Chapter 1
NICKIE
“Bingo!” I pulled the box out from under the bed and peeked inside at the contents.
Looks like Granny knows how to have a little fun after all. It wasn’t necessarily the good shit, but who was I to complain about free weed?
Old people were notorious for leaving lighters around, so it didn’t take me long to find one in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I relaxed as soon as I took that first hit.
The cookies in the oven were making everything reek like potpourri, but it gave the room a better smell than the stink she had perforating the walls. Nothing was worse than old people stink.
“Holy fuck, Gran, this place smells like rotten eggs. Not sure the cookies are gonna be enough.”
Granny wasn’t gonna respond, obviously, but talking to myself felt better than admitting I was alone.
Why did I think it was a good idea to come here again?
The radio crackled as the song ended, and I turned the dial until another one came through. This one was something twinkly and festive like Granny’s personality. It was the kind that made everything seem so… happy.
I swayed to the rhythm as I cleaned up the counter, wiping away the crumbs and tossing out the plastic wrap while humming Christmas carols under my breath.
The air was thick with a mixture of sugar, cinnamon, and Granny’s stash.
My cheeks were warm, and my apron—calling me the best chef alive—was dusted with white powder.
I kept telling Granny this shit would kill her one day, but that old bat didn’t listen for shit.
“Almost Christmas, Gran,” I said in a cheery, sing-song voice while dancing around the pine needles littering the floor.
In the corner, where Granny’s old rocker sat, a crooked pine tree leaned against the wall, still spitting its pokey branches onto the hardwood.
I’d dragged it in myself this morning. It’d hurt my face to be outside in this cold, but it was worth it, especially after I’d found the perfect little guy rooted behind the house.
It was wet with frost and still smelled like the forest. It wasn’t pretty—not exactly like the ones in magazines.
Hell, half the branches were bare, and one side was so flat it looked like it had been crushed beneath a car tire.
But it was mine. Ours.
I smiled. “We’ll fix you, wittle tree, won’t we? Granny loves Christmas.”
The lights I’d found in a dusty box in the basement flickered when I plugged them in, glowing weakly like little dying fireflies.
I wound them around the tree anyway, humming along to the new music playing.
A few of the bulbs had burst, leaving sharp little mouths of glass along the wire, but it added character.
I had that too, or so I’d been told more than once over the years.
I cut my finger on one of the edges and stared at the red bead forming on the tip as it dripped down and disappeared into the cracks of the wood below me.
“Well,” I said. “A little color never hurt no one, now did it?”
I wiped my hand on my apron and went back to decorating.
The ornaments were mismatched, some old and chipped, others handmade by Granny and the little feet that touched these floors long ago.
There was a string of popcorn garland, stiff and yellowed with time, but I hung it up anyway.
Then, near the top, I tied a bow from Granny’s shawl, the crocheted perfection she’d almost finished.
It looked beautiful, even with the dark stains at the ends.
“Gran, you’d be so proud,” I whispered lovingly. “What d’ya think?”
The rocking chair in the corner seemed to sway for a minute, and I smiled.
I carried the plate of cookies over to the table by the window and set them down beside a single chipped teacup.
It was my favorite and reminded me of the cartoon movie we used to watch together.
The snow outside had started up again, soft and steady, covering the woods in silence.
I pressed a palm against the cold glass, blowing hot air onto the surface and smiling at my reflection.
My cheeks were rosy, flour dusted my strawberry hair, and my green eyes were too wide and too bright.
I must have been tired.
“See?” I told Gran softly. “Everything’s perfect. Everything’s the way you wanted it to be.”
The radio fizzled out. It was just the sound of the wind now, and the slow tick of the old cuckoo clock on the back wall.
Then a blurred image in the frosted window moved.
I blinked, leaning closer to the sill. At first, I thought it was just my reflection again, a trick of the eyes.
But then it shifted and a shadow outside got close enough to press its hand against mine through the glass.
Someone was standing just beyond the light.
I could barely make out the outline, but it was tall.
They’re watching me.
The smile froze on my lips. I didn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe. The warmth from the oven hummed at my back, and the scent of cookies and that damn pine twisted around the cold draft leaking through the windowsill.
My fingers curled against the pane until I felt the warmth transfer from the shadow’s hand to mine.
It didn’t move either. Just kept watching me.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, separated by a thin slice of glass and a breath of frost. Then I smiled again, slow and deliberate like.
“Gran,” I whispered, never taking my eyes off the figure outside. “We have company.”