Stan Prolongo thought he was investigating a ghost. He walked into something far older and more dangerous. I should've known better when the gorgeous receptionist vanished into thin air. But sightseeing don't pay the rent, so there I was, Stan Prolongo, private detective, investigating a ghost at the Sciacca Retirement Community. A manager weeping over his dead wife in a broom closet. A receptionist who kept disappearing like smoke. Ten naked seniors with pickleball rackets. That's when I knew this wasn't your typical haunting. Five zones decorated with goddess symbols. Photographs showing the same women, year after year, except their faces kept changing. An old man poked my chest: "You'll never be one of us." By the time I met Mrs. Aphrodite Oshun, beautiful and dangerous with smoke curling around her fingers, it was too late. Blue smoke. Darkness. I woke up in white robes. Surrounded by cultists. Pure of heart, they said. Wrong place, wrong time, and exactly what they needed.