Chapter 7: ROLL CALL
The parlor looked like the green room before a variety show.
Eight ghosts had arranged themselves around the space in what Pete probably imagined was an orderly reception line but actually resembled a casting call for a period drama that couldn't decide on its century. Thor stood by the fireplace with his arms crossed, scowling like he'd been asked to audition for something beneath him. Isaac had positioned himself at parade rest near the window, formal as a wedding portrait. Alberta perched on the chaise, legs crossed at the ankle, posture suggesting she expected to be photographed at any moment.
And in the corner, watching everyone with patient amusement, Sass sat on the back of an armchair like a cat observing mice.
"Okay," Sam said, stepping into the room with Logan behind her. "Everyone's here?"
"Flower isn't," Pete said, bouncing on his heels. The arrow in his neck wobbled. "She wandered off about ten minutes ago. Said she wanted to check on the garden."
"It's October. There's nothing in the garden."
"I don't think she knows that."
Jay trailed in last, phone in hand, expression caught somewhere between supportive husband and man questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment. He couldn't see any of the ghosts — to him, the parlor was empty except for his wife and brother-in-law.
"So," Jay said carefully, settling into an armchair that Hetty was pointedly not sitting in. "We're doing... introductions?"
"We're doing introductions." Sam squared her shoulders. "Logan and I can both see them. You can't. So we're going to go around the room and I'll translate."
"You'll translate what the air is saying."
"The air has feelings, Jay."
Logan bit back a smile. Three days ago — was it really only three days? — he'd been standing in this same room pretending he couldn't see anyone. Now he was about to participate in formal introductions with people he'd watched on television for four seasons.
"Don't laugh. Don't react too quickly. Don't know things you shouldn't know."
The performance was exhausting. But it was also, in a strange way, thrilling.
[GE: 100/100. STATUS: SHOWTIME.]
Thor went first, because Thor always went first.
"I am Thorfinn!" The Viking's voice boomed through the parlor, loud enough that Logan was surprised Jay couldn't hear it. "Son of a warrior people! Slayer of many foes! I came to these shores one thousand years ago with my brothers in arms and I was—"
He stopped. Something complicated crossed his face.
"—left behind," he finished, quieter. "Because they counted wrong. And then the lightning came."
The room was very still.
"I'm sorry," Logan said, and meant it. "That sounds like a terrible way to die."
Thor stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, sharp.
"Thor likes ships," Pete added helpfully. "And television. And he really hates the Danes."
"The Danes are cowards and thieves," Thor agreed, apparently grateful for the subject change. "Their ships have too much freeboard."
"You know," Logan said carefully, "I read once that Viking navigation was incredibly sophisticated. Something about using sunstones to track the sun's position through clouds?"
The transformation was immediate. Thor's scowl dissolved into something almost like enthusiasm.
"You know of the sólarsteinn? The sunstone?" He stepped forward, ghostly hands gesturing expansively. "My father had one! Given to him by his father! A crystal that could catch the sky-light even when the clouds hid the sun! We could sail anywhere with such a stone!"
"Thor." Isaac's voice cut through the excitement. "Perhaps we might continue with the introductions?"
Thor shot him a glare but stepped back. Isaac moved forward, every inch the Revolutionary War officer, hands clasped behind his back.
"Captain Isaac Higgintoot," he said, pronouncing each syllable with excessive precision. "Continental Army. I served with distinction at Fort Ticonderoga before succumbing to dysentery." A pause. "The circumstances of my death are not to be discussed."
"Sam said 'Higginbottom' earlier," Logan noted, keeping his face carefully neutral.
Isaac's expression tightened. "She was incorrect."
"My mistake," Sam said quickly. "Higgintoot. Got it."
Logan watched Isaac's posture relax slightly and filed away the observation. In the show, the name change had been a running gag — but here, in person, it was clearly a genuine sore spot. A man who'd changed his name to escape mockery and still flinched when anyone got close to the truth.
"Don't push. Don't probe. Let him keep his dignity."
Alberta swept forward before the moment could stretch.
"Alberta Haynes," she announced, voice carrying like she was performing for a full theater. "Singer. Performer. The finest voice the Cotton Club never heard." She placed a hand over her heart. "I was murdered in this house in 1920-something. The exact year is fuzzy, but the murder was definitely intentional."
"Your voice is incredible," Logan said. "I could hear you singing from upstairs."
Alberta's smile was radiant. "Darling, you can hear me singing from anywhere in this house. It's a gift."
"And a curse," Hetty muttered from her position by the window.
"That's Henrietta Woodstone," Sam said, gesturing toward the Victorian woman. "She built this house. Well — her husband built it. With her money."
"My husband was a philandering fool who spent my family's fortune on this monument to his ego." Hetty's voice could have frozen water. "I do not wish to discuss my death."
"Fair enough."
Logan met her eyes — held the gaze just long enough to register acknowledgment, not long enough to seem challenging. In the show, Hetty's suicide was eventually revealed, eventually addressed. But here, now, it was her secret to keep.
"Everyone's got something they're hiding. Including me."
"I'm Trevor!"
The finance bro bounded forward, somehow maintaining energy despite being dead and pantless. His boxer shorts had little dollar signs on them. Of course they did.
"Trevor Lefkowitz, formerly of Wall Street. I died at a party in this house. Cocaine-related heart incident. It was actually a pretty legendary party — I don't know if you've heard of it?"
"I haven't," Logan said.
"Oh. Well, it was legendary. Ask anyone." Trevor paused. "Who's still alive. And remembers. Which might be nobody." Another pause. "Anyway, I'm great at finance stuff if you need help with the B&B books."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Flower drifted in through the wall mid-conversation, because of course she did.
"Oh, are we doing introductions?" She smiled dreamily at Logan, a flower crown that wasn't actually there seeming to shimmer around her head. "I'm Flower. I was here for a... what was it called? The summer thing with the love and the music?"
"Woodstock," Pete supplied.
"No, not Woodstock. The other one. The one at this house."
"There was a commune on the property in 1969," Sam explained. "Flower was visiting when she wandered into the woods and—"
"Met a bear!" Flower's smile didn't falter. "He was very friendly. Until he wasn't." She tilted her head, considering. "I think he was hungry. I would have shared my sandwich with him but he moved very fast."
The room was silent.
"I'm sorry about the bear," Logan said finally.
"Oh, don't be! He was just doing bear things. Bears gotta bear." Flower giggled at her own joke, then drifted toward the window. "The garden looks sad today. I should sing to it."
She walked through the wall and was gone.
"That's Flower," Pete said unnecessarily.
"I gathered."
In the corner of the room, Jay was speaking quietly into his phone: "My wife and her brother are talking to air. This is fine. I'm fine. The air seems friendly."
Sam shot him a look that was equal parts exasperated and fond.
"And you've already met Pete," she continued, gesturing to the scout leader who was practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Pete, do you want to—"
"I'm Pete Martino! I was a Pinecone Trooper den leader! I died when one of my scouts had an archery accident!" He pointed to the arrow in his neck with disturbing cheerfulness. "His name was Kevin. I don't blame him. Much."
"Kevin sounds like he had issues," Logan said.
"Kevin had SO many issues. But we don't hold grudges in the Pinecone Troopers. It's against the code."
That left only one ghost who hadn't introduced himself.
Sass had been watching the whole performance from his perch on the armchair, legs dangling, expression giving nothing away. Five hundred years of observation had taught him patience. He could wait longer than anyone in this room.
"And that's Sasappis," Sam said, nodding toward him. "Sass. He's been here longer than anyone except Thor. He's... quiet."
"I talk when I have something to say." Sass's voice was dry, measured. "I just don't feel the need to announce myself like I'm entering a stage."
"Fair," Logan said.
They looked at each other — the transmigrator and the observer, each watching the other for signs of deception. Logan had the disadvantage here. Sass had five centuries of reading people. Logan had meta-knowledge, but meta-knowledge didn't cover microexpressions and body language and all the tiny tells that Sass had spent lifetimes cataloguing.
"He knows something's off. He just doesn't know what."
[OBSERVATION: SASAPPIS EVALUATION INTENSITY — ELEVATED.]
[RECOMMENDATION: PROCEED CAREFULLY. THIS ONE PAYS ATTENTION.]
"It's nice to meet all of you," Logan said, addressing the room. "I know this is strange — two people who can see you showing up at the same time. But we're here to help. With the B&B, with the house, with whatever you need."
"What we need," Alberta said, "is for someone to find out who murdered me."
"What we need," Thor countered, "is for someone to honor the warriors who died on this land."
"What we need," Isaac added, "is for someone to maintain proper decorum in a household that has descended into chaos since Mrs. Woodstone's grand-niece arrived."
"I'm standing right here, Isaac."
"I'm aware, Mrs. Arondekar."
The bickering escalated quickly — voices overlapping, accusations flying, centuries of unresolved grievances spilling out in a cacophony that made Logan's head throb. Jay looked up from his phone, frowning at the noise he couldn't quite hear.
"Is everything okay? You both look stressed."
"They're arguing," Sam said. "About everything."
"The air is arguing?"
"The air has a lot of opinions."
Logan stepped back from the chaos, letting Sam take the lead on mediation. This was her role — this was what she'd become in the show, the bridge between worlds. He was supposed to be the supporting player, the second seer who helped without overshadowing.
But as he retreated toward the doorway, he caught Sass's eye.
The ghost hadn't joined the argument. He was still watching Logan with that patient, predatory attention.
"You're good," Sass said quietly, voice barely audible under the shouting. "The way you asked Thor about navigation. The way you didn't push Isaac about his name. The way you complimented Alberta just enough to flatter without sounding fake."
Logan's stomach tightened.
"I'm observant," he said carefully.
"So am I." Sass tilted his head. "I've been watching people for five hundred years. I know what genuine curiosity looks like. And I know what performance looks like." He paused. "You're performing. Very well. But you're performing."
The room was still full of arguing ghosts. Sam was trying to get Thor and Isaac to stop shouting about military strategy. Jay was looking increasingly concerned about his wife's sanity.
And Sass was looking at Logan like he'd just spotted a puzzle he intended to solve.
"Everyone performs," Logan said. "Especially when meeting new people."
"True." Sass's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But most people aren't this good at it."
He turned away before Logan could respond, joining the argument with a dry comment that made Alberta laugh and Thor grumble.
The moment passed.
But Logan knew it wasn't over. Sass had spotted something, and Sass wasn't the type to let observations go unexplored.
"I need to be more careful. Or find a way to bring him in."
[WARNING: SASS EVALUATION — PATTERN BUILDING. RECOMMEND: MONITOR CLOSELY.]
The argument in the parlor was finally winding down. Sam had brokered some kind of temporary peace — Alberta would get a podcast about her murder investigation, Thor would get a ceremony honoring his Viking heritage, Isaac would get... something about proper household schedules.
Jay stood up, stretching. "So, are we done talking to the air?"
"For now," Sam said. "But they're going to have a lot more opinions as we start renovations."
"Great. Opinionated air. That's exactly what this B&B needs."
He headed toward the kitchen, muttering about dinner options, and the ghosts began to disperse — drifting through walls, climbing stairs that didn't creak under their weightless feet.
Logan lingered in the parlor until only Sass remained.
"You're going to figure it out," he said quietly. "Whatever you think I'm hiding. You're going to keep watching until you understand."
Sass raised an eyebrow. "Is that a confession?"
"It's an observation." Logan smiled, trying to make it look genuine. "You're good too. I can tell."
He left before Sass could respond.
Behind him, the ghost sat alone in the empty parlor, turning Logan's words over like stones in his hand.
"He's good," Sass said to no one. "Too good."
The silence of the old house swallowed his words.