Chapter 3
P resent day…
October
If anyone asks, I’m NOT with the woman in bat wings and the tiny hooman accessory, Fish mentally projects as she weaves between my legs, her sleek black and white fur partially hidden beneath a pair of red devil horns that are tilting precariously to one side.
I’m an independent feline who just happens to be passing through on my way to somewhere infinitely more dignified.
“No one is buying it, Fish,” I whisper, adjusting Ella’s tiny bat costume while trying not to wake her. My one-month-old daughter snoozes blissfully against my chest, oblivious to the chaos around us—which, honestly, is probably a survival mechanism she inherited from me.
It’s two weeks before the big haunted day and the Country Cottage Inn is playing host to the spookiest fall festival in Spider Cove—as in a giant fall celebration is taking place right here on the grounds every day until Halloween night. It’s sort of an annual tradition at this point.
The night air is crisp, the sound of laughter and creepier sounds from the haunted house we’ve erected echo next to us, the twinkle lights are doing their thing and making the grounds look perfectly magical, and the scent of deep-fried apple fritters has me fantasizing about gobbling down a dozen of them in a single sitting. I’ve done it before.
I adjust Ella’s tiny bat wings, and I can’t help but think about the other bombshell that dropped right before her birth.
Five months ago, Emmie’s wild baby shower wasn’t just memorable for the mountain of gifts and that slightly disturbing and very lifelike sleeping baby cake—it was because of the happenings that day that I discovered I have another sister floating around in the universe somewhere.
It turns out, Leo’s mother’s idea of party games included ancestry testing kits, because apparently, nothing says celebrate the upcoming baby like potentially devastating family revelations.
While everyone else got predictable results—distant cousins in Ireland, a great-grandfather who was probably a pirate—mine came with an unexpected plot twist—a half-sister I never knew existed.
Jasper and I tried to contact her right away, but she didn’t respond to any of my messages through the website.
And the website refused to give us any more information on the woman.
All I know about this mystery sibling is her username—Lovemydoodle—which suggests either a serious obsession with labradoodles or a questionable taste in online aliases.
Either way, between midnight feedings and diaper changes that require the organizational skills of a NASA mission, I’ve barely had time to process having another Baker girl out there, let alone track her down.
Emmie had her baby right after and well, I finally had Ella and we’ve been too busy comparing sleep-deprivation levels to think of anything else ever since. But I’ll admit, I am super curious about this new sister of mine and why in the world she won’t give me the time of day.
I’m secretly afraid something terrible happened to her, and maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded. Suffice it to say, this surge of hormones has made me an expert in catastrophizing—I can turn a missing sock into a full-scale tragedy in under thirty seconds.
I glance up at the massive banner stretching across the front of the Country Cottage Inn, with the words FRIGHT NIGHT SPOOKTACULAR ANNUAL HALLOWEEN FESTIVAL emblazoned in dripping blood-red letters against a backdrop of cartoon ghosts and bats.
Whoever designed it clearly graduated from the more is more school of graphic design.
There isn’t a square inch without some kind of spooky clip art.
The inn looms against the inky October sky like something out of a horror movie—and I would know.
I’ve watched enough of them during my late-night feedings with Ella.
Blue lights pulse from every window, casting an eerie glow across the wraparound porch where mechanized ghosts swing from the rafters.
A bolt of fake lightning flashes across the facade, followed by a thunderous boom that seems to shake the very foundation of the place.
The air is a bizarre sensory overload—equal parts sugar, grease, and artificial fog.
The smell of corn dogs and funnel cakes hangs heavy, mingling with caramel apples and that unmistakable scent of pumpkin that retailers have convinced us is the official fragrance of fall.
My stomach growls in appreciation, a reminder that nursing mothers are essentially always starving. True as gospel.
Clusters of children dart through the crowd like schools of colorful fish, their costumes ranging from store-bought superheroes to impressively crafted homemade monsters.
Most clutch plastic pumpkins already overflowing with candy, their sugar-fueled excitement reaching levels that will have parents questioning their decision-making skills around bedtime.
Jack-o’-lanterns line every walkway, their flickering faces casting spooky shadows that make the inn’s grounds look as if they’re breathing—or possibly having a mild anxiety attack.
What was once our serene acreage has been transformed into a carnival that Walt Disney himself might describe as a bit much. The midway stretches to the left, dotted with game booths where teenagers try to impress their dates while failing to knock over milk bottles.
A much more elaborate haunted house than our own stands at the far end, its facade plastered with warnings about heart conditions and age restrictions that basically translate to enter at your own risk, and please don’t sue us if you have a cardiac event.
Just beyond that, a makeshift graveyard sprouts from the ground, complete with zombie arms reaching from freshly dug graves and fog machines working overtime to create that authentic recently disturbed burial site ambiance.
And, of course, there’s the obligatory pumpkin patch where kids are currently battling it out over who can find the most perfectly round specimen.
This place is crawling with small hoomans hopped up on sugar, Fish yowls with horror as a group of costumed children race past us, leaving a trail of candy wrappers in their wake. I’ll be hiding under the bed until Christmas if anyone needs me.
But don’t you want candy? Sherlock pants at the sight as his red freckled face beams with excitement beneath a superhero cape that flutters rather dramatically with each bound. I heard someone say dogs can’t have chocolate, but surely that’s fake news.
The only thing fake around here is your intelligence, Fish sniffs. And your superhero physique. That cape makes your behind look like two pumpkins in a pillowcase.
“Play nice, you two,” I warn them, although I can’t help but smile at their ongoing feud. “No chocolate for either of you. And as for the costumes, it’s just for a few nights.”
That’s what you said about the Christmas antlers last year, Fish grumbles. And the Easter bunny ears. And the Fourth of July sparkly collar. I’m developing a complex about holiday accessories.
I shake my head with a laugh. All of this hoopla is for Spider Cove— Cider Cove’s temporary Halloween identity.
The town council voted to change the name for the entire month of October, complete with new sign overlays and special edition merchandise.
As the owner of the biggest inn in town, I’m always expected to go all out or in as it were—and we have gone all in for the past few years hosting this spooky fall festival right here on the grounds.
“There you are!” Georgie’s voice carries across the yard as she waddles toward me in what appears to be a full body pumpkin costume, her face beaming from the carved-out center.
Her white hair pokes out from under a green stem hat, and she’s somehow managed to bedazzle the entire orange monstrosity to the point where you might need sunglasses to look at her despite the fact the night is dark as pitch. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I’ve been standing in front of the inn for hours,” I tease .
“Well, there are three other women wearing bat costumes. How was I supposed to know which bat had your baby attached to it?” Georgie huffs, adjusting her pumpkin suit with all the dignity one can muster while dressed as a gourd.
“Though I should have guessed you’d be the one not having any fun.
” She peers at Ella. “Is she still sleeping? That child could snooze through the apocalypse.”
“Lucky her,” I say, smiling down at my sweet baby girl. “She gets that from Jasper. That man once slept through an actual fire alarm.”
“Speaking of men…” Georgie says, waggling her eyebrows. “Have you seen the zombies over by the cider booth? I wouldn’t mind having one of them chase me around the graveyard, if you know what I mean.”
“Georgie!” My mother appears beside us, dressed in what can only be described as a sexy bee costume, complete with striped tights and antennae that bob precariously with each step. “You want men chasing you to the grave? You’re terrible!”
“What?” Georgie feigns innocence. “It’s Halloween time! If you can’t flirt with the walking dead now, when can you?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Georgie is into zombies this time of year.”
“ Pfft .” Georgie waves a gloved hand. “Don’t let her fool you, Bizzy. Your mother knows perfectly well I’m into zombies all year-round. Remember that grave digger from Bar Harbor last spring? Talk about raising the dead.”
I clamp my hands over Ella’s tiny ears, even though she’s fast asleep. “There are children present, including my very impressionable daughter who is definitely not hearing about anyone’s necrophiliac tendencies.”
“Oh please.” Georgie snorts. “She’s a month old. The only things she’s impressed by are your milk delivery systems and diaper changes.”
“Still,” I say, “let’s keep it PG-13. We should probably try to maintain some semblance of respectability here.”
“At a Halloween carnival?” Mom quirks an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”
Fish and Sherlock stay close by my ankles, their costumes drawing coos from passing festival-goers.
I see the zombies Georgie was talking about, Fish mewls as she twirls around my ankles. Those men are actually the Peterson twins from Sheffield. They just naturally look like they’ve been dead for three days.
Be nice, Sherlock mentally scolds. Not everyone can have my rugged good looks and charm.
Yes, because nothing says charm like drinking from the toilet and rolling in squirrels, Fish meows back.
I’m about to say something when I spot a group of people dressed all in black making their way up the path toward the inn.
They stick out like sore thumbs among the colorful costumes and excited children—five somber figures carrying equipment cases and looking far too serious for a festival where the main attraction is bobbing for apples.
“Is that them?” Mom asks, following my gaze. “The ghost hunters?”
I offer a knowing nod.
That’s them, all right.