The mummers stop. They just stop. She’s twenty feet away, running as fast as she can through the snow, and they just stand there, watching her. She sees Michael’s eyes go wide, and he madly shakes his head, howling against the gag, telling her to go, to run.
She raises the knife and charges at the first mummer and?—
Avastarts from sleep, gasping for breath, Michael’s name on her lips, her fingers aching, as if she’s still gripping the kitchen knife.
She blinks and stares at the lights of the Christmas tree. Behind her, Michael is reading fromA Christmas Carol. A half-finished glass of absinthe rests by her elbow.
She pushes up, blinking harder now, trying to clear her head. The lights seem to glitter and glide, and her ears feel as if they’re stuffed with cotton, every sound distorted.
She turns and sees Michael’s empty glass beside her. And next to it…
Is that the knife? From the kitchen?
She rubs her eyes and sits up. Michael sits crosslegged, his sweatshirt hood pulled up as he reads.
“Michael?”
He turns. His hood falls back, and she sees…
A white pillowcase, crudely drawn face grinning at her.
Michael reaches for the knife.
“Give me food. Give me wine…”
A Haunted House of Her Own
Tanya couldn’t understand why real estate agents failed to recognize the commercial potential of haunted houses. This one, it seemed, was no different.
“Now, these railings need work,” the woman said as she led Tanya and Nathan out onto one of the balconies. “But the floor is structurally sound, and that’s the main thing. I’m sure these would be an attractive selling point to your bed-and-breakfast guests.”
Not as attractive as ghosts…
“You’re sure the house doesn’t have a history?” Tanya prodded again. “I thought I heard something in town…”
She hadn’t, but the way the agent stiffened told Tanya she was onto something. After pointed reminders about disclosing the house’s full history, the woman admitted there was, indeed, something. Apparently a kid had murdered his family here, back in the seventies.
“A tragedy, but it’s long past,” the agent assured her. “Never a spot of trouble since.”
“Damn,” Tanya murmured under her breath, and followed the agent back inside.
Next,Nathan wanted to check out the coach house, see if there was any chance of converting it into a separate “honeymoon hideaway.”
Tanya was thrilled to see him taking an interest. Opening the inn had been her idea. An unexpected windfall from a great-aunt had come right after she lost her teaching job and Nathan’s office manager position teetered under end-of-year budget cuts. It seemed like the perfect time to try something new.
“You two go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll poke around in here, maybe check out the gardens.”
“Did I see a greenhouse out back?” Nathan asked the agent.
She beamed. “You most certainly did.”
“Why don’t you go take a look at that, hon? You were talking about growing organic vegetables.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” the agent said. “That issopopular right now. Organic local produce is all the rage. There’s a shop in town that supplies all the…”
As the woman gushed, Tanya backed away slowly, then escaped.
Thehouse was perfect—a six-bedroom, rambling Victorian perched on a hill three miles from a suitably quaint village. What more could she want in a bed-and-breakfast? Well, ghosts. Not that Tanya believed in such things, but haunted inns in Vermont were all the rage, and she was determined to own one.
