Portrait of a Haunting - Hardcover

Nelson, Madison Tyler

Hardcover

ISBN 13: 9798217189342

Verlag: 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.

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�ber die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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.

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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 words. She straightened when he raised one twisted hand, his fingers pointing toward her as he stepped away. She was ready to ignore his questions, to turn her head from his demands, but he surprised her for a second time.

"I know you." There was a cockiness to his tone, a sharp edge that made her feel like she'd missed a joke, but she couldn't react, couldn't ask questions. If she did, she'd look as unstable as the man scrambling across the floor of the car. Instead, Tatum lifted her chin and swallowed, letting her gaze rest on the advertisement across from her.

The ghost chuckled. "Yes, I definitely know you."

She still didn't respond, hands clenched as his steady gaze marked her.

"I've heard all about you," he said through a soft sigh, backing away, still refusing to get closer. He scanned the car nervously, and she didn't understand why. She hadn't even spoken. "But there are some things . . . that aren't my business."

And with no other explanation, he stepped through the subway door. No longer flesh but spirit once more, disappearing completely.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she didn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't even look to see where he'd gone.

Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.

The silence didn't last very long.

"You saw him!" the man spat suddenly from the floor. He pushed himself onto all fours, his voice shifting into a shout. Tatum couldn't reply, swallowing the lump that had knotted in her throat. "Don't pretend I'm not real! You saw him!"

Within seconds, he was standing right in front of her, so close that she could see the threads of red staining his eyes with exhaustion. She'd come across others like herself before, others who could see or hear the same things she could, and they were always like this. Like her mother. Uncertain, angry, strange.

Tatum had spent years working to outgrow the shadow of her mother's very public crime, learning how to survive with the ability that led to Amarina's downfall. She wouldn't ruin everything she'd built-not for anything.

She blinked, shaking her head, refusing to let her voice waver as she replied, "I'm sorry."

"Bullshit!" he screamed, eyes wild as he scanned her up and down, waving his arms. If the other riders were ignoring him before, it was impossible to now. An audience had formed; a half horror story stunned everyone into silence as they waited for the right moment to step in. But Tatum knew that the right moment rarely came. In life, if you waited too long, you failed.

"You saw him! Tell them! Tell them I'm not crazy!"

Another swallow, her mouth dry, her head pounding. She forced her gaze onto him and replied, so honestly that her voice almost trembled, "You're not crazy."

"Grand Central. Grand Central Station." The rumbling announcement rang throughout the car, a miracle from above, as the train came to a sharp stop.

The doors opened suddenly and people rushed out, jostling Tatum away from the man and his wrath. Furious, he tried to shove his way through the crowd, but the sea of people kept him in place. She backed away safely to the platform, arms stiff at her sides.

The subway car filled around him, forcing him backward, but even with the new wall of people, he was still set on speaking only to her.

"Admit that you saw him!" His hands waved around the new riders, his shouts filled with anger, a frustration and fear that Tatum understood, a rage she'd felt for years. He'd been right when he spoke to the ghost on the train.

No one helped anyone.

Her heart raced as she waited for him to lunge or push toward her. She had another train to catch. She couldn't be late, but she couldn't turn her back, not yet. If he was going to come for her, she would force herself to see him. She would stand her ground, no matter how much every limb ached to run. She'd felt fear before. She'd felt it so many times that she should've been immune.

But as the doors began to shut, it wasn't the outrage in his eyes that scared her the most, their expression furious and spent. It wasn't the octave of his voice. It wasn't even the way he'd run from the strange ghost.

It was his last words, words that rang over and over in her mind as the subway car doors finally closed.

"You saw him, and he saw you, too?"

Two

It wouldn't have been entirely abnormal for someone to dry heave in a subway station on a Saturday morning, but Tatum tried her best to reel in her nausea as she rushed through the halls toward her next train. The pumping of adrenaline through her veins began to slow as she hustled, but her stomach remained twisted. Every few seconds, she couldn't help herself, turning back, certain that if she didn't, she'd find the man had somehow caught up to her.

His anger, that unfiltered rage, was an emotion she understood, an emotion she'd felt from time to time. And while she partially hated herself for her silence, he didn't know her. He didn't know what it was like, did he? He didn't understand what it would mean if just one person caught wind of her ability.

Another Alexander has lost their mind! Tatum could practically see the blogs, the magazines, the Reddit posts, the TikTok videos. Her life was already an open book for those who dug deep enough. She wouldn't give anyone more ammunition against her.

Besides, it wasn't just his rage that forced her stomach into knots.

It was the way the spirit's hands had locked around a living person. It was the way the spirit had become corporeal just before he slipped inside the man, the two becoming one. It was the fact that something like that wasn't supposed to happen.

Tatum wasn't an expert on the paranormal, and she didn't want to be. She'd fought her ability since she was a child-her special Sight, as her mother called it. Even so, she had a general understanding of the veil between worlds. She had to, if only to survive with her sanity intact. She knew what seemed right, and what just seemed . . . off.

The spirit had nodded at her, his stare going from expressionless to shocked. His voice, a crisp yet hollow mix, had said, so certainly, I know you.

Lost in the memory, she barely paid attention as she rushed to the track for her next train, glancing at the Metro-North departure board carelessly, knowing it would flash the same number it always did.