Though he takes the whole ghost thing a little too seriously, if you ask me.

"Susannah," he said, tiredly. "You and I, for better or for worse, were born with an incredible gift - an ability to see and speak to the dead."

"There you go again," I said, rolling my eyes, "with that gift stuff. Frankly, Father, I don't see it that way."

How could I? Since the age of two - two years old - I've been pestered with, pounded on, plagued by restless spirits. For fourteen years, I've put up with their abuse, helping them when I could, punching them when I could not, always fearful of somebody finding out my secret and revealing me to be the biological freak I've always known I am, but have tried so desperately to hide from my sweet, long-suffering mother.

And then Mom remarried and moved me out to California - in the middle of my sophomore year, thanks very much - where, wonder of wonders, I'd actually met someone cursed with the same horrible affliction: Father Dominic.

Only Father Dominic refuses to view our "gift" in the same light as me. To him, it's a marvelous opportunity to help others in need.

Yeah, okay. That's fine for him. He's a priest. He's not a sixteen-year-old girl who, hello, would like to have a social life.

If you ask me, a "gift" would have some plus side to it. Like superhuman strength or the ability to read minds, or something. But I don't have any of that cool stuff. I'm just an ordinary sixteen-year-old girl - well, okay, with above ordinary looks, if I do say so myself - who happens to be able to converse with the dead.

Big deal.

"Susannah," he said now, very seriously. "We are mediators. We aren't . . . well, terminators. Our duty is to intervene on the spirits' behalf, and lead them to their ultimate destination. We do that by gentle guidance and counseling, not by punching them in the face or by performing Brazilian voodoo exorcisms."