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Don’t ask me why I struck a match. Habit I guess. The first 30 years of my life, I didn’t know I could snap my fingers and ignite a flame. Dragging a tiny blob of dried chemicals over a strip of sandpaper felt more natural.
Mistake number one.
Lucas and I stood in a dim, cluttered room in an abandoned house. The tall trees surrounding the structure cut off the last rays of the setting sun. We needed more light. Other than that, I can’t tell you exactly what I was thinking the moment the wick flared.
Mistake number two.
From the doorway behind me, Tori cried, “Jinksy! Don’t do that!”
The warning came too late, and surprised me so much, I stood there gaping at her until the burning match scorched my fingers. Swearing under my breath, I shook out the flame and resisted the urge to drop it. The whole place was a tinder box waiting to ignite.
“Have you lost your mind?” I demanded.
“Me?” she said, outraged. “You just lit a hoodoo candle. What were you thinking?”
“That we needed some light in here.”
Tori rolled her eyes. “Would you please stop being so literal?” she said. “What were you thinking? What was your intention when you lit the candle?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess that I want to find this ghost so we can go home.”
Mistake number three.