The Ghost That Got Away

Chapter 1-2

Something green is hanging from my door. The wreath looks festive, like Christmas, but it wasn’t there this morning. The front walk bears the slightest imprint of someone’s boots, a pair much larger than I wear. Instead of heading around back to the kitchen like I normally would, I follow those snowy footsteps up my walk.

A mistletoe wreath is hanging from a hook on my door. It’s an old-fashioned arrangement, the perfect complement for the old Victorian house, and the sprig of holly berries glow blood red against the white of the door. In the center, stuck beneath a plaid bow, is a card.

I strip off my mittens and tug at the card. The entire wreath wobbles, then plunges to the ground. I balance it against one boot while I read the note.

For one speaker to the dead from another:

Did you know that the French once referred to a bough of mistletoe as a specter’s wand? They believed that not only could the holder see ghosts, but could induce them to speak as well.

Of course, we don’t need those sorts of tricks, do we? Still, what would the holiday be without such ornaments as this?

The card is unsigned. I turn it over, check the envelope, but there’s no clue to who might have sent the wreath. Malcolm, possibly? Was that why he was a few minutes late this morning? I frown at the card. It doesn’t really sound like him.

“It’s bad luck, you know, to let mistletoe touch the ground.”

A voice echoes around me, low and masculine. I shove the card into my coat pocket and whirl to face it.

No one is there. Not on the sidewalk or the street. No one has crept up behind me on the walkway, although my heart is thudding like someone has. I scan the area, my back to the door. Without taking my gaze from the street, I bend down and pick up the wreath. It takes three clumsy tries before it lands on its hook once again. Then I decide the best place to be is inside the house.

Without shrugging off my coat, I brew a quick pot of Kona blend. If Sadie’s sprites are back so soon, I’ll need extra enticement to get them to leave. They’ve been stubborn lately. Maybe it’s the holiday. Maybe it’s because they’re lonely.

Maybe I don’t blame them. I haven’t climbed the stairs to the attic yet to bring down the decorations. I haven’t bought a tree. Whenever my mind drifts to this first Christmas without my grandmother, I force myself to think of something else.

Like now. I’ll go catch some sprites and breathe in all that is Sadie’s house at Christmastime—sugar cookies and gingerbread houses, strings of popcorn and cranberries, spiced apple cider.

Although first I take a quick look around outside, but the street is late-morning quiet with children at school and people at work.

The door to Sadie’s house is ajar. Warm, scented air greets me when I push it open all the way.

“Sadie?” I call out.

I stop at the threshold, pulling in a few deep breaths, tasting the air. Sprites have such a slight presence that sometimes it’s hard to tell if they’re in residence at all.

Something otherworldly is here. That much I can tell. Normally, when the sprites act up, Sadie will be somewhere they are not. I call out again.

Nothing.

I pull out my phone. On the screen is one final message.

Sadie: he

He? Is there someone—or something—else in the house? Or is it the start of a word—a word like help? I don’t think, don’t question what I should do next. I dash up the stairs to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. I call out again, my voice ragged.

“Sadie, are you okay?”

I don’t want to barge into her bedroom, but that’s the most logical place to search. I push open the door, the sight that greets me freezing me in place.

Sadie, on the floor, clad in a silk robe of deep gold. Her face is far too pale. She is far too still. My thumb is on the phone, ready to dial 911. I step into the room, but before I can cross to Sadie, a force surges into me.

The cold envelops me first. This is no sprite. Its presence fills the bedroom with resentment and dread, the air so stale and sharp it pricks the inside of my nose. A hot trickle of blood runs down my lip and the quicksilver taste fills my mouth.

The thing shoves me against the shuttered doors of the closet. The flimsy wood buckles under my weight. I grip the frame and try to regain my balance, my breath, cursing myself for walking into an ambush.

This ghost is fierce and angry. It moans, the sound like an accusation. Then the room is silent.

In the quiet, I glance around. The thing is still here; that much I know. With my coat sleeve, I wipe away blood. My phone is where? I can’t fight this ghost on my own. In fact, I haven’t encountered one this aggressive for a while. I need Malcolm. Sadie needs an ambulance. But first, I need to cross the room to where my phone has landed, next to the vanity.

I’m halfway there when the air shifts behind me. It feels like a gathering storm. I launch myself those last few steps. All I need to do is send a text. The ghost slams into me, the force propelling me against the vanity and its mirror, with all its glass.

The room explodes in shards. My head slams against something hard. I crumple to the floor, lungs searching for air, fingers groping for the cell phone. The moment I reach it, an icy blast sends it skittering away.

My vision blurs both with tears and an approaching darkness. I need my phone. I need to tell Malcolm about this ghost.

But it’s too dark and too cold and my phone is too far away. I close my eyes. I tell myself it’s only for a second so I can catch my breath. But my eyelids are heavy, and the dark washes over me. I taste regret along with the blood in my mouth. What I want is to hear Malcolm’s voice. That feels like the most important thing of all.

* * * *

The insistent sound of the ringtone penetrates my skull. This is the fifth time someone has called my phone. However, it’s only the first that I’m coherent enough to do anything about it.

My world is still very much a black tunnel. I crack open my eyes, wincing against the sun streaming through lace curtains. I don’t dare move too much or too quickly. If this ghost is still here—and I suspect it is—I don’t want to alert it that I’m now awake—or mostly so. Not that my head, in its current state, will let me move too much or too quickly.

I crawl, a slow, agonizing trek across the hardwood. Beneath me, I leave a trail, a smear of blood, I think.

My phone stops ringing.

I sag against the floorboards in defeat. But with my ear pressed against the floor, I hear the rumblings in the house. A scraping, a crash, a shattering of glass. It’s the sound of a Christmas tree toppling over.

If the ghost is downstairs, then he can’t keep tabs on me, not if I’m quiet about it. I renew my journey across the floor and toward my phone. When my fingers graze its edge, it rings.

My first impulse is to answer the call, cry out, but I still my hand. This ghost is too aware, too calculating. I feign unconsciousness, enduring each ring and praying that the caller has patience.

On the seventh ring, I answer.

“Katy? Where on earth are you?” Malcolm’s voice fills the room and my head. My heart beats hard with hope and reassurance even as a spike of pain travels my skull. “Did you drive out of cell phone range? It’s been hours.”

Hours. I crane my neck but can only glimpse Sadie’s feet. Malcolm’s voice is so strong and sure—and loud. I feel the buzzing, that otherworldly static, fill the air before the ghost flows into the room.

“Sadie’s,” I cry out, but my voice is rough, the word slurred. The ghost plummets and sends the phone careening against the wooden footboard.

This time I know it won’t ring again.