Krista D. Ball is apparently an award-winning author, something that shocked her mother who went to her grave believing it was a lie. After all, Krista writes lies for a living. Born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada, the quickest way to get on Krista's nerves is to pronounce it New-Found-Lund. After obtaining a degree in British History, Krista needed to justify her student loans. Thirty books later, including three non-fiction, the loans are finally paid off, but now she's not qualified to do anything else but write books. Expect more in the future. That wasn't meant to sound like a threat.

1x Prix Aurora winner, 5x Stabby Award winner

Spirit Caller Vol. 1-4 by Krista D. Ball

Rachel has no trouble believing in spirits. It's the living she has a tough time believing in.

This special StoryBundle omnibus contains first four novellas of the SPIRIT CALLER series.


When I had the idea for the Stalking the Dead StoryBundle, I knew that Krista's Spirit Caller series would have to feature in it. Snarky ghosts and a relatable psychic make for a compelling read—and you can get the first four novellas exclusively collected for this Bundle! – Margaret Curelas



  • "This book took me by storm and won a special place in my heart. Short, sweet, to the point…I found it satisfying, off beat, and fun."

    – Janny Wurts, author of The Wars of Light and Shadow
  • "Written with verve and vivid narrative voice, it rips along at a cracking pace; humour, chills, colourful characters and sassy dialogue."

    – Elspeth Cooper, author of The Wild Hunt
  • "A lovely comfort read that I blasted through."

    – Dianthaa Dabbles



While Jeremy slept off his workout, I headed across my large yard to my neighbour's house. Mrs. Saunders soon had me up on a step-stool pulling down box upon box from the closet's top shelf. She sat on the spare bed, directing me to put everything within easy reach for her.

"Now, are you sure we can use your house while you're away?" I said. "We won't come over if it's going to upset you."

"Don't be foolish," she admonished. She pointed to a spot next to her. "Put those right here. I don't understand why you needs my 'ouse, maid. What's that t'ing you live in already? A shack?"

I chuckled as I shook out my arms and let them hang limp for a bit. I'm not anyone's definition of tall, and that shelf was difficult to reach, even with the stool. A sad pang hit me, thinking that Jeremy would have loved to do this for the old lady. "I told you already, Mrs. Saunders. Amanda LeBlanc got engaged."

"Yes, yes, I know that. Good for her. What does dat have to do with my 'ouse?"

I wisely didn't explain that there was going to be a LARP—a live action role play. Nor did I explain that there were plenty of different kinds of LARPs, such as vampire, dark fantasy, high fantasy, science fiction, and ones based on popular novels and television shows. Instead, I tried to stick to the basic details. "She wants to have a murder mystery party to celebrate."

Mrs. Saunders eyed me. "Who's you gonna murder?"

I gave her a dirty look before climbing on the stool again. "We're going to dress up and investigate a pretend murder. It's a party game."

"You'd think she'd have enough of that nonsense every day to not want to do that for fun." Corporal Amanda LeBlanc was Jeremy's boss, the head of the St. Anthony RCMP detachment. She was a sensible and capable woman, and I thought of her as a friend.

"It's just a silly, fun thing. Some folks from the police detachment, some friends, and all that. Just a couple dozen of us."

"There's going to be a couple dozen people in and out of my 'ouse?" Mrs. Saunders exclaimed in horror. "I haven't cleaned the bathroom this week."

"They'll only be in your kitchen and I promise I'll clean before and after."

"You don't clean the way I like it," Mrs. Saunders complained. "You don't fold the towels right, either."

I pulled down the last of the boxes. "Are you sure we can use your house? We just wanted another kitchen to cook in and to get together. We won't do it if you'll be worrying the entire time you're gone."

She waved off my concerns. "Don't be foolish. Whatcha take me for?"

I put the boxes on the floor and climbed the stool once more. "I think I saw some loose pictures up there. Why are you taking all of the pictures?"

"Shirley wants her granddaughter to map our family tree or some nonsense. She wants to put the pictures into that computer of hers." Mrs. Saunders looked up. "How would she do dat?"

"She'll use a scanner. It's like a photocopier, only instead of printing out paper, it prints the copy of the picture to the computer. Then the computer can save it."

"Can she get it off the computer?"

I nodded. "That way, it makes it harder to lose the pictures."

"They can do anyt'ing these days," Mrs. Saunders marveled. "She wants to know who everyone is in the pictures. I might be dead tomorrow, so they're finally wanting to spend time with me now."

I gave Mrs. Saunders a patient look. "Maybe it's more that you're not as stubborn in your old age and are willing to go visit them."

"I'm not stubborn," Mrs. Saunders said sternly, though her eyes twinkled and she couldn't hold back her laugh. "And it's yer fault I'm gallivanting round all of the time these days. I should be sitting at 'ome with my feet up."

"You'll be back before you know it. Do you want me to make you anything for when you come back?"

She was picking through the box of photos on her lap, frowning at the images.

"Mrs. Saunders?"

"What? Oh, that's fine, dear, if you want to cook. Don't put yourself out."

I pulled out a handful of loose, faded photographs from the back of the shelf. I climbed back down the stool and looked at the pictures in her hand. "Is that you?"

She nodded and her eyes filled with tears. "There's not many of us left now. Back then, we all thought we'd live forever. What foolishness. Who wants to live like this? Slow and crippled."

My heart broke as the tears ran down her cheeks. Her spirits were rarely low and it pained me to see her like this.

"Who's that?" I asked, indicating the photo in her hand. It showed two young women, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. They wore snappy hats along with low-heeled pumps, and smart dresses that tied at the waist, buttoned down the front, and hung below their knees. Both women had huge smiles on their faces as they stood on a wharf.

"That's Mildred Reid on the left. Me on the right. Me and Milly were the best of friends. I haven't spoken to her in years." She took a deep breath. "We lost touch after my husband died. She had cancer, last I heard. She must be dead by now, poor thing."

"You were both quite the lookers."

Even with tears in her eyes, Mrs. Saunders flashed me a wicked smile that was a mirror of the young girl's in the picture. "It's why all the boys loved us. We were on our way to St. John's in that picture. Our first time going. We were going with Milly's older sister, who'd just got married. We caused some awful trouble that month."

I could only imagine how much trouble a good-looking, witty, lively, opinionated, strong-willed, and feisty seventeen-year-old girl could get into in the city. I laughed. "Was it the good kind of awful trouble or the bad kind?"

Mrs. Saunders made a pleased sound, before she laughed at herself. "I loved those boys back then."

"You found your prince, though, didn't you?"

"He was Milly's brother, ya know?"

"I didn't know you married your best friend's brother. Was she upset?"

"Her idea, my dear. Her idea."

"Wait, weren't you pregnant when you got married?"

Mrs. Saunders gave me a tiny smile. "That one was my idea."

I flipped through the photos in my hand. "These have fallen out of the boxes. Say, this one looks like Milly. Who's that with her?"

A sour-faced Milly stood next to a stern-looking man significantly older than her. He had his hand around her waist, and Milly stood straight as a board. "She doesn't seem all that happy."

"Where'd you find this?" Mrs. Saunders demanded.

"It was in the corner of the closet," I said, confused. "Why?"

Mrs. Saunders grabbed the photo and ripped it in half. Her face turned red with rage and she tossed the pieces on the floor. Then she spat on them. "I never want to look at that man's face again. I hope he's rotting in hell and if that means I go there to join him, it'll be worth it."

I stared at her. Mrs. Saunders was the most devout Catholic I'd ever met. She practiced what she preached. This woman could banish spirits with nothing more than a Hail Mary. She never wished anyone to Hell, since she believed it was a real place.

She pushed herself up off the bed and shuffled out of the room.

I watched her go, shocked. I'd never seen the old lady angry in the entire time I'd known her—not like this. She rarely got more than annoyed at things. Hate oozed off her. I didn't even know she was capable of that.

"Mrs. Saunders?"

"Help bring those boxes downstairs. I gots to pack." I heard her making her way down the stairs. I scooped up the ripped photograph and stuffed it in my pocket. I'm not sure why, but something about the exchange felt wrong; there are secrets, sure, but Mrs. Saunders willing to go to hell? It made no sense.

I scrambled after her and offered her a hand down the stairs. She swatted me off angrily. "I don't need no 'elp."

I went ahead and repositioned her walker so the grips faced the stairs. She took the walker and made her way to her bedroom. "I needs all those boxes brought down. Amy's comin' at t'ree to load up her van." She went into her bedroom and closed the door.

What the hell just happened?