6. Callum #2
The ghost on the right—a woman with silver curls and a floral brooch—leans over, resting a ghostly, semi-transparent hand on the forearm of her companion. “Oh, Gerry, hush. Look at those broad shoulders on him…he looks just like my Jamie did after he returned back from the war.”
The ghost on the left, Gerry apparently, rolls her eyes, giving a faint wave of her pale hand. “Betty, you say everyone looks like your Jamie after he got back from the war. Give it a rest.”
Gerry turns her head, her glowing eyes landing squarely on me where I stand frozen in the doorway. She gives me a slow, unabashed once-over, her faded red lips curving into a mischievous grin.
“Where are you from, hot cakes?” she asks smoothly. “It’s been a while since we’ve had some fresh blood around here.”
I stand there, rooted to the hardwood, completely speechless.
They are ghosts. Full-on, talking, pearl-wearing ghosts, sitting in armchairs, talking to me.
This is a prank, my brain screams, desperately trying to anchor itself to reality. It’s an optics trick. Hidden cameras. A high-budget local theater group screwing with the outsider.
Because the alternative—that I am standing in a parlor talking to dead people—means I’ve officially lost my damn mind.
Before I can sink deeper into a full-blown existential crisis, footsteps tap soft against the hardwood. Winifred steps into the parlor carrying two steaming ceramic mugs.
She looks completely different than she did last night in the dim hallway.
Her long, jet-black hair is worn down today, tumbling past her shoulders in thick, shiny waves that tickle the back of her waist. And without her jacket on, I notice her right arm is almost completely covered in fine-line tattoos.
My eyes automatically scan the ink—a sleek dagger, a queen of hearts playing card, a black widow spider, an eight ball, a vinyl record, and what looks suspiciously like a vintage pin-up illustration of herself on her forearm.
She’s wearing a fitted black top tucked into an olive-colored skirt, cinched at the waist with a thick black belt, and knee-high leather boots.
If you’d asked me yesterday, I would’ve said Winifred isn’t my type.
If I even have a type anymore. But watching her cross the room, there’s something infuriatingly alluring about her.
As the fabric of her skirt sways, I catch the tail end of a snake tattoo wrapping its way up the side of her thigh.
Jesus. That’s…hot.
I force myself to blink and look away, clearing my throat.
I haven’t thought about a woman like this in way too long.
Between grinding through six-day work weeks and tearing the state apart trying to track down my brother, I haven’t had the bandwidth for women.
It always felt like a pointless distraction.
But as she glides across the room, my eyes betray me, tracking the confident sway of her hips.
Winifred bends down next to Gerry’s armchair. “Are you behaving yourself, Gerry?”
Gerry crosses her translucent arms over her chest, puffing out a tiny breath. “What on earth do I need to behave myself for? I’m already dead.” She smirks, tilting her chin up. “Besides, well-behaved women hardly ever make history, you know.”
Winifred lets out a bright laugh. It surprises me how much I like the sound of it. “Amen, sister. That’s why you’re my favorite.”
Gerry lifts a thin, knobby finger, pointing it at me. “Who’s the hot ginger?”
Winifred bites down hard on her lower lip, clearly trying to hold back a grin. “That’s Callum. He came with the inn. We’re trying him out.”
“Tell him to turn around a little,” Gerry demands, not a shred of shame in her voice. “I want to see what we’re working with in the back.”
Heat crawls up my neck and floods straight into my cheeks. Instinctively, my hands slide into my back pockets to cover up. Getting objectified by an eighty-year-old ghost at six in the morning wasn’t anywhere on my bingo card for today. Or for this lifetime.
Winifred turns her head toward me, her silver eyes dancing with mischief. “Cal,” she purrs, twirling her index finger in the air in a not so subtle turn-it-around motion. “Give the lady a show.”
I narrow my eyes at her, letting my jaw set hard.
She bursts into another laugh, looking down at the ghost. “We’ll have to catch him in a better mood, Ger.”
She closes the distance between us and extends a blue ceramic mug toward me. I take it, my fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second. The heat of the ceramic bleeds into my cold hands.
Winifred leans in just enough for me to catch the faint scent of vanilla and rain on her skin. “Gerry’s all bark,” she murmurs under her breath. “Only a little bite. Don’t let her intimidate you.”
I glance down into the mug. The steam hits my nose. “It’s black.”
“Yep.” Winifred pops the p cheerfully, taking a sip from her own mug.
I look up at her over the rim of my cup. “How’d you know I drink it black?”
She shrugs. “I took a wild guess. You seemed like the type.”
“And what type is that?”
She tilts her head, her lips curving into a smug, sharp smile.
“Grumpy, overly serious men who act like a splash of cream or oat milk might ruin their carefully crafted brooding persona.” She takes another sip, her eyes gleaming.
“Plus, my magic knew that’s what you needed. It knew it’d be comforting for you.”
I freeze, the mug halfway to my mouth. “Your magic?”
Winifred lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she says, tapping her temple. “Keep up, Cal.”
I open my mouth to argue, to demand a logical, rational explanation for the two transparent women arguing over an invisible deck of cards behind her, but the aroma of sizzling bacon and fried butter suddenly drifts in from the kitchen hall.
A second later, heavy steps echo off the floorboards.
Delphi appears in the arched doorway, no longer in her velvet robe.
She’s wearing a thick wool cardigan over a high-necked linen blouse, her hair pulled up into a neat, silver-clipped twist. She holds a wooden tray stacked high with cast-iron skillets, fresh biscuits, and a bowl of sliced peaches.
Her sharp eyes sweep the room, locking instantly onto me.
“You’re awake,” Delphi says, setting the heavy tray down on a low oak coffee table with a solid thud. “And you didn’t run off into the woods. That’s a point in your favor, Mr. McKinley.”
Gerry floats an inch higher off her armchair cushion, craning her neck to peek at the spread. “Did you make the moonlight meringue and phantom pudding, Delphi?”
Delphi offers her a rare, warm wink, reaching into the pocket of her cardigan to pull out two small, shimmering glass saucers. “Only the best for the best,” she says smoothly, setting the dishes out specifically for Gerry and Betty on the corner of the low table.
I stare at the saucers, then cut my eyes over to Freddie. “They can eat?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “How? They’re…floating in the air.”
“Sure can, sweet cakes,” Gerry chimes in, hovering her pale, semi-transparent hand over the saucer like she’s soaking up the steam. “Certain foods around here are enchanted just for us spectral folks.”
“Living people can technically eat them too,” Winifred adds, taking a step closer so her arm nearly brushes mine. “Except it tastes like wet cardboard unless you’re dead.”
I give a single, solemn nod, taking another slow sip of my coffee. Right. Of course ghosts eat phantom pudding. Why wouldn’t they? I should’ve known.
Delphi pulls a pair of crisp linen napkins from her cardigan pocket, flicking them open with a snap before nodding toward the small dining nook nestled in the bay window. “Sit down, both of you. Have some breakfast.”
I open my mouth to object—I really need to find a landline and figure out who the hell hauls trucks in this place—but Winifred catches my eye before I can utter a word.
“Don’t even try it, Cal,” she says, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re going to want to eat her buttermilk biscuits. Trust me.”
The rich, savory aroma of fried sausage and melted butter hitting the air makes my stomach betray me with a low growl. Point taken.
I head over to the nook, pulling out one of the oak chairs. Delphi doesn’t waste any time, dishing up generous portions of fluffy scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, and golden, flakey biscuits topped with sausage and gravy onto heavy stoneware plates.
Winifred slides into the booth and as she leans back, the pale morning light streaming through the windowpane catches her eyes. Up close, I notice subtle flecks of warm gold dancing in the striking blue of her irises, a stark, beautiful contrast against her dark hair.
She grabs a second biscuit, splits it open with her hands, and slathers it with blackberry jam that Delphi set on the table before digging in. She’s completely comfortable in her own skin, in this bizarre house, with ghosts and whatever the fuck else is probably roaming around here.
Delphi sets her own plate down, sliding into the seat right next to Winifred. She rests her elbows on the lace tablecloth, steepling her long fingers beneath her chin as her eyes lock onto mine.
“Now,” Delphi says. “We need to talk about how someone going on a vacation to Colorado ends up with a broken truck in a town that hasn’t allowed an outsider in for nearly a hundred years.”