Ghost Huntress Book 5: The Discovery

by Marley Gibson

Kendall is faced with her greatest foe yet—a doll more evil than Chucky!

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780547393087
  • ISBN-10: 0547393083
  • Pages: 264
  • Publication Date: 05/02/2011
  • Carton Quantity: 48

About the book

After some time off, Kendall’s ready to begin ghost hunting again. But her life is still in flux. She misses Patrick, her new love. She needs to find a photographer to replace Taylor. Plus, she may have discovered who her real father is, but to be sure, she has to convince his family she’s not a fake.

And then there’s a certain doll that seems to be out to get her and her friends. A doll? How could that be? Unless, perhaps, it’s not just a doll. Maybe it’s a vessel containing the soul of a man so evil in life, not even death could stop his reign of terror. This could be Kendall’s most terrifying and deadliest encounter yet.

About the author
Marley Gibson

MARLEY GIBSON is the author of all of the Ghost Huntress books, and co-wrote The Other Side with Patrick Burns and Dave Schrader. She lives in Boston, MA, and can be found online at or at her blog, www.booksboys



Chapter One

I’m about to walk into a stranger’s place of business, introduce

myself, and ask the million-dollar question of my life: Do

you know who my father is?

 How freakin’ messed up is that?

 I take a deep breath and slowly let out the pent-up air

through my parted lips, allowing my lungs to stretch and contract

like a taut rubber band. Maybe that’s the tightness I’m

feeling in my chest. Yeah, right . . . couldn’t be the fact that

I’m in St. Louis in search of someone who might know what

man contributed the DNA that eventually became Kendall


 Mom—my adopted mom, Sarah Moorehead—reaches

over and rubs her hand on my jeaned kneecap. “We’re here,

sweetie. We can do this.”

 I nod when I really want to shake my head back and forth

and totally chicken out on this expedition. Stealing a look in

the visor mirror, I check for mascara flakes or food in my teeth

from the cookies I had on the plane from Atlanta. All clear.

Makeup . . . good. Clothes . . . mostly unwrinkled. Hair . . .

pulled away from face with a sparkly clip, brushed, and wavy.

I’m as ready to go as I can possibly be.

Mom puts her purse strap over her shoulder and fists the

rental-car keys in her palm. I climb out and listen as the automatic

locks click shut.

 I squint into the Saturday-afternoon sunshine and glance at

the gold-trimmed glass sign in front of the quaint art gallery

on Twelfth Street here in downtown St. Louis. It reads andrea

caminiti studio.

 See, here’s the current sitch: I just got back from my

Enlightened Youth Retreat in California, where I met my new

boyfriend, Patrick Lynn (who’s psychic just like me), and I told

the parentals about the vision I had about the person who may

or may not be my biological father. My bestie, Celia Nichols,

dug up information on the name that I saw in my vision: Andy

Caminiti. Actually, the name was Andi Caminiti. So, either my

real dad had a sex change (eww!) or I’m about to meet a member

of his immediate family.

 My psychic awareness tells me it’s the latter.

 “Let’s go, Kendall,” Mom says. She leads the way across the

sidewalk and through the double-glass doors of the art gallery.

 My nostrils pick up the smell of turpentine, oil paint, and

scented candles. Canvases adorn the left wall, laser whips of

splashed colors in abstract patterns. To the right are more traditional

artsy pieces of rolling hills, sunsets, beaches, and landscapes

done in charcoal and watercolors. A spiral staircase in

the middle leads upward to a wide-open loft area that I can see

is full of black-and-white photographs of people. Close-ups of

eyes, mouths, arms, and . . . is that a picture of a bellybutton?

Weird . . . yet beautifully shot.

 For a moment, I consider this woman, Andi Caminiti, who

is quite well known in the art community of St. Louis, Missouri,

and I wonder how in the world I could possibly be related to

such a talented person. I can barely draw stick figures.

 A young girl with tight curls and fashionable black glasses

greets us.

 “Welcome to Andrea Caminiti’s gallery,” she says. “I’m Liza.

May I show you around?”

 Mom gently clears her throat. “Thank you, Liza, but we

have an appointment.”

 Liza adjusts her glasses on her plump face. “You must be

Mrs. Moorehead. Andi will be right down to see you. Have a

seat and I’ll get you some bottled water while you wait.”

 We smile and move behind Liza over to an area where two

white-leather couches sit facing each other. When I came

home from California and told Mom and Dad all about my

psychic visions and the connection to the name in St. Louis,

my ’rents didn’t hesitate to go online and book two tickets out

here to St. Louis for this Saturday morning. Mom called ahead

to the gallery on the pretext of wanting to purchase some of

the artist’s work for our new house . . . so here we are.

 Liza holds out two cold, plastic bottles. “Sparkling or still?”

 “Still, thanks.”

 I take the proffered drink, twist off the cap, and quickly

douse the fiery burn in my throat. How am I going to do this?

Do I have the guts to reveal what I know to a total stranger?

Will she be nice? Mean? Will she kick us out, or, worse, call the

police and have them put us in the loony bin? Do we even still

have loony bins in this country? These thoughts—who needs


 My BlackBerry vibrates in my pocket, and I draw it out. Patrick

is texting me. Of course he is. We’re cosmically connected.

 >Clam down. Everything will work out. P

 I love how our brains and psyches are linked, even four

states apart.

 The tapping of three-inch heels on the wooden spiral staircase

causes me to jerk my head up. I see her legs first. Long and

lean, like a runner. A flowy black skirt then comes into view

followed by a loose-fitting black chiffon top. From the back,

the woman is tall and thin with jet-black hair. As she turns, her

ivory face is highlighted by bright red lipstick and lush black

lashes surrounding her . . . hazel eyes. Wow—they’re sort of the

same color as mine.

 “Sarah?” she asks as she walks toward us with her right

hand extended. “I’m Andi. So nice of you to come all this way

to see my work.”

 Mom and I both stand and the adults exchange handshakes.

I literally stare at the pretty lady in front of me, wondering

how I’m going to start this convo. My throat becomes as arid

as the California desert I flew over on the way home from my

retreat. My eyes begin to water and I’m afraid that if I blink,

it’ll look like I’m crying. A stabbing pain cranks over my left

eyebrow and I suddenly feel like I’ve been here before. Vuja de

of another time. Been here, met her before. I don’t know why

my psychic senses pick this exact moment to get all wibbletated.

New word Patrick taught me; he picked it up from kids

at his previous school, in Tampa. Meaning “distorted.” And I

think that totally defines my life these days.

 Eyes that mirror my own turn to me, and Mom makes the


 “This is my daughter Kendall. Thank you for taking the

time to meet us.”

 “Pleased to meet you both,” Andi says.

 My hand slides into Andi’s delicate one and I suddenly see

flashes of her as a child. Long black hair gathered in a ponytail

that’s being pulled by a nearly identical twin. Only he’s a he.

Andy. Andy Caminiti. The name I envisioned. The two children

are laughing and playing and wrestling over a go-cart. I

pull my hand back, not wanting to invade memories of a family

I may or may not be a part of.

 Andi takes in my sudden action but smiles. “Have you had

a chance to look around the gallery?”

 “Not really, but it seems pretty cool to have your own gallery,”

I say.

 “It is,” she says. “Took me a while, but here I am.” She

pauses. “Are you an artist, Kendall?”

 The laughter bubbles out before I can stop it. “No, ma’am.

Crayolas were never my friend.”

 Mom sets her hand on my shoulder. “Kendall’s talent...


Praise for The Awakening:

"Kendall's witty narrative voice drives this wholesome-with-an-edge tale. Several unsolved mysteries will leave readers eager for the next installment."--Publishers Weekly