as it sounds, I needed you to take me seriously because things are not back to normal, and I’d much rather have all of you in my corner as things get ugly and I want you to know that I am an ally.”


    “Things get ugly!” Dad repeated, “Do you think we’re stupid not to recognize a code word.”


    Dad hurried to the front door and tested the handle. He then moved to the window. Tony stayed beside Mom and Samantha remained where in place and lifted her hands in a placating gesture. She looked at me and then motioned to her jacket pocket.


    “I’ve got you,” Tony said, as I approached. I gingerly pulled her jacket open, and I glimpsed the corner of what looked like a card or an envelope sticking out from its depths. Samantha said nothing and made no fuss as I pulled it out.


    “What is it?” Tony asked.


    “A letter,” I replied.


    The envelope was wrinkled and weathered and had brown stains from water damage and a few rings from being placed beneath a coffee mug at some point in its existence.


    “Look at who it''s addressed from,” Samantha said.


    EDWARD FOSTER.


    “The postmark,” I said, “The stamps. That thing has been around the world.”


    “Yes, it has,” Samantha said, “and sadly, I wasn’t the person who opened, and before you say anything, just remember that monsters have a very different view on privacy.”


    Samantha dropped her hands, as I picked up the letter and glanced over two pages of strange-looking symbol markings. The age and damage to the paper made it hard to comprehend, but after a minute, I connected the child-like gibberish to the planner pages I had picked up when Lauren and I had the run-in with Melvin, the love-struck werewolf.


    “I''ve seen that before,” I said.


    “It''s been circulating all over the state,” Samantha began. But Dad cut her off.


    “The content is concerning, but the envelope has Edward Foster on it, but he lived way before this kind of paper or the envelope was made. He couldn''t have sent this.”


    “At the same time, though,” Samantha pressed, “That is his handwriting, isn''t it?”


    Mom nodded in the affirmative. “I’ve been his signature plenty of times that James, I’m sure it’s his.”


    “Why do you need our help then?” Dad asked.


    Samantha extended a hand, and I handed the pages back. “For starters, I’m pretty sure Edward wasn’t a Phantomist or a necromancer, but for the life of me, I can’t comprehend why someone would be writing to him in a language he shouldn’t have been able to read, and it''s even more complicated to try and write more than a few words in the language.”


    Samantha secured the pages back in the envelope. “I need your help to talk to him because if you have any connection to the dead, with training, you can read it. I’m pretty good at it, but everything I’ve picked up has been cryptic and unclear. Edward is the only name I’ve come across who might be able to give me some answers.”


    “A simple ghost conversation should be a walk in the park for an M.A.G.E agent,” Dad said. “Why don’t you talk to people within your ranks, unless you’re a fraud or suspicious about something?”


    “Mr. Foster,” Samantha said, finally sounding annoyed. “You’re fishing. You ask decent questions, but you’ve got to think fourth-dimensionally. I’m suspicious of a lot of things. Everyone in the investigation department talks about eating suspicion with their morning cup of coffee. They do have people, and I’m one of the best. I’ll admit it, I’m stumped, and I’m assuming you’re aware that a ghost doesn’t have to respond. I’ve asked, and that’s all I can do. If I do anything more, I’d be dabbling in necromancy, which is frowned upon.”


    Samantha glanced at Mom. “I hoped he might be more willing to manifest for a family member. I believe you have the licensure, don''t you?”


    “I do,” Mom said. “But we''ve got no reason to help you. You claim to be an agent. You talk like a seasoned agent, but you could be the very person Edward wanted to keep that information from.”


    “Alright,” Samantha said. “How about a trade? You can all be present at the conversation. Once done, I''ll share a few tricks to strengthen your defenses against ghosts. And I''ve got some critters in custody, as I mentioned. I''ll hand them over to you.”


    Samantha then produced a card—a card with the Cafe Mystere logo.


    “Have you heard of this place?” She asked.


    “I have actually,” Dad said. “I’m skeptical of your game, but we’ll play ball for now. Unless my wife disagrees, we’ll call him, but before you go, you’ve got to answer some questions, too.”


    “Sure,” Samantha said, exasperated. “Do we have a deal?”


    Mom looked hesitant but then reluctantly nodded before adding. “I won''t compel a visit either, and before I do this, we get your side of the deal whether he comes or not. Agreed.”


    Samantha nodded. “If that''s what it takes.”


    Mom licked her lips, then pulled opinion from beneath her blouse. It was a silver rectangle with rounded edges near the clasp and chain. Mom held the pendant beneath her hands. Then she closed her eyes in a flash of purple. A square appeared, and then triangles formed, creating a spiral downward in a 3D pattern that, after a moment, resembled a descending staircase. Tony and I exchanged astonished looks. He even dropped his jaw in awe and disbelief. Mom and Dad had talked about her abilities, but we had never seen Mom do this before.


    After a series of clicks, I watched tiny purple dots speckle Momma''s hands and cheeks, and once most of her exposed skin was covered, she looked like a kid with some weird-colored chickenpox. We all waited silently, and both Dad and Tony stood ready to spring into action as Samantha tried anything funny. Meanwhile, I kept my attention on Samantha herself. She exuded confidence, but it wasn’t simple model-like confidence with a strut and a look for a glamor shot. Samantha had skills and background, and she used her skills with power. Then there was her fedora. Her fedora seemed oddly familiar. After a moment, it hit me.


    “You were there,” I said. “You were there on the street when those ghosts attacked the families and high schoolers.”


    Samantha gave me a thumbs-up. “Did you know there are two families with the last name Foster on that street?”


    “I didn''t know that,” I said. “Is that why those ghost monks were there?”


    “More or less, and we can come to them in a bit,” Samantha replied. As distant footsteps began trailing up the staircase, Mom had conjured. The footballs were quick for several seconds but then slowed to an almost marching pace. It was quite a dramatic entrance for a ghost, the most dramatic entrance I had ever seen. Occasionally, I had been in interviews, but Mom did the summoning alone. The top step swayed back and forth. Then a triangle stair vanished, say, for one single step.


    “Is that supposed to happen?” Tony asked.


    No one replied as a poll rose from the center of the triangle. It peaked at several feet; then a wooden sign dropped on a peg or hook as if it had been freshly hung by an unseen hand. The same thumped against the pole, and its weight caused it to swing back and forth. When it stopped, we all read the words: Gone to lunch. Try again later.


    Mom released her grip a moment, and she began to sway. Dead hurried to her side, but she stayed upright and wiped it, beating a sweat from her face as the purple polka dots disappeared. Once Mom regained her composure, she looked scared. Before, she looked angry.


    “What is that mean?” Dad asked.


    “It means someone has already summoned him,” Samantha said. “And they''re preventing his release.”


    “Who?” Dad asked.