Chapter 15
Valerie
I caught the housekeeper, or Amelia as she liked to be called, just as she was leaving, bundled in a brown peacoat, green scarf, and sleek knee-high boots.
She agreed to talk on the veranda if I made it quick.
I sprinted back upstairs for my jacket, then found her perched on the wicker bench, breath puffing white in the frosty air.
“Sorry,” she said. “I never stay a minute past my shift. I clean, and I go.”
“I don’t blame you.” I tugged on my mittens. “Just a few questions.”
She nodded. “Edith said you’re from the Agency.” Her voice dropped as if we were surrounded by eavesdroppers and not a barren landscape of skeleton trees. “You and that partner of yours are really witches?”
“Technically, we’re miracle workers.”
Amelia fanned herself with one mitten. “Well, that tracks. Is the miracle that he’s still single?”
My lips flattened. “He’s married.”
“Figures.” She sighed, tilting her head to peer through the window as if she could get another look.
Of course, she was gorgeous—sunny hair, holiday-movie-heroine smile—the kind of woman grumpy tree farmers tripped over their saws for.
A billionaire hotel heir looking to bulldoze the town would stop in his tracks.
And she’d be perfect for Grant. He'd cook, she'd clean, and they’d meet somewhere horizontally in the middle.
Ugh!
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to refocus. My line of questioning had derailed, and I was laying claim to Grant like the holiday homewrecker wolves were circling.
“He leaves dirty laundry everywhere,” I blurted, lying through my teeth so hard I checked the sky for lightning. “I once found his socks in the freezer. He said it neutralizes the smell.”
Amelia visibly recoiled. “Oh, wow.”
“Never marry a man with big feet. It's a curse,” I added like a couples' soothsayer.
“Good advice.” Amelia wrinkled her perfectly pert nose.
A tiny, wicked spark of satisfaction warmed my chest. Town officially bulldozed. Tree farmer neutralized. Yes, I was a festive troublemaker. No, I wasn’t changing my ways.
She straightened her shoulders, no longer interested in the view beyond the window. “How can I help? You had questions about the inn?”
“That’s right. I haven’t seen the ghost yet, but I’ve seen the signs.”
“Oh, you’ll see him,” she said. “He’s testing you. Seeing if you’re worth the trouble to pull out all the stops.”
All the stops? I didn't like the sound of that. I was already halfway to comatose from just the eerie footsteps.
“Any idea who the spirit might be? There’s nothing in the file, and Edith didn’t know.”
“That’s the thing. There’s no record of anyone dying here. It’s a mystery.” She fiddled with the ends of her scarf. “I heard it all started maybe fifty years ago. Little things at first, strange footsteps, cold spots. Even a lantern glowing in an empty room. Always the same room.”
“Which one?”
“The small banquet hall; the one that faces the lake.”
I glanced toward the distant windows, frost fogging the glass. “And no one’s ever figured out why?”
She shook her head. “A few years after the hauntings started. Let’s see… nineteen-eighty, I think. They got worse almost overnight. The owners had to close that December. They've been doing it ever since.”
“How odd. Something must have happened.”
Amelia shrugged. “Sure. But who knows what? I’ve asked around. The case has always intrigued me. Nothing sticks out about that year. The inn was business as usual. You can check the books…” She trailed off as a rattle sounded behind the veranda door. Both of us froze.
The doorknob jiggled, the door creaking open an inch. Then—slam.
Amelia flinched, her hand pressing against her throat. “See? That’s my cue. Be careful, Ms. Spellman. Whoever he is, the ghost is angry.” She gathered her things and hurried down the steps toward her car.
“Great,” I said to no one, shivering inside my jacket. “Can’t wait to get back inside.”
I had clues, though. Nineteen-eighty. Something happened that December that had ramped up the hauntings. Then there was the banquet hall. There were notes in the case file about the glowing light. It could be a coincidence that it always appeared there. Or not. Either way, it was a start.
The hall felt emptier on the way back in; the portraits lining the walls somehow creepier. I never understood why people decorated with oil paintings of strangers. Kittens in baskets full of yarn would’ve really cheered the place up.
A faint flicker at the edge of a mirror caught my eye—broad shoulders, familiar profile—Grant shadowing me like he could steal my clues. But when I turned, no one was there.
“Okay,” I whispered, gripping my empty mug like a weapon. “We’re avoiding Grant. Not seeing him around every corner.”
I tiptoed toward the banquet hall. The double doors loomed at the end of the corridor, carved with holly leaves and faded scrollwork. Behind the frosted panes, a faint shimmer of light pulsed.
Inside, the room echoed with the whine of the door hinges.
A pair of chandeliers dripping with crystal teardrops, hung low over a long banquet table buried beneath a film of dust. Gold-leaf sconces lined the paneled walls, between heavy portraits in gilded frames.
The air was colder than outside, tinged with something spicy, like cloves and decay.
Whatever light had flickered behind the door had vanished.
I edged along the wall, studying the ceiling of carved beams and lavish plaster scrollwork. The temperature plunged, my breath fogging the air. This was officially my least favorite room. One of the chandeliers moaned on its chain, swaying in the stillness.
I bumped a chair, the harsh scrape making me jolt backward, my shoulder catching the wall.
A trickle of fear iced my veins as I turned and found myself face-to-face with a massive portrait.
A man in a hunting outfit and cap glared down at me, one boot propped on an ottoman. His expression was pure disapproval.
Without thinking, I traced my finger across the painted boot. “Huh. That angry visage has Grant’s eyes,” I whispered.
The painting was cold. My skin tingled as though something beneath the oils had stirred.
And then the man’s eyes shifted.
My screech bounced off the beams; the mug slipping from my fingers. Before I could react, the portrait lurched forward, the air cracking with the twang of snapping wire.
A gust of dust and plaster exploded as it crashed down, the gilded corner grazing my cheek.
I stumbled, but a pair of arms caught me from behind, hauling me backward.
The heavy painting hit the floor where I’d been standing, the impact rattling a chandelier and splintering the wooden frame into sharp fragments.
“Never touch the creepy paintings.” Grant’s voice brushed my ear, his breath hot against the chill.
I gasped, still gripping his arm like a lifeline. “You were following me!”
“Technically, it’s called a walking tour,” he said lightly, though his hold tightened at my waist. “Lucky for you, the banquet hall was my next stop. Great architecture. I think it's Baroque.”
I twisted in his grasp, my heart still battering my ribs. “You scared me half to death.”
“Same, Spells.” He swept his thumb along my cheek. It came away red—his gaze went black. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch,” I said, though my cheek burned like fire.
“Not to me.” The words slipped out faster than he could stop them. His jaw flexed, the mask of restraint slamming back into place before I could process what had been there. He was still holding me, his hands firm around my waist, and for a fleeting second, I felt the tremor he was trying to hide.
“You need to work on your reflexes.” A strange note burned in his voice. “Or you’re right, I’ll be writing paperwork about your untimely death.”
I swallowed around the strange lump in my throat, still breathing hard. “We won’t need the key then, will we?”
A muscle flickered beneath his cheekbone, just enough to make me regret the jab. He straightened, dropping his hands. The chill rushed in where his warmth had been. I opened my mouth to apologize, but the words tangled with the wild, confusing flutter in my chest.
“You won’t last another night in your room,” he said, boots crunching over glass as he headed for the door. “The offer still stands. I’ll leave my door unlocked.”
“Make sure to hold your breath.”
He looked back, and the corner of his mouth twitched before he disappeared down the hall.
I pressed my hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow. The painting lay face down on the floor beside my shattered mug. It had been my favorite. But something else lay among the debris: a sprig of mistletoe, still tied with a red ribbon.
It hadn’t been there before.
The chill in the room vanished the moment I touched it. I slipped it into my pocket before heading upstairs.
By the time night fell, Silverpine had gone silent again. No footsteps. No creaks. Just an uneasy stillness, as if the inn had listened when I told Grant to hold his breath.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, trying to read through the case file by the dim lamplight. I squinted at the notes.
Avoid paintings. Don’t look in the mirrors.
I glanced up, catching my reflection in the vanity. Oops. Too late for that. My hair looked untamed, skin pale. I wore my snowflake sleepshirt, the neckline drooping off one shoulder like I was starring in an eighties aerobics video. All I needed were the leg warmers.
Which I had.
I rummaged through my bag and pulled out the soft, green pair, tugging them up to my knees. The cozy fabric calmed my nerves, along with a deep sip of herbal tea from the fresh mug I’d stolen from the kitchen.
See? This wasn’t so bad. The hauntings were mostly flickering lights and bumps in the night.
Sure, I’d almost been flattened by a homicidal oil painting, but the walls here were bare, and nothing hung overhead.
Every projectile was tucked securely inside the bureau, and I’d gone full twenty-first-century with the lighting.
No more candles. Windows locked. Curtains drawn.
Thud… The sound was like a body hitting the floor. I peered over the side of the bed. The dust ruffle fluttered like something had slithered beneath the bed frame. My spine straightened so fast, I pulled a muscle.
I let out a slow, trembling breath.
There's nothing under the bed. You're not five.
I was totally safe. With a confident nod, I finger-combed my hair and peered into the mirror again.
The glass fogged.
A single word etched slowly through the film: RUN.
I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head as if the ghost read nonverbal cues. I'm fine. Everything is fine. That wasn't a threat. It was a healthy suggestion to take up cardio.
Peaking my eyes open, I blinked the black spots away. I heard it then, the heavy scrape of boots on the floorboards.
Inside my room.
Another word appeared beneath the first in the mirror, making my blood freeze. RUN NOW.
The bulb in the lamp cracked under the shade. Darkness swallowed the room.
A shadow took shape in the far corner; a man’s silhouette, tall, shoulders hunched. His long coat hung on his muscular frame, the ends whipping in a non-existent wind. When he lifted his head, I saw the outline of his features, watched them twist with anger. His mouth opened in a soundless snarl.
My scream died halfway up my throat.
He moved—fast, white mist blowing around him like driving snow. Frost bloomed up the wallpaper, the sound like a frozen whisper. I snatched my pillow, my pulse a jackhammer in my throat, and bolted for the door.
Wrenching it open, I staggered into the hall. My bare feet slapped against the floorboards as I skidded to a stop in front of Grant’s room. I could hardly breathe, hyperventilation, making the hallway spin. The brass room plate seemed to glow against the wood, the numbers warping in my vision.
My hand hovered over the knob.
I looked back.
The ghost stood in the doorway of my room, eyes blazing with silver fire, teeth bared. Then he stepped backward into the dark, and the door slammed shut.
I choked on a breath, my lungs spasming. There was no way I was going back in there. But there was also no way I'd give Grant the satisfaction of crawling into his bed for safety. He’d love it too much. And I might never leave.
With trembling fingers, I mumbled a spell, my temporary magic flickering enough to light the wall sconce beside me. Then I slid down the wall next to his door and pressed my pillow to my chest like a fluffy shield.
“Just a few hours,” I whispered to the shadows. “Nobody has to know, except me and the ghost who stole my room.”
I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.