I parked at the end of the long drive, boots crunching over a hastily shoveled path. The sign at the gate read: Silverpine Inn — Est. 1892
Icicles lined the eaves of the porch like crystal teeth ready to sink their fangs into unsuspecting tourists. The railings were wrapped so tightly in garland, it was as if they were trying to chain the house to its foundation. Sage was right. Withmy horror-movie-meets-holiday-special commentary, and my crippling fear of ghosts, I was never making it to the sequel. I should’ve come armed with a garlic-dipped wooden stake and one of those ghost-trapping gadgets you see in the movies. Unfortunately, my bank account didn’t allow for novelty equipment.
The brass bell over the door jingled when I stepped inside. Warmth and the smell of pine wrapped around me in a suspiciously normal hug. I scanned the lobby for telltale signs of a haunting, refusing to let my guard down.
No ghosts… yet.
A fire crackled in a marble hearth, casting an amber glow over velvet chairs. In the corner, a massive Christmas tree dripping with old-fashioned glass ornaments stood like a sentry. The room was silent except for the logs snapping and the wind rattling the windows.
I huddled inside my puffy coat, an overstuffed suitcase at my feet, and called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
A woman appeared behind the carved oak reception desk. Tortoiseshell glasses hung from a silver chain around her neck, and she slipped them on as she smoothed a strand of silver hair back into her bun. Her charcoal cardigan fit snugly over a willowy frame, the only bright color coming from her candy-apple-red lipstick and gleaming gold nametag that readEdith.
“You must be Ms. Spellman, from the Agency,” she said, her voice creaky but warm.
“That’s me.” I forced a smile that probably looked as stiff as it felt. “Charming place. Lots of… unique character.”
Edith’s red grin widened, revealing a tiny smudge of lipstick on her teeth. “Yes. They filmed one of those black-and-white vampire pictures here in the forties. Butthat was before—” She folded her hands. “Well, before thePresencemade itself known.”
“And this Presence… it’s not currently, uh, present, is it?” I asked, ducking my head as if I expected it to swoop down like a bat.
Her lips twitched. “No. The ghost prefers to haunt the guest rooms.”
“Oh, wonderful. That’s not terrifying at all.”
“I feel I should warn you what you’re in for, but I assume you’ve read the file.”
I tapped the top of my suitcase. “Right here. I’m ready for anything, and on behalf of the Agency, I will do my best to finally close this case.”
“I wish you luck.” Edith slid an ornate brass key across the counter and opened a worn ledger. “We don’t take guests in December, and most of the staff stays off-site after the first snowfall. There’s a groundskeeper who lives in the gatehouse, and a housekeeper who comes in the mornings. You’ll find staples in the kitchen, but no cook. You’ll be on your own.”
I signed my name on the yellowed page and pocketed the key. “That’s fine. I can go into town for meals.”
“Room Eleven is yours,” she said. “Second floor. It overlooks the lake.”
“A room with a view. My favorite.” I hefted my suitcase and started toward the stairs.
The steps groaned beneath my boots. Oil paintings of unsmiling strangers watched from gilded frames. Their eyes seemed to follow my progress. I glared back, hoping to show them who was boss. A draft whispered through the hallway, and somewhere in the shadows, a door creaked open, then clicked shut.
Probably just the housekeeper.
Room 11 was small but cozy. There was floral wallpaper, dark paneled wood, and a stunning view of the frozen lake ringed by towering, snow-dusted pines. A heavy quilt layered the four-poster bed, and a candelabra with half-melted ivory tapers sat on the nightstand.
No TV, which was fine. I had my tablet and, supposedly, the inn had decent Wi-Fi. If things got super spooky, I had noise-canceling headphones and a streaming subscription.
I exhaled and stared at my reflection in the frosted window. “All right, Silverpine. I’m not leaving here without winning that key. So get ready to be miracled.”
***
Check-in was the last time I saw Edith.
It was past lunch, so the housekeeper was long gone, leaving me essentially alone in the historic inn. The place was larger than it looked from the outside. Long, narrow halls branched off into parlors and little nooks lit only by flickering sconces. The inn had electricity, but either they were saving on the bill or really committed to the ambiance, because most of my tour was courtesy of open flame.
The floorboards creaked with every step, and I’m not proud to admit it, but I nearly jump-scared myself into oblivion when I turned a corner and saw my reflection blinking back at me from a gigantic gilt mirror. If a cat had chosen that moment to screech across my path, my heart would have flatlined, and I’d be a weird byline in thelocal paper.
Tourist dies weeks before Christmas in haunted hotel from their own reflection. In lieu of flowers, donate to your local cat shelter.
After sketching a mental map of the inn, I fixed a cup of tea and settled onto one of the velvet chairs in front of the fire to reread the case file. A year ago, I was sitting at a tropical bar, sipping a frozen cocktail. Now here I was, drinking lukewarm Earl Grey while the wind howled outside like the ghost’s banshee twin. The contrast was startling. But it felt good to be working a case again. Even one that gave me goosebumps.
