To my surprise, Jase is sitting at our usual booth at Cliff's Bistro when Nick and I arrive. I see him through the window, printed with a monosyllabic listing of Cliff's menu underneath the restaurant's logo—shakes, steaks, and more! —and framed by a large oak, the leaves just a shade off from Jase's fiery hair.

Nick and I enter Cliff's, immediately submerged in the scent of burgers being grilled and coffee being made, and weave around a departing family of four to our table. Jase diverts from his longing gaze out the window, and tries to stand up, forgetting that the table is in his way.

"How was it?" Jase asks, his pale eyes wide. He staggers and sits back down as Nick and I slide into the booth-seat opposite his. "Tell me everything."

Nick snatches a menu from the little display at the end of the table, even though he gets the same thing every time we come here: a tomato and mozzarella panini, a side of waffle fries, and a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream and a strawberry on top.

"Stella can tell you all about it," Nick says, motioning over the nearest waiter, who just so happens to be Uncle Cliff himself. I'd aim a blow at Nick for the remark, but I don't get a chance.

"Nick, good to see you," Uncle Cliff booms as he approaches. He chuckles, shaking Nick by the shoulder. "How've you been?"

"Great, Cliff." Nick smiles dazzlingly up at him. "I'll have the usual."

"Quick to the point, aren't you?" Cliff shoots him a sarcastic look as he digs out his notepad and scribbles down his order. He looks up at me and smiles with a knowing glint in his dark eyes. "And if it isn't Stella Sawyer. How's Willow's Crest's favorite ghostbuster?"

I beam charmingly, even though I can feel Nick trying not to laugh. Stomping on his foot under the table, I say, "Amazing, Cliff. I'm amazing."

"She's stellar." Nick winks. I make another move to stomp on his foot.

Uncle Cliff roars his signature jolly laugh. Uncle Cliff isn't really anyone's uncle, and his name isn't really Cliff. It's really Raymond Clifford James, but as was decreed by the original owner of Cliff's Bistro—some Civil War-era dude who happened to share the same name as Willow's Crest's founder, Clifford St. John Blackburn—the owner of Cliff's Bistro had to be someone with Clifford in their name or else old Blackburn's ghost would haunt the joint until the end of time.

And for all my ghost-hunting and story-telling, that is one legend I think is all bs. But of course, we all rolled with it anyway, and Uncle Cliff became everyone's uncle when he took up the post as owner. He was a good guy to be around, and an even better chef. He really made you feel like family.

"I take it'll be the usual for you as well?" Cliff asks, and I nod. If there's one thing I can't get enough of, it's Cliff's Mushroom and Swiss Burger with a side of waffle fries. I sort of have to believe in an afterlife, so I hope that when I get there, they have a Cliff's so I can be set for eternity.

Finally, Cliff turns his attention to Jase. "Hey, Jasper. How's it hanging?"

Jase shrugs, hiding the wince at his full name. No one's called Jase 'Jasper' since maybe fourth grade. "It's going."

"Finished that composition yet?" Cliff stares at Jase pointedly, and I see the panic button begin to flash behind Jase's eyes. Jase is a talented musician, and at just about any festival in Willow's Crest, he and his band: Jase and the Base-Cliffs, can be found performing. Jase on drums, Jess Burns on piano, Josh Grayson on guitar, and Cliff himself on saxophone or trumpet or horn.

I swoop in to save him, knowing that if I don't, Jase will either self-destruct or make an escape through the window. "Jase has been really busy with college auditions lately, but I know he's hard at work on it."

Cliff seems relieved. "I'm glad to hear it. We need that piece for the Harbinger's Harvest Festival, or else we might have to resort to Clay and his weird techno music."

At the prospect, we all visibly resist a shudder. Clay is a college kid with a passion for DJ-ing, except he's really bad at it. He buses at Cliff's on the weekends, and he's somehow always blasting Skrillex from the portable speaker in his pocket.

"It'll definitely be done by then." Jase smiles good-naturedly, a nervous laugh under his breath. He shoots me a sympathetic look, and I wink in response.

Cliff pins him with a look. "Same as usual for you, too?"

Jase purses his lips, snatching the menu from Nick, who'd been spinning it around his finger the way some people would basketballs or pizza dough. He skims through the myriad selections, and leaving us in suspense, says "Gimme a Caesar salad. With extra cheese."

Cliff huffs a laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

Jase lowers the menu, a serious look on his face. "Do I look like I'm kidding, Cliff?"

Cliff raises his eyebrows. "Dang, kid, all right." He takes the menu, tucking it under his arm. He scribbles down Jase's order, bids us a happy adieu, and bounds over to greet the newest customers walking in through the front door.

"Remind me how Cliff joined your guys' band?" Nick drums his fingers on the table, furrowing his eyebrows at Jase.

Jase waves a hand at Nick, as if dismissing the matter. "Long story. Now," he fixes me with his exuberant eyes, "spill."

I sigh, almost wishing that he'd forgotten the subject. "The Warren House was a bust."

Jase's eyes nearly bulge out of his head. "You're kidding, right?"

I mock Jase's earlier tone. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Jase gives me a tired look, and I smirk. "The Warren House has been featured on, like, a half dozen different ghost-hunting shows."

Nick snorts, and before he can make some offhand comment about those shows, I swat at him. He yelps, and rubs where I've hit him on his arm. "Hey! I was just going to say how those shows are a true testament to cinematography of the twenty-first century—"

I snatch a biscuit from the complimentary basket on the table and shove it into his mouth, shutting him up. "Hush."

Jase snickers, and Nick gives me a scathing look. He tears a bite out of the roll, munching on it. "You're lucky I like biscuits."

I roll my eyes and return my focus to Jase, who's practically leaning on the edge of his seat. "We got nothing. We did just about everything—"

"—Spirit box?"

"Tried it."

"—Laser grid?"

"Tried it."

"Ouija board?"

"Oh, hell no!" Nick says from behind a bite of biscuit. He swallows and rids the corners of his mouth of crumbs before pointing at Jase the way I'd pointed at Nick earlier, as if he was about to direct a curse upon his name. "There is no way we're messing with Ouija boards."

I scoff. "So you believe in Ouija boards but not ghosts? That's hypocritical."

"No. No," Nick says, and both Jase and I resist a groan. Nick has his theorizing face on, and I'm not about to listen to him science his way out this one. "Ouija boards channel dark energy from some other beyond that we mere mortals cannot comprehend. Bad things happen when you mess with Ouija boards."

"Like releasing ghosts," Jase quips, clearly on my side.

"Or worse." Nick grins demonically. I make a move to throw another biscuit at him, and he ducks.

I sigh, looking back to Jase. "Either way, it was a total bust. We didn't even hear a single creak."

Jase frowns, and he's looking at me the way he looks at his compositions when he can't find the right note or his mystery boards for the crime shows he binge watches, like I'm a mystery yet to be solved. "I mean, I think we know why the spirits have gone silent."

I inhale sharply. "Don't say it, Jase,"

"I'm saying it, Stel," He says, almost apologetically. "The Harbinger."

I groan, burying my head in my hands. "No."

"It falls in line with the timelines," Jase pleads, his words running into one another because he knows I can't stand the subject. "The spirits go silent when the bridges are about to open. You know this, Stella—"

"—I do know it, and I know that it's all bullshit," I retort, looking up at him with a piercing look.

"Shh!" Nick scolds. He motions to the restaurant around him. "Family establishment."

"Then what's your theory for the Warren House being empty?" Jase folds his arms, leaning back against his seat.

I hold his gaze, acting as if I have some resolve on the matter, when really, I'm just trying to stall for time. When no revelations dawn on me, I decide to give up. "Physics."

Nick fist-pumps the air, and Jase pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stella, come on—"

"The Harbingers are just urban legends turned advertisements for tourist attractions and revenue," I rattle off, sounding as much like a skeptic as ever. In fact, I sound a lot like Nick. "Just like the Salem witches."

"If not for the Salem witches, would we even be here though?" Nick spreads his hands out, as if giving thanks to Cliff's Bistro and the rest of Willow's Crest.

"Or, better yet, would they?" Jase wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I know exactly who he's referring to: the spirits of the dead of Willow's Crest and the surrounding area.

But I won't even begin to consider the Harbingers as a possibility. There's absolutely no way. Yet, before I can fire off another remark, Cliff returns with our food, and the typical paranormal debate is halted once more.

"We've got your number, Stel," Nick says, popping a fry into his mouth. "You're as much of a skeptic as I am."

I take an angry bite out of my burger.