My new ghost story trilogy (the first, Medium Well is now available from Berkley InterMix at Amazon and Barnes and Noble) takes place in a very spooky place: the King William District of San Antonio. San Antonio itself is full of places that are supposed to be haunted—I mean, the Alamo is in the center of downtown SA. The Menger Hotel is right across the street from the Alamo and boasts several well-known ghosts, including Teddy Roosevelt (who recruited the Rough Riders there during the Spanish American War). The Spanish Governors Palace has a haunted fountain. The Majestic Theatre has some performance-loving ghosts. And that’s just downtown.

But there are other haunted places that aren’t what you’d expect. For a couple of years, the hubs and I stayed at a motel in Nebraska on the way home from Iowa after Christmas. It was really large, with an indoor pool and a convention center, yet it usually seemed more than half empty, although that could have been the time of year. I’d head down to the lobby for a cup of coffee in the morning since I always wake up before the hubs does, and I’d frequently get the creeps. Something about it—above and beyond the fact that most of the lights had been turned out—made me feel uneasy. Then one day I was stumbling around the Internet, looking for something else, and I found that motel listed under Haunted Hotels. I was sort of shocked, but not exactly.

Some of this is expectation, of course. I’ve wandered around the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, which was the inspiration for Stephen King’s The Shining, and it’s predictably spooky. But the management at the Stanley really wants you to feel that way—they even do ghost tours. So it’s not surprising that you feel a bit of a creep when you go inside.

To me, what’s scarier is the place you didn’t expect to feel creepy at all. The historic building that suddenly has you looking over your shoulder. The boutique hotel where you discover you don’t really want to check out the lower story after all. The small town main street that makes you want to keep driving. Are these places haunted? Who knows? They’re certainly haunting you!

That’s what happens to my hero in Medium Well. He’s an experienced real estate salesman who’s never had a problem selling a historic home—that’s his specialty. But now all of a sudden, he’s got a place that gives him the creeps, big time. Here’s a quick taste:

Excerpt

He nodded toward a door on the far wall. “Did you check in there?”

“Not yet. Maybe it’s the kitchen.”

Danny took hold of the doorknob and turned. “Locked.”

“Why would they lock the kitchen? I don’t know if we have a key. Maybe the front door key works here, too.” She started toward him.

Danny rattled the knob again. “Probably just stuck. I don’t see a keyhole.” After a moment, he put his shoulder against the door and pushed, gritting his teeth at the thought of his recently cleaned Hugo Boss jacket. The door opened with a tooth-jarring creak.

He stood in the doorway staring at another filthy room. A utility sink stood against one wall, an ancient wood-burning stove on the other. “At least it’s got plumbing. Not all these places do.”

Biddy peeped in the door over his shoulder. “Do you think the stove is worth anything? Maybe it’s an antique.”

He glanced at the stove—black metal with a steel top, covered with a half inch of filth. It looked like it weighed a ton. “Could be valuable. Assuming you could actually get it out of here. You’d have to use a crane or something.”

He walked across the dusty floor, stepping over the occasional piece of trash, then ran his fingers across the scalloped edge at the top corner of the stove.

And suddenly his hand was on fire.

Electric sparks seemed to flow up from his fingertips to his shoulder. The surface of his palm throbbed with heat, as if the stove were flaming. “What the hell?” Danny gasped, snatching his hand away.

His shoulders ached, his back, his neck. Danny grabbed hold of his burning hand and the sparks flowed to the other side of his body. “Jesus Christ!”

“Mr. Ramos?” Beside him, Biddy frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Christ!” He shook both hands, trying to cool them. Slowly, the heat began to recede.

“Don’t touch the stove,” he gasped. “It’s got some kind of electric charge or something.”

“The stove?” She gave him an incredulous glance, reaching her hand toward the stove top.

“Biddy, no!” Danny grabbed for her, missing her hand, so that his palm landed on the burner again.

His hand rested upon cool metal.

Biddy stared at him with real concern. “Mr. Ramos? It’s okay, really. There’s nothing here. I don’t feel anything.”

Danny took a deep breath, willing himself not to snatch his hand away again. The stove top felt cold. There were no electric sparks. “I must have touched something else. Something hot.”

“Up here?” She glanced around the room. “But it’s not hot here at all. I mean, actually it’s cold. I wish I’d brought a sweater.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her shoulders.

Danny stared around the room again. Dust. Trash. Two dirt-stained windows. He stared down at his hands, but they looked perfectly normal. No burned skin. Nothing.

His jaw clenched. Too much coffee. Too little sleep. Nothing freaky going on. “Anything else to see? Any other rooms?”

She shook her head, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Just the downstairs. The garage part.”

“Okay.” He blew out a breath. Time to head back to the real world. “Let’s go down there and check it out.”

He took the key from her fingers, feeling a quick brush of warmth as their hands touched, then shooed her out the front door, leaning back to lock it. His fingers still tingled slightly. He glanced down.

His hand was stained crimson, his fingers dripping blood.

Danny stood frozen in the doorway, staring. He didn’t feel any pain. How could he be bleeding?

“Mr. Ramos?” Biddy called to him from the bottom of the stairs. “Okay?”

He glanced down at her, then back at his hand again.

His clean, dry hand.