Chapter 16 #2
“In Heath’s honor, we will proceed with our planned Halloween events and investigations,” Hazel announces like she’s revealing the lineup for a supernatural concert tour. “And tonight, I have something extraordinary to share with you all.”
She gestures to one of her assistants, who hurries to dim the lights while the other sets up a projector. A white screen unfurls at the front of the room with a mechanical whirr that sounds suspiciously ominous.
“As some of you may know, we conducted preliminary investigations here at the Country Cottage Inn following Heath’s…”—she pauses as if she’s trying to find the politically correct term for brutal murder—“ passing . What we captured defies conventional explanation.”
The projector flickers to life, and suddenly I’m staring at myself—or rather, a translucent, glowing version of myself—floating in front of the inn’s bay window.
The image is so clear, so undeniably me , right down to the tiny scar on my chin from a childhood bicycle accident, that I actually reach up to touch my face to confirm I’m still solid.
How is this possible?
“Holy haunted doppelg?nger,” Emmie whispers beside me.
A collective gasp rises from the crowd, followed by excited murmurs. People lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide with wonder and disbelief like they’re watching the world’s most unsettling magic trick.
Camila and Macy have quieted down, and both of their jaws have rooted to the floor.
But it takes approximately less than three seconds for both of them to turn my way and roll their eyes.
It’s clear they’re not exactly buying what the ghostbusters in the room are selling.
And ironically, what they’re selling is me.
“I present to you what we believe is a Class 4 full-spectral apparition,” Hazel declares with the pride of someone who’s just discovered a new species, using a laser pointer to circle my ghostly face.
“Note the clarity of the features, the consistency of the bioelectric aura, and most fascinating of all—the exact resemblance to our gracious host, Bizzy Baker Wilder.”
All eyes turn to me this time, and I resist the urge to check if I’m suddenly transparent or if my reflection is still showing up in mirrors. Macy gives me the finger and so does Camila. It’s nice to see they’re passionate about the ghostly cause, no matter how misguided they might be.
Emmie leans my way. “Maybe you should give a speech or something. ”
“A speech?” I squeak before clearing my throat. “ Umm , I can confirm I was very much alive and corporeal when this was taken,” I say, attempting a light tone despite the goosebumps racing up my arms.
And I have no deceased twin that I’m aware of, though given how many secrets seem to be floating around my family tree lately, I wouldn’t rule anything out. But I leave all of that out for now.
Hazel smiles as if she knows something the rest of us don’t, which is both annoying and slightly terrifying.
“There are numerous theories about doppelg?ngers in paranormal literature,” she starts.
“Some believe they represent parallel versions of ourselves from other dimensions. Others suggest they might be ancestral spirits drawn to genetic similarities.” She pauses for dramatic effect that would make a soap opera actor proud.
“Or perhaps, most intriguingly, they are omens—harbingers of events yet to come.”
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” I mutter to Emmie, who squeezes my arm reassuringly as if she’s trying to ground me to reality.
“Does it speak?” asks the Goth teenager, sounding hopeful like she’s expecting my ghost to start giving life advice or stock tips. At this point, I’d take a tip on how to help Ella sleep through the night—and I would take that tip from the living or the dead.
“Not yet,” Hazel admits with the disappointment of someone whose scientific experiment hasn’t reached its full potential. “But we’re conducting EVP sessions nightly. If there are voices to be heard, we will capture them.”
“Could it be some kind of projection or reflection?” asks the skeptical accountant, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe light bouncing off the bay window under specific atmospheric conditions?”
Hazel looks like she’s been asked if Santa Claus shops at the mall during the after-Christmas sales. “We’ve ruled out all conventional explanations,” she says stiffly. “Our equipment is state-of-the-art, and multiple witnesses have now seen the apparition with their naked eyes.”
Including me, last night, comes a thought from the burly construction worker. Saw it clear as day floating past the third-floor corridor. Scared me so bad, I nearly dropped dead myself.
Wait, what? Someone else has seen my ghost twin wandering the halls like she owns the place? That’s a development I wasn’t prepared for and definitely didn’t put on my haunted bingo card for tonight.
Before I can process this, Buffy speaks up from her corner. “Have you considered the historical angle?” Her voice is soft but surprisingly authoritative. “This inn has stood for over a century. Maybe we’re seeing someone from its past who simply resembles Bizzy.”
“A compelling theory,” Hazel is quick to acknowledge. “We’ve begun researching former residents and guests, though records from before 1920 are spotty at best.”
The discussion devolves into increasingly technical ghost jargon that sounds like physics and theology had a baby that was raised by science fiction writers with too much time on their hands—and maybe some hard liquor on demand.
Terms like residual energy imprints , dimensional bleeding , and chronological displacement are tossed around as casually as if they’re discussing the weather forecast or what to have for dinner.
Not shocking, Camila and Macy aren’t participating in the dialogue.
They’re examining one another’s nails and playing with the pendants on their necklaces by zipping them across their chains.
As much as I’d like to stay present, I can’t help but tune out as my mind circles back to Leo’s revelations about Hammie Mae potentially being my long-lost sister.
I wonder if there’s a connection between my ghostly twin and my mysterious sibling. It seems far-fetched, yet in Spider Cove, coincidences have a funny way of not being coincidental at all—especially at this time of year.
A cold breeze whispers across the back of my neck, despite the library windows being firmly closed against the October chill.
Fish’s ears perk up on her bookshelf perch, and Sherlock abandons his food surveillance to stare intently at a spot near the window with the focus of a dog who’s spotted a particularly interesting squirrel—and perhaps a dead one.
Something is here. Sherlock gives a soft woof without wavering from his stare. Something not hooman and not animal.
I follow his gaze just in time to see the library lights flicker once, twice, then steady as if they’re trying to send us a message in Morse code.
And in that brief moment of darkness, then light, then darkness again, I swear I see her—see me —standing by the window, watching our gathering with an expression of profound sadness that makes my heart clench.
Then as quick as she came, she’s gone, leaving nothing but a cold spot in the air and at least twenty-five people frozen in stunned silence.
Hazel recovers first, nearly knocking over a chair in her rush to set up additional recording equipment. “Active manifestation!” she shouts excitedly. “Everyone remain calm but aware! Document everything!”
Emmie grips my arm so tightly, I’ll probably have finger-shaped bruises tomorrow, but honestly, I’m grateful for the anchor to reality.
“Please tell me you saw that, too,” she hisses, “and that I haven’t just experienced some kind of pumpkin spice-induced hallucination brought on by too much seasonal food consumption. ”
“If it’s a hallucination, we’re having the same one,” I confirm, my voice steadier than I feel. “Although I’d honestly prefer the pumpkin spice explanation right about now—and by the way, that would probably be your pumpkin-spiced fault.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“ What? It’s a compliment. Your food really is that good.”
The meeting descends into controlled chaos after that, like a very polite stampede—sans Camila and Macy who darted out the door as if a sample sale for designer shoes were taking place just outside the inn.
Half the club members rush to set up equipment near the window with the urgency of paparazzi chasing a celebrity, while others frantically scribble notes or take photos of the empty space where my spectral twin briefly appeared.
Hazel holds court in the center, directing activity like a paranormal orchestra conductor trying to capture a haunted symphony from the beyond.
Buffy has gone pale. I watch as she gathers Skittles’ leash with trembling hands and begins edging her way toward the door. Without a word, she slips out of the room while Hazel is distracted with her ghost hunt, and Skittles trots obediently at her heels as if they were fleeing a crime scene .
Which, given recent events, might not be entirely inaccurate.
As the excitement gradually subsides with no further appearances from my transparent twin (much to everyone’s disappointment and maybe even mine), the meeting breaks into smaller discussion groups that sound like a mix of scientific conference and supernatural support group.
I find Emmie by the refreshment table, where she’s arranging the few remaining almond toffee pieces into a smiley face, because apparently, even ghost encounters can’t stop her from being adorable.
“So,” she says, popping a piece into her mouth, “on a scale of one to call in the professional ghostbusters, how freaked out are you right now?”
“I’m hovering somewhere between mildly unsettled and considering an exorcism for the whole building,” I admit, reaching for my own piece of toffee because sugar feels like an appropriate response to spectral doppelg?ngers and an existential crisis. “You don’t think I’m actually haunted, do you?”
“Bizzy Baker Wilder, in the three decades I’ve known you, you’ve been many things—stubborn, nosy, occasionally reckless, and prone to finding trouble in the most unlikely places—but haunted would definitely be a first.” She tilts her head, considering this as if she’s analyzing a particularly complex recipe.
“Though it would explain a lot about your uncanny ability to find corpses with the consistency of someone who has a GPS for dead bodies, or a supernatural curse.”
“Hey! I resent that characterization of my detective skills,” I protest with mock indignation, though let’s face it, she’s not entirely wrong. “Finding bodies is a talent, not a supernatural curse. It requires skill, intuition, and an unfortunate amount of practice.”
“A talent you could probably list on your résumé at this point,” Emmie points out with the brutal honesty that only best friends can deliver. “Under special skills—mind-reading, pet-whispering, and corpse-discoverer extraordinaire with a side of ghost manifestation.”
“That would definitely liven up the old LinkedIn profile.” I glance around at the club members still buzzing with excitement. “But all kidding aside, I think this ghost—whatever or whoever it is—might be trying to tell us something. ”
“About Heath’s murder?”
“Maybe.” I lower my voice. “Or who knows? Maybe about my mystery sister. The timing of all this feels significant somehow. Plus, she looks just like me. This feels personal.”
“Well, there’s really only one way to find out,” Emmie says, slipping into her jacket as the meeting begins to wrap up with the reluctant energy of people who don’t want the party to end.
“We need to keep digging. And honestly? After what we just saw, I’m convinced this isn’t just some Halloween prank or optical illusion created by bored college students. This is the real deal, Bizzy.”
“I think you might be right,” I agree, collecting our pets as we prepare to leave this supernatural circus behind. “And if there’s one thing I know about Cider Cove, it’s that nothing—not even a ghost that looks exactly like me and has apparently been taking tours of my inn—happens by coincidence.”
We help clean up after the meeting concludes, and I can’t shake the image of my ghostly self watching from the window. Was she trying to tell me something? Warning me, perhaps? Or guiding me toward a truth I haven’t yet uncovered like the world’s most cryptic GPS?
One thing is for sure—between murderous suspects, family secrets, and a spectral doppelg?nger, this Halloween is shaping up to be the spookiest one yet.