A Ghost of a Chance

Chapter One

As the sun set, draining light from the land and awakening those lost souls who slept until All Hallows’ Eve, Osanne hurried through the churchyard and strained for a glimpse of home.

It had not yet changed, though everything else had—everything, that is, except Osanne and this lonely purgatory that had become her existence.

The elder Larkin boy, John, let out a whoop and grinned at his brother Frank. “Let the fun begin!”

Frank returned the grin. “Let’s give them a scare they’ll never forget.”

Osanne groaned. The Larkin boys appeared to be only a few years younger than Osanne’s age of twenty but often as destructive six-year-olds.

“Do not, I pray, make such mischief this year,” Osanne said to the Larkins. “You really oughtn’t—”

“Ah, it’s tradition,” said Frank. “You really need to get into the spirit of All Hallows’ Eve.” They both chortled like a couple of puerile brats.

A raven flew overhead and perched on a nearby tree limb. The black bird took a look at the Larkins, squawked, and took flight. Perhaps ravens were as wise as owls.

“What are you going to do, Osanne?” John taunted, “lurk in the churchyard and frighten children who dare to enter?”

“Nah, she’s going to go celebrate by playing her music.” Frank dragged out the last word in a mocking, sing-song tone.

They were right, of course. Music had become her only solace, her only joy. One day, perhaps she would finish her composition. But it flitted elusively out of reach like so many of her hopes.

All Hallows’ Eve had ceased being a celebratory event years ago. After years of loneliness, Osanne would do anything—absolutely anything—to know love and friendship again, despite her broken soul.

Wishes were for children. Osanne needed to stop wishing and accept her fate.

At the moment, her best hope rested on protecting Madding Hollow and her ancestral home from the mischief makers who prowled this night, perhaps completing her composition, and most of all, discovering what happened to her family. To her brother.

The Larkins raced, guffawing all the way, into Madding Hollow’s village square.

There the woodpile for the ceremonial bonfire stood waiting to be lit.

Other people wearing clothing from past generations filed past her in search of diversion this eve, or perhaps to seek out family members as they all gathered for the celebration.

Shadows deepened and a breeze blew naked tree branches until they writhed and clattered like old bones. Wraith-like clouds flitted across the newly risen moon.

Osanne glanced at the village great house, Ravenswood Manor, situated on a low rise. Gilded by silver moonlight, the Tudor manor house, with its odd conglomerate of mismatched wings, lorded over the valley. For the moment, it remained unmolested by John and Frank Larkin. Surely that would change.

Osanne drifted along the path that led through the square toward the Manor.

Firelight dancing in barrels scattered along the main road created chaotic shadows.

Most of the villagers, strangers really, despite their familiar faces, gathered in the village square.

Youngsters and a few adults frolicked about wearing costumes of grotesque animals and demons.

Older children and adults sat hollowing out turnips, rutabagas, and other root vegetables and carving misshaped faces on the outer hulls. Finished works of art lit by small candles inside created eerie lamps meant to ward off evil spirits.

Frank Larkin bumped into a table, upsetting a basket of apples. The boys laughed as the apples rolled in all directions. Really, they behaved more childish every year.

Three villagers muttered as they hurried to pick up the apples. As the Larkin boys entered the Black Horse Inn and Pub, John swatted at the sign. It swung on squeaky hinges. Unseen, John darted inside the pub.

A villager peered up at the moon and crossed himself before picking up the apples. “The spooks are out already.”

“Don’t they only come out at midnight?” asked his companion.

“No, they arrive at sunset.” A dog at his feet whined when Osanne passed by, but she ignored him.

Before going to Ravenswood Manor, Osanne had best get into the pub and prevent the Larkins from creating havoc or injuring someone. In truth, those two needed a nursemaid, but no one else seemed willing to try to keep them in check. Who knew what lengths they would go to without intervention?

New warding signs, white against the weathered wood, had been carved around the pub doorway next to the others that had appeared over the years in an attempt to keep out spooks and mischief makers. A pity those signs failed to ward off the Larkins.

Inside the smoke-filled common room of the pub and inn, three women and several more men sipped their tankards, laughing and talking.

Clusters of garlic hung from the rafters.

Osanne smiled. Garlic warded vampires, did it not?

To her knowledge, no vampires had threatened the safety of Madding Hallow.

“Did you see that?” one woman asked.

“See what?” said a man at her table.

“The candle—it just moved.” The woman crossed herself.

“Stop making up tales,” the first man grumbled.

“The shadows are playing tricks on your eyes,” someone else said, but he cast furtive glances about and crossed himself, too.

Wide-eyed, the woman said, “It’s All Hallows’ Eve, ain’t it? Ghosts about.”

A few laughed at her statement. The seasoned pranksters, John and Frank, flitted unseen about the room, brushing past people, bumping into objects, and causing flames to flicker wildly.

The boys snickered as people looked about for the cause but failed to see the sneaky Larkins.

More and more murmurs about ghosts and spirits filled the room.

As Osanne hurried after the Larkin boys, she passed a corner table where a man with a dark expression stared into the mouth of his tankard, like a man seeking answers in the bottom of his cup. Frank slipped behind the dark man and blew out the candle on his table, then darted out of the way.

The man, handsome in a brooding sort of way, frowned at the candle as if it had disappointed him. He returned his gaze to his tankard, his large hands cupped around it like a street urchin seeking warmth.

John reached for the medieval chandelier hanging in the center of the main room.

Osanne marched up to him. “Cease these ridiculous antics, John. You are not frightening or even amusing; merely annoying.”

“Oh, the fun’s just starting,” John said.

He tugged on one side of the chandelier and sent it rocking back and forth, then scampered away. Several candle flames blew out, plunging the taproom into semi-darkness.

A woman let out a yelp.

“What’s going on?” someone asked.

The patrons looked about but no one spotted the reprobates.

Mr. Atwood, a great-grandson of the original owner from generations past, glared at the entrance, then up at the garlic. “Wards aren’t working. Ghosts are back again this year.”

“Spooks,” agreed someone at the bar.

His companion nodded. “Spirits.”

The handsome man looked up from his tankard and laughed grimly. “Ghosts? Be reasonable. Surely you don’t believe that silly superstition.” He spoke in the cultured accent of a member of the gentry and in the smoothest baritone voice she had ever heard.

From across the room, Osanne studied him.

Perhaps somewhere in his twenty-fifth year, he wore his hair short at the sides with tousled curls on top.

A dark lock tumbled over his brow, partially concealing one eye.

The dark scruff at his jaw suggested he had forgone shaving the past few days.

His well-tailored clothing, made from fine cloth, revealed him as a man of means, but he wore it carelessly.

Dust marred his boots and the bottom of his coat. A traveler.

Nevertheless, any female alive would swoon over him, even in his state of mild dishevelment. In fact, all the females in the room sent him lingering, admiring glances that he seemingly failed to notice. Osanne sent him a few of her own.

“Silly superstition, says you?” Atwood eyed the stranger as he wiped down the counter. “You’re new to Madding Hallow, ain’t ye?”

“Passing through.” The stranger held up his tankard. “Fine brew you have here.”

Atwood puffed out his chest. “Old family recipe, that.” He frowned up at the wooden chandelier where most of the candles merely smoked now.

John and Frank Larkin continued to tease and pester the patrons. A few grew alarmed and left. The handsome stranger looked around thoughtfully.

“Bad for business,” Atwood muttered under his breath. “Fill yer drink, Jake?” he asked a regular.

“Aye.” Already swaying on his chair, Jake raised his tankard.

Frank upset a table, then a second. Drinks and candles went flying.

Splattering wax burned several patrons, and flames from fallen candles licked the alcohol-soaked floorboards.

Shrieks and cries came in response as people scrambled to their feet.

Women ran screaming, stumbling over themselves and each other as they tumbled out the door.

The newcomer leaped up and stamped out the flames. He crouched with his fists up, not frightened but rather prepared for a fight. A man of courage.

Frank and John lurked in a shadowy corner, snickering. Osanne shot them a dark look but they only grinned like a pair of imps. The man Atwood had called Jake lay on the floor next to a table holding his head and moaning.

The handsome stranger knelt by Jake. “Are you injured?”

Jake rolled over. “I hit me head.”

The stranger helped him up and pulled away the wounded man’s hands, revealing a bleeding gash on his brow.

Osanne rounded on Frank and John. “You hurt someone. Cease these foolish pranks. Now!”

The Larkins shrugged but wandered outside with less swagger than before, no doubt seeking their customary Hallows’ Eve “fun” elsewhere, the juvenile curs.