Chapter 4
“ T hey actually prefer to be called paranormal investigators,” I correct my mother right here at the Fright Night Halloween Festival at the Country Cottage Inn.
“They’re a part of the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club.
They’re here for their meeting and to set up their equipment for the supposedly haunted inn.
Haunted by the spirits of my good sense, maybe,” I mutter under my breath. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
“Well, it’s good publicity,” Mom says, straightening her antennae. “And heaven knows this town could use some supernatural tourism that doesn’t involve an actual murder.”
“True,” I concede while craning my neck past her. “Speaking of all things good, where’s Jasper?”
“Your handsome hubby is over at the cider booth with Huxley,” Georgie says.
Huxley would be my older somewhat wiser brother. He married my nemesis and current town mayor, Mackenzie Woods, and together they have a two-year-old son, my sweet nephew Mack.
“Your father and Gwyneth took Mack to their cottage about an hour ago. They said they were going to take Ella, too, but I see she refused to part with you.” Mom smiles at her granddaughter. “Smart girl.”
I nod, grateful once again that my father and Jasper’s mother Gwyneth have moved into the cottage next door to help with childcare— an arrangement that sounds idyllic until you remember that Gwyneth could probably organize a military coup with the same efficiency she brings to baby schedules.
Between my mother, and my father, and his new wife, we’ve got a regular grandparent tag team going that would put a professional wrestling team to shame.
It’s sort of a miracle since Dad and Gwyneth love to trot off to the four corners of the globe on a whim, but my dad has fallen head over heels with both Mack and Ella—and by the looks of it, so has Gwyn.
Gwyn isn’t just my new stepmother, she’s also my mother-in-law.
Yes, my notorious womanizer father actually settled down with my husband’s mother.
And he knows full well if he steps out of matrimonial bounds, he’ll have my husband and his brothers to answer to. Have I mentioned my husband packs heat?
“Let’s go welcome our ghost hunters,” I say, starting toward the group.
I reach the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club just as they stop to consult a map of the grounds.
Up close, they’re an eclectic bunch that looks like they were assembled by someone with very specific casting requirements— Must look mysterious but approachable, with optional quirks and a willingness to work nights.
The woman who appears to be in charge has short, spiky red hair and holds a tablet with what looks like an electromagnetic field detector attached to it.
Both she and the dark-haired woman beside her are wearing sparkly pumpkin antennae headbands that bob hypnotically whenever they move their heads.
It’s an odd accessory choice for people who are supposedly serious paranormal investigators, but clearly, even ghost hunters can get into the Halloween spirit.
Beside them stands a tall, athletic-looking man with dark hair, perfect teeth, and a camera slung around his neck. A younger woman with long dark hair and startlingly blue eyes keeps glancing my way, then quickly looking away when I meet her gaze.
“Welcome to the Country Cottage Inn,” I say, extending my hand to the red-haired woman. “I’m Bizzy Baker Wilder, the owner. I believe we spoke on the phone.”
“Hazel Hershey,” she responds while giving me a firm shake.
“Indeed, we did. I’m the team leader and lead investigator.
And this is Heath Cullen, our tech specialist and videographer.
” She gestures to the perfect-teeth man, who flashes me a smile so bright I’m momentarily dazzled and slightly concerned about the electrical bill required to power that level of dental luminosity.
A small white West Highland Terrier trots at Heath’s heels, decked out in an elaborate vampire costume complete with a tiny cape lined with red satin and a miniature medallion collar.
Plastic fangs peek out from his mouth, giving him an adorably fierce appearance that’s completely undermined by his enthusiastic tail wagging and the general aura of a dog who thinks this is the best day ever invented.
Hello, new friends! Hello! My name is Fudge!
I am a vampire! Fear me! His barks are rapid-fire and excitable, punctuated by little yipping squeaks that sound more like hiccups than anything menacing.
I would bite you, but Heath says no biting people.
Only socks. And sometimes shoes. But never hoomans!
Fish lets out a long-suffering sigh. Another delusional canine. Just what we needed.
“And this is Fudge,” Heath says, bending down to scratch behind the Westie’s ears. “Our supernatural sniffer. He’s been known to bark at ghosts before we can even detect them with our equipment.”
I bark at lots of things! Ghosts! Squirrels!
Air! The dark! More squirrels! Fudge spins in a quick circle, his cape billowing around him.
Your big giant house smells interesting!
So many friends! Can I chase the cat? Heath says no chasing cats, but sometimes I forget!
I’m Fudge! Heath says fudge tastes delicious!
“Oh my word, he’s adorable,” I say, cooing at the tiny hurricane with paws. I’d bend over and give him a pat, but I’d hate to wake Ella. My sweet babe is sort of an angry bear when roused out of the blue. Ask me how I know—especially at two in the morning.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Heath says with his voice as smooth as caramel. “Beautiful place you’ve got here, Bizzy. It’s just perfect for our documentary series.”
“Documentary series?” I repeat, a small alarm bell going off in my head because I definitely don’t recall this detail from our phone conversation, and while I may be sleep-deprived, I’m not completely senile yet. Am I? “You didn’t mention anything about filming when we talked.”
“It’s pretty small-scale,” Hazel assures me quickly as if she’s had to clarify this point before, and come to think of it, she probably deals with liability concerns on a regular basis.
“It’s just for our YouTube channel. We’re filming all sorts of paranormally active places on the East Coast for our series Ghosts Gone Wild: East Coast Edition . ”
Wild ghosts? Now there’s a new fear unlocked.
“And I’m Buffy,” the dark-haired woman next to her chimes in, stepping forward with an eager expression.
She’s donned green pumpkin antennae just like the orange ones that Hazel is wearing.
But for some reason, Buffy looks familiar to me, and sweet, and every bit like the girl-next-door—if the girl-next-door hunted ghosts in her spare time.
“Buffy Butterwick. We spoke via email about setting up the club meeting here.” She stares at me intently, as if searching for something in my face.
And it’s only then I notice a cute fluffy ginger-colored labradoodle sitting obediently at her feet, wearing a tiny ghost costume made of what appears to be an artfully cut white sheet with eyeholes that somehow manage to be both spooky and adorable—a combination that should be impossible but somehow works perfectly.
“And this is Skittles,” Buffy adds, patting the dog’s curly head. “She and Fudge are an essential part of our paranormal team. Dogs can sense energy that even our equipment can’t detect.”
Skittles wags her tail politely at the introduction, looking considerably more dignified in her costume than either Fish or Sherlock—a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by my competitive feline companion.
Showoff, Fish mutters at the ghostly pooch.
Buffy’s attention immediately shifts to Ella. “Oh my goodness.” She gasps, her voice softening to that special tone people reserve for babies and very small animals as she leans in to get a better look at my sleeping daughter. “What a perfect little angel—or should I say bat? How old is she?”
“One month,” I reply, feeling a heaping of maternal pride swell in my chest despite my best efforts to play it cool because, let’s face it, when someone appreciates your baby, they instantly become your favorite person at any gathering, under any circumstances .
“She’s absolutely beautiful,” Buffy coos and her eyes are suddenly misty in a way that tugs at something deep in my chest. “Those little cheeks! Those tiny fingers! May I...?” She gestures tentatively toward Ella’s little hand peeking out from the carrier, and there’s something so wistful in her expression that I can’t help but nod.
“Go ahead, but she’s been known to have the death grip of an anaconda,” I tease.
I nod, and Buffy gently touches Ella’s fingers with one careful fingertip.
“Hello there, sweet girl,” she whispers and an odd feeling washes over me.
Before I can probe further, Hazel clears her throat. “We’d like to set up our base in the parlor, if that’s still available. We brought thermal cameras, EVP recorders, spirit boxes—the works.”
“Of course.” I nod, trying to shake off the strange feeling Buffy gave me. “The parlor is all yours, as we discussed. We’ve cleared out most of the furniture except for the large tables you requested.”
“Perfect.” Heath grins again, and I can’t help but notice he has the kind of smile that probably got him out of speeding tickets and into exclusive nightclubs. “We’ll get right to it. The veil between worlds is particularly thin this time of year.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If the veil is so thin, why haven’t any of these ghosts ever offered to help with the dishes?
“I’ll show you the way,” I say, turning toward the inn’s entrance.
Mom and Georgie fall in beside me, Georgie somehow managing to waddle gracefully despite her pumpkin constraints—a feat that defies both physics and common sense but somehow suits her perfectly.
“You know, I’ve always been fascinated by the paranormal,” Georgie says to Heath, batting her false eyelashes so hard I’m afraid they might fly off and hit someone. “I’ve had several experiences myself.”
“Oh?” Heath raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely interested. “What kind of experiences?”
“Well,” Georgie leans in, “there was this one time in my bedroom?— ”
“And that’s enough of that story,” I interrupt, shooting her a warning look. “Let’s focus on the inn’s haunted history, shall we?”
Oh, good grief, once Georgie’s proverbial bedroom door opens, there’s no telling where the rest of the conversation might go. Once she regaled us with stories of how she tested out her love potions—at dinner with the pastor and his wife.
“Spoilsport,” Georgie mutters as she straightens her stem hat with wounded dignity as if I’ve personally crushed her dreams of paranormal fame. Sorry, not sorry.
We’re about halfway to the inn’s front porch when a commotion erupts behind us. I turn to see my sister Macy pushing through the crowd with the determination of someone on a mission that probably involves either shopping or revenge, and knowing Macy, possibly both.
She’s wearing a cat costume that’s more runway model than Halloween kitty, complete with a skintight black bodysuit and stiletto-heeled boots that somehow don’t sink into the soft grass because Macy has apparently mastered the art of defying both gravity and practical footwear choices.
“ Heath Cullen .” She spits out each syllable as if it’s poison as she storms toward us. Her blue eyes flash with a fury I haven’t seen since I accidentally used her favorite cashmere sweater to clean up a wine spill.
“You had better kiss your shiny hiney goodbye,” Macy snarls at the man and her voice cuts through the festive noise like a knife, “because I’m about to kill you.”
So much for my murder-free Halloween.