Excerpt: Blood Addiction

Sitting before me was a sob story. Great big tears rolled down her cheeks while she told me her tale. She was dressed in a purple sun hat, maroon cardigan over green v-neck shirt. And of course, a gazillion beads from her neck to her bellybutton. I couldn’t see past her waist because it was submerged in the marble counter of the breakfast nook. More strange than that, she was slightly translucent. As in, yes, I could see the shaft of morning sunlight slicing through her beaded bosom.
"And how does that make you feel?" I said, switching my weight from left hip to right.
I know this looks bad (using bad psychology techniques). In fact, it probably looks weirder than a granny on a pogo stick. And not the slightest bit humorous. But I can totally explain. See? You know how people who can read other people’s minds call themselves "telepaths", and people who practice magic are witches and so on? Well, they don’t have a name for what I do, which is talk to ghosts. Sorry, spirits. (They object to being called ghosts because of some undisclosed reason.)
To make it all easier, I just call me the Ghost Whisperer of the Real World.