Samantha Spük: Paranormal Wedding Planner

by Aleese Lin

Genres: Humorous Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Aleese Lin’s delightful, spooky—or Spük-y?—contemporary romance debut is perfect for fans of Legends & Lattes and Netflix’s Wednesday.

Be it for werewolf, vampire, or fae, Samantha Spük is your go-to wedding planner!

...even if that's the last thing she would’ve imagined for herself. Samantha “Sabby” Spük has spent her whole life trying to escape her family’s legacy of supernatural chaos. She’s finally gotten her college degree and landed herself a nice, normal 9–5 at a New York City accounting firm. But then she gets the call: Grandma Rose is gone, and Sabby has been named executor of her (ahem, magically binding) will.

Which means Sabby is stuck in her dreaded hometown of Salem, Massachusetts, taking on odd jobs until she can sell the family home. And the jobs truly are odd, with quite a few not-so-human locals in need of help arranging their weddings. With a literal talking-head assistant and an uncomfortably attractive new manager by her side, Sabby might pull this off in time to salvage her dream job…but she might also find herself enjoying the paranormal world after all.

Release date: June 2, 2026

Publisher: S&S/Saga Press

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1: In Which My Dead Grandmother Frames Me for a Murder, Possibly, I Think 1 IN WHICH MY DEAD GRANDMOTHER FRAMES ME FOR A MURDER, POSSIBLY, I THINK
HAPPY FUNERAL DAY, GRANDMA ROSE: I hope you’re watching this from the cloudy heavens, stuffing your face with home-cooked ziti, perfectly pleased with yourself. You did it. You roped me into returning to Salem, my hometown and personal nightmare. I’ve just spent a whole afternoon with your wannabe-witch cabal of friends, and now that I’m back at your house, they still won’t leave me alone. They’re determined to blight me with threats of their dysfunctional friendship forever.

Okay, so technically, the six of them are busily undressing Grandma’s pink flamingos, divesting the little birds of their festive black funereal finery. My point remains. Clearly, this is a cover for them to watch me. To linger. Grandma didn’t ask to be buried in a lacy black veil, so why would she have wanted a Gothic makeover for her garden ornaments? When I direct a glower out the window at the crones in their campy cloaks, one of them waves back.

Dropping the blinds shut, I wheel back to face the living room. In spite of my genuine efforts this past week, the cluttered, hectic space remains a mess. If I were the dramatic type, I’d sigh at it with anguish. Instead, I hack a little, because the blinds have unleashed enough dust to kill all the crops in Kansas. Also because I’m harboring a tiny bit of irritation at being dragged here the week before I start the job of my dreams—a job that has nothing to do with landscaping hags and spooky whimsy.

I’m not like the other women in my family. I’m like everyone else. Normal. Lame, even. I’m not a witch, or a witch stan, or a crunchy queen who drops homemade sage oil into her water bottle. You definitely wouldn’t know I’m from Salem, Massachusetts—the witch capital of earth—by looking at me. In fact, on a good day, you might not notice me at all, because I’m so unnoteworthy. I’m not just wallpaper; I’m a goddamn human Magic Eye puzzle. At my NYU graduation, my old RA asked for my name three times because I didn’t leave a strong impression. Last week, I was at a food hall eating spaghetti while studying for my CPA exam when a tourist sat on me by accident.

This was The Problem, in Grandma’s mind.

It’s why I was so shocked to find out she’d named me sole heir and executrix of her will. Of all the people who might inherit her apothecary and her pink, cake-sliced triangle of a house, she chose me: the one person determined to sell them off immediately. It was uncharacteristically generous. And strategic. Obviously, it was a Trojan horse–gift, forcing me to come back to my hometown and pay my respects. As unpleasant as I found the prospect of returning to Salem, I knew that selling off the Spük estate would pay off my college loans and leave me with a nest egg of ostrichesque proportions. And if I learned one thing from my summer accounting internship, that was to choose financial security over emotional well-being.

It’s also why I’ve embarked on this house clean-out project. Originally, I planned to hire a company to do the honors. But before I bolted from the post-funeral reception, Grandma’s best friend, Matilda, patted my arm with her gnarled old hand and croaked cryptically about a surprise awaiting me in the house. I’m 99 percent confident she was trying to inform me of buried treasure. As a fledgling accountant, it’s practically my job to unearth hidden funds. That, or hide funds. It seems kind of client dependent.

Anyway, when I resume my treasure hunt, I don’t uncover gold doubloons hidden among the antique cuckoo clock collection. Or a stack of Benjamins behind Grandma’s life-sized cutout of Colin Firth. The shelves of medicinal herbs and that ceremonial dagger… a little triggering, sure, but all in all, probably less valuable on eBay than a vintage Taylor Swift CD. I pause to scrutinize a mysterious bucket of water by the door labeled with a Post-it that reads BULAN in Grandma Rose’s scrawled lettering. I’m not sure when or why she started naming her buckets. Grandma and I haven’t had “quality time” for a decade, barring a brief summer visit three years ago. Aside from exchanging annual birthday cards, we were essentially estranged. Who knows what new habits she picked up? I’ve already learned from her lawyer that she was ignoring her bills and using them as kindling for the bathtub-cauldron in her illegal backyard firepit.

Oh, Grandma. You were always a multitasker. And slightly too fond of setting things on fire.

When I catch myself sneezing, I pop into the kitchen. Under the sink, I find a box of tissues and a bunch of spray bottles with home-made, scribbled labels like Witch Hazel and Unwitch Hazel. Arming myself with rubber gloves, paper towels, and what I hope is cleaning fluid, I resume my search in Grandma’s bedroom. I flick on the light switch and make for the closet, prepared to uncover anything from a pile of oversize black panties to love letters from the Gothic mime who performs on Front Street.

I crack the closet door open. And—I hold it there. Ajar.

Observing the severed head on a shelf that is screaming at me. That’s right: a head.

… Goddamn it, Grandma. This was the surprise, wasn’t it? A murder victim, just for me! It’s what I always wanted!

Well, thanks.

At least it’s not a decomposing screaming head. In fact, it’s so fresh and not-yet-stinky, I can tell it must’ve belonged to a (probably) burly mountain man. Or an old millennial, visiting from a hipster enclave in Vermont or Maine, based on the well-coiffed and waxed nature of his thick red beard. And the clear evidence of more than thirty years of not using sunblock. It troubles me slightly that I can’t see what’s going on beneath the fuzzy chin—my eyes kind of slide around, avoiding the area where a neck should start. Is this magic? It must be.

Gross.

Anyway, when I pick the head up with my rubber gloves, I only feel smoothness at the bottom. No hints of jawline. It’s kind of like the rest of its body got soldered off, leaving behind a giant, anatomically deficient, plastic Ken head. Which is both creepy and offensive.

But not as offensive as the fact that the head keeps shouting at me.

“Don’t spray those icky chemicals on me!” it says, blue eyes fixated on the spray bottle beneath my arm. “My eyes will burn terribly! I’m allergic to Windex!”

“You’ll be fine. This stuff’s organic.” I think. I have no idea what this particular concoction is made from, but it made a satisfying fizzy sound when I tested it on the kitchen counter. “Anyway, you have a lot of audacity complaining about what is and isn’t natural.”

The head exchanges yelling for thoughtfulness.

“You know, I’ve heard that before.”

“I can imagine.”

“You’re Sabby, aren’t you?” says the head as I carry it into the living room. “I’ve seen your picture around here somewhere. Though I don’t recall you being a brunette.”

“Shh, shh,” I say. Then I drop the head into my duffel.

He protests, understandably, but at least he doesn’t seem unhappily murdered. Good. I don’t feel in the mood to play paranormal Nancy Drew, or anything else paranormal, for that matter.

I am so past this, Grandma Rose. I’ve graduated college, I’ve spent the summer completing the last credit hours for my CPA license, and I’m finally less than a week away from starting my best, basic life as a first-year associate at EFG, one of the Big Four international accounting firms. Imagine a kitchen pantry filled with handsomely shelved cereal boxes. That’s me, and this is my perfectly mainstream life, ready to be consumed with the bland, unsweetened nut milk of my choosing. Back in Manhattan’s Midtown East, my first post-college apartment is a postwar walk-up stocked with Target, HomeGoods, and Kirkland furniture. I have a new roommate named Jane Willoughby, who I like to think of as Jane Doe—we roomed together at EFG’s onboarding weekend—and I’ve nominated her to be my normalcy life coach and mirror. I’m going to copy every single thing she does. Which should mean spending my days curled up in bed with matcha-vanilla bubble tea and soaking in the angelic voices of BTS. Melting into the sheets to the sound of “Butter” played on repeat while eating flaky pastries made from butter. Or dressed in athleisure, pretending to run along the East River, while harmonizing to the chorus of “Blood Sweat & Tears.” Or studying for my CPA licensing exam. Basically, doing anything but… whatever this is. I’ve put myself on track to become a white-collar keyboard jockey with a steady job and stable future. In other words? The polar opposite of everything you stand for, Grandma Rose.

Which apparently might include murder?

I bet you left this head in the closet as a sinister postmortem machination. That’s why your kooky friend was in on it! You hoped I’d be so desperate to avoid police involvement that I’d deliver the head to the cabal; that I’d ask them to dispose of it for me. Well, as happy as I know it’d make you if I burst open the metaphorical door of paranormal friendship between me and your bizarro friends, it’s not happening, Grandma Rose.

I zip the duffel bag shut, step back, and ponder it—along with my options. My spooky, non-magical options.

“Please don’t do this,” the head moans from within my bag. He presses its face against the fabric, creating a woeful indentation. I wince, because ugh, I liked that bag once. “Let me go. I’ll be good. A good doggy. Arf.”

“Sorry, Head,” I say. “Grandma made me an offer I can’t refuse. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. What does that mean?” replies the head, muffled.

That I’m not sorry about what I’m planning to do, obviously. If I’m going to sell off Grandma’s house and return to my New York City life, I need to get this head out of here posthaste. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

Even if that means briefly dabbling in criminal activity.