Portrait of a Haunting - Couverture rigide

Nelson, Madison Tyler

Couverture rigide

ISBN 13 : 9798217189342

Editeur : Berkley, 2026

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After fearing it all her life, a young woman embraces her ability to see ghosts after a murder occurs that appears dangerously linked to her past.

To Tatum Alexander, the Sight—her ability to see spirits—has always been more of an affliction than a gift. Having inherited the power from her mother, Amarina, an infamous artist known for murdering her lover and using his blood for her final painting, Tatum has been reluctant to step into her talent or even get close to the man she loves.

She's been able to find a safe space to hide her Sight with the largest witch coven in Manhattan and her best friend, Mischa. But when Mischa is murdered, the act eerily connected to Amarina’s own crime, a traumatized Tatum must reckon with both the loss and the sudden surge of spirits vying for her attention and her life.

The spirits have a message: the murderer is coming for her next and a price must be paid. To learn the truth of her past and catch the killer she'll have to rely on her loved ones’ helping hands—some witchy friends, the man who won't let her go, and her eternally perplexing mother—in order to embrace her Sight while keeping them all safe.

The clues will lead Tatum to a dangerous secret that Amarina has spent decades trying to keep. And when the secret is out, Tatum will be forced to risk it all.

Les informations fournies dans la section � Synopsis � peuvent faire r�f�rence � une autre �dition de ce titre.

� propos de l'auteur

Madison Tyler Nelson has considered herself a writer since she received her first rejection letter at nine years old, and has been crafting dark, speculative stories ever since. While she (sadly) can’t see ghosts, Portrait of a Haunting was inspired by her childhood of growing up with incarcerated parents. She lives in New York with her husband and very loud Norwegian Elkhound.

Extrait. � Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits r�serv�s.

One

Tatum Alexander knew the ghost would spot her that morning, no matter how badly she wished he wouldn't. With her back to the subway doors, the train moving swiftly beneath her feet, it was almost too easy for him. She had nowhere to hide, and she had no protection-no help-because her goddamn sunglasses were stashed in her wool coat at home.

She would've liked to blame her forgetfulness on the springlike air that had taken over Manhattan, forcing her to switch to a bomber jacket, but in truth, she was slightly hungover and incredibly late. Now it was like the heavens above were determined to smite her for a Friday night of gin and bad choices.

Usually, the shaded frames kept them out-kept them from noticing her.

She never stared, never turned their way, but all they had to do was spot her gray irises. The pale shadow color matched the sheen cast across those who roamed between worlds, and they knew. Tatum was their beacon, their lighthouse, calling them out of their personal abyss, no matter how much she wished the terrible light inside her would burn out.

The whispers, the sense of someone standing right behind her, started when she was four years old. Her mother taught her, from a very young age, that hauntings didn't just happen to places. They happened to people, to things, to moments in time. When Tatum had asked Amarina Alexander if she was crazy, her mother had shaken her head and said it was simply the family curse: ingenuity.

Tatum knew the truth, though, even back then, seeing it for exactly what it was: bullshit.

Now, at twenty-eight, she was practically her own version of a haunted house: her eyes were the windows, and her lips, the door. She had no control over the things she saw, the things she heard, or even the way her mouth parted instinctually, desperate to answer things unseen. No matter where she went, spirits hung around, lingering pests she seemed unable to shake. Carrying their baggage like ants, they waited as though she had any clue how to help them.

She'd learned ways around the Sight-the sunglasses being one of them, headphones to block out the whispers being another-but that morning, she was on her own. The train was humming along when a tattered man suddenly clambered through the door at the end of the carriage, fleeing from the connecting one. He stumbled through the crowded car, but her fellow riders remained unbothered, ducking slightly out of his way-Just another day. There was a shine to his skin, a cocktail of body odor and grime dominating the space as he hurried along. He cursed, swaying and lurching, as though something was chasing him.

Suddenly he spun, spit flying from his chapped lips. "Stay the fuck away from me!"

Around Tatum, people lowered their heads, their eyes trained forward. The air in the car changed from dull to tense, and Tatum knew what they were thinking. She would've thought the same thing if she'd had the luxury. Unstable. Sick. Insane. To them, the man was running from nothing. There was no threat to flee from.

But Tatum saw what he was trying to outrun, and honestly, she didn't blame him.

The spirit following him was tall, a shadow of a man, his dented skull brushing the ceiling of the car lightly. The side of his face was bruised, caved in, forcing his smirk to remain crooked. There was a strange elegance to him, even in death. His dark hair was neatly brushed back, and he sported a collared shirt in an eggshell white, the shade stark amongst the bloodstains. His dark-washed jeans were dirty, covered in black and brown filth, like he'd been dragged across the tracks they moved along.

She let her gaze wander, eyes unfocused, refusing to make contact. He wasn't the first ghost she'd seen in the crowded tunnels-people would be surprised to learn how haunted city transit systems were-but she'd never seen something like this. She'd never seen one look so determined, so sure of himself.

"You can see me," the spirit said. His voice was a roar, crashing through the silence of the car, but only two people could hear him. "You can help me."

"Guy." The tattered man's head twitched in a furious reply, gesturing from his dirty clothes to his stained skin. "I can't even help myself! No one helps anyone! Leave me alone!"

There was an eagerness to the man's movements, as if he'd been in situations like this before. The train tilted around a bend, but he didn't notice, backing away as commuters shifted out of his path.

"If you'd just stop for a second," the ghost said quietly, exasperated, inching closer, "you'd understand I'm not asking for much."

The man continued moving, passing Tatum without sparing her a look.

Her eyes dropped, knowing what to do, but she couldn't stop herself from listening as the man's reply came through in a mumble. "Nothing from you people is ever easy."

The ghost moved with a swagger, brushing through commuters, unbothered as they shivered. He was so set on his target that he didn't notice Tatum either.

Her eyes were trained on the floor, head tilted casually as she tried to ignore the scene in front of her. Her dark hair slipped over her shoulder, a wave falling in front of her face, but she didn't move.

Just another commuter. No ghosts to see here.

"Trust me." The spirit's voice was suddenly so soft it could've been a purr, and he closed in on his prey. "Just come here. Just listen."

The words were what made her look. Tatum couldn't help herself.

She lifted her chin toward the ceiling, prepared to study the list of stops above her head, but her eyes found the spirit and she froze, unable to look away.

Stunned, she watched as the ghost, flickering between reality and the underworld, reached with both hands and finally caught up to the man-but that wasn't the strange part. Ghosts loved a chase, loved any chance to get close to life. After all, they had nothing but time. Her mother said that ghosts just wanted to be remembered.

But this wasn't just a chase.

Unlike the commuters he'd slipped through with ease, mist disintegrating around life, the ghost touched the man and, for one moment, was no longer just a shadow.

He gripped the man's wrists and held him tightly, just enough to force his victim to freeze, before his misty gray hands merged with his prey's twitching palms. The spirit looked down in both shock and confusion. A strange ripple of black and gray moved across the poor man's skin as living and dead became one.

Impossible.

The spirit had gone from shadow to corporeal, from smoke to flesh. Soul and body had become one, and his victim watched in horror, unsure of what to do, of how to move.

Tatum's phone vibrated in her hand but she ignored it, locked in on the scene. On instinct she let out a stunned gasp, a sound she couldn't have fought if she'd tried. Only two people noticed her reaction-and they were the last two she would have wanted.

It was the spirit who saw her first, his head snapping sharply, turning on its axis. His wide eyes met hers, his swamp of black pupils finding her gray irises. She'd been seen.

It was over. He'd beg for help. He'd antagonize her when she couldn't respond. He'd follow her all day, until she could shake him-

But the spirit didn't react the way others usually did. He didn't lurch, desperate and scrambling, toward her. He wasn't eager. He wasn't even excited.

He was as stunned as she was.

His crooked lips parted and he released the man he held, ignoring him as he clattered to the floor. The crack of the man's fall startled the passengers around her, but nobody moved. The ghost took two large steps backward so that he was standing right in front of her, and, despite herself, Tatum couldn't look away.

She'd never seen him before, but he seemed intent as he mulled over his...