Is it rude to comment that the lawyer's office smells of brine and fish guts? That's what my mother says when Mr Mayhew, my great-aunt's attorney, ducks out to grab some paperwork.

The whole room looks like a generic soap opera set: cheap, pale brown wood paneling dominates the office; the bookshelf behind his dark brown Ikea desk and chair is filled with law books bound in red, blue, or green. We sit in red-brown chairs with half-moon backs that look like they were once in a bank lobby. Greyish-green metal cabinets sit up against the opposite wall. I recall seeing similar cabinets in the office of my elementary school's secretary.

Maybe they were purchased at a surplus sale?

"He could've picked a better location than this," I reply, glancing out the open window. The piers of Edgartown, Martha's Vineyard stretch into the Atlantic Ocean. Boats bob against their moorings—everything from tiny skiffs to thirty-foot yachts. It's a quintessential New England scene.

Mom can do little more than shush me before Mr Mayhew returns. The lawyer is an average-looking middle-aged man, with close-cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. An eye patch covers his right eye, a thin scar bisecting his bushy eyebrow. The wound is the result of surviving an IED attack more than twenty years ago he explained upon welcoming us into his office.

I don't know what this man will tell us about Great-Aunt Louise's estate, but I'm pretty confident a veteran shouldn't wait twenty years to get approval for a healer to grow him a new eye.

"Sorry about that." Mr Mayhew puts a thick manilla envelope on his desk and pulls out a tri-folded group of papers. "Let's begin, shall we?" He clears his throat. "I, Louise Josephine Stefanik, being of sound mind and body ..."

I listen with half an ear to the requisite legal mumbo-jumbo, until I hear my name.

"... to my niece, Elara Nowak, I leave the Silver Spirit Inn in its entirety."

I sit up, grabbing the arms of the bank chair in shock. Did I hear that right? "Excuse me?" I blurt out. I have vague recollections of my parents talking about Great-Aunt Louise, but I can't remember them ever mentioning she owned an inn.

Leaning forward, I straighten the hem of my black pencil skirt. "That can't be right," I tell the lawyer in disbelief. Maybe it's a book series or collection of—oh, I don't know—porcelain figurines. Witches get weird after they hit their hundredth birthdays—and Great-Aunt Louise was 114.

Mr Mayhew's mouth quirks in amusement. "I'm afraid it's correct," he says, pulling out another sheet of paper. This one is yellowed with age, its corners rounded by time. "This is the deed to the inn," he tells us, laying it flat on the desk. "And here is the document she signed in my presence and witnessed by my secretary, transferring the property to you." Another paper from the stack joins the deed.

"You've got to be kidding me," I exclaim, falling back in the hideous bank chair. "What the hell am I going to do with an inn?"

Mom's eyes cut to me. "Well ..."

I know exactly where she's headed. "No. I'll find another job soon."

Mom sighs and turns back to Mr Mayhew. "Is there anything else that we should know about?"

The lawyer nods and reaches into the manilla envelope. "This is a letter your great-aunt told me to give to you. She said that you're to open it alone."

I reach for the plain white envelope. My name is scrawled on the front in a shaky, spidery hand and it's sealed with a dab of orange wax. "I don't get it," I say, turning the envelope around in my hands. "I met her once, at her sister's funeral." I glance at Mom. "That was—what?—ten years ago?"

Mom nods, her lips pressed into a thin, contemplative line.

"We exchanged a handful of words. Why would she pass down her business to me?" I have managerial skills, true, but as a managing editor, not as the owner of a bed and breakfast.

Mr Mayhew reaches across his desk and taps the end of the envelope. "She said that all your answers are in here."

I stare at the orange wax seal, running my thumb over the raised edges. It's the unofficial logo for grave witches: a cemetery gate. I slide a manicured nail beneath the wax, watching it crack as it's lifted from the paper.

"Not here," the lawyer interjects. "Your great-aunt was very specific. You have to open it alone."

Here, in the car, or back at the hotel. What's the difference? I sigh. "Fine." I reach for my cream-colored Coach bag and shove the envelope inside.

Mr Mayhew finishes reading the rest of Great-Aunt Louise's will—the inn's business account is in my name, and the rest of her savings are to be split amongst the rest of her living relatives.

Before we leave, the lawyer hands me the code to the inn's security system and a key. It's a heavy brass monstrosity tied with a faded red cord. A tiny silver bell is suspended from the end of the cord. I run my fingers over the metal, feeling a slight tingle of grave energy emanating from the key. As Mom and I slide into the rental car, I pass it to her.

"What do you make of this?"

Although she looks like your average suburban housewife, my mother is anything but. As one of the most powerful grave witches in the country, she's traveled from one end to the other to provide testimony in high-profile murder cases.

Yeah, my mom is a certified badass.

"Ooh," Mom hisses, dropping the key onto her lap. "That's cold." She vigorously shakes her hands and rubs them together.

I glance at her eyes, which are fading from bright blue to their usual honey-brown. The presence of "cold spots" in homes or other locations generally signifies ghostly activity. Some spirits will attach themselves to certain objects, rather than move freely. I guess it brings them comfort, like a warm blanket or a favorite TV show.

"Who's in there?" I ask, pulling out my phone and plugging the inn's address into GPS.

Mom prods the brass key with a pinky finger. "No one."

While it's highly unusual, some ghosts will naturally move on after a couple hundred years. But the objects they once inhabited are often highly charged with grave energy. It's the psychic equivalent of leaving your ID behind at the bar. Except it doesn't suck for the ghost.

"Did Great-Aunt Lousie die with it?" I joke, tying up my heavy brown hair and sliding on a pair of sunglasses. I put the car into reverse and back out of the parking space.

Mom lifts a censuring eyebrow. "You know that's not how it works," she tells me pointedly.

I nod absently and concentrate on following the GPS's directions to Chilmark. As a grave witch myself, it's hard not to know how things work—but I chose to follow a different path in life. Not all witches with secondary abilities choose careers that align with their specialties. Sure, I could've gone to a forensics college and followed in my mother's footsteps or used my Level Eight witch's license to get a job at a Fortune 500 company casting spells on cars or condoms, but I like to write.

The trouble is, that traditional lifestyle magazines like the one I used to work at are on the decline in this digital world. With or without the owner getting taken to the cleaners by his wife for infidelity.

I suppose I could freelance, but that crap doesn't pay Los Angeles rent. Which is how I found myself hauling fifteen years' worth of stuff (and one cranky familiar) from one coast to the other to live with my parents in New Hampshire.

Honestly, I should be grateful my parents are the type to welcome their California transplant daughter back to the nest with open arms. Even if they still don't understand the appeal of kale or quinoa.

Mom hums to herself as we drive down Edgartown Road—eight miles, according to the GPS. "There's dozens—if not hundreds—of signatures here," she mutters.

I blink. "Geez, what was Great-Aunt Louise doing with that thing?"

"I don't know. It doesn't appear to be a conduit, because the signatures are extremely faint. I can barely get a reading on most of them."

"You mean to tell me that thousands of ghosts were casually passing through that key?" I shake my head and chuckle. That means Great-Aunt Louise's inn has more spiritual traffic than a cemetery.

Wonderful.

Mom shrugs. "It's possible the inn sits on a ley line."

I purse my lips and adjust my sunglasses. Ley lines are invisible currents of energy that crisscross the planet. Ghosts are naturally drawn to these pockets, as well as anything with a charge—such as batteries. Energy serves as fuel, allowing them to exist on this plane and not fade into oblivion.

"Well, we'll have to see, won't we?" I say, nodding at the road.