by Angie Fox
Phineas stared at me, but he didn’t respond.
“Please,” I asked.
He looked straight at me with those intense eyes, so much like Ellis’s it was spooky. “If you want to step inside my mill, you’ll have to do more than that.”
“Here we go,” Frankie groused. “Molly is going to be eating Jell-O alone.”
“You’ll make it back for her,” I vowed. We wouldn’t let this ghost hold us up.
Phineas’s lip tipped up at the corner. “You’ve come here on Christmas Eve on a more important mission than you realize.”
“I’m dead,” Frankie muttered.
“Stop being dramatic,” I urged, even if he was technically right.
The room beyond the smashed-in door began to glow with a soft golden light. It glinted off the dust motes and highlighted the broken remains of plaster clinging to the old stone walls.
Typically, the ghostly plane glowed silver, not gold. But I wasn’t going to nitpick a long-lost Wydell relation.
“You’re the dominant ghost, aren’t you?” I asked Phineas, who merely nodded.
A dominant ghost controlled his or her location in the ghostly plane—how it appeared, what dwelled inside, and what could happen to me when I was tuned in. If the ghost meant me harm, I could be injured— or worse, killed by objects and events on the other side. I’d come close several times before, and it wasn’t an experience I was keen to repeat. Despite how Ellis felt about my ghost hunting, I really wasn’t the sort of girl to take unnecessary chances.
But Phineas seemed pleasant enough. He hadn’t threatened me. Quite the opposite, actually. And after a little begging on my part, he was giving me what I’d asked for.
“It looks nice,” I said to Frankie.
Phineas hadn’t bothered to influence the gnarled windows outside or weed-strewn path leading to the place, but beyond the door, I saw gleaming hardwood floors lit by hanging lanterns.
“He’s up to something,” Frankie warned.
Of that I had no doubt. I’d be a fool not to think it—after the ghost’s sudden change of tone, not to mention the way he was watching us.
“Come,” Phineas coaxed. “Step past my threshold and you’ll get what you need.”
I didn’t need anything. Except to move that hook and to keep the promise I’d made to my peevish ghost buddy.
“Err.” I glanced back at Frankie, who stared daggers at me.
For once, Frankie was right. I had a feeling we were getting into more than we’d bargained for.
But I still had a job to do in that mill.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said, stepping over the threshold I’d knocked to pieces only moments before.
As my sneakers crunched against the wood floor of the dark, dirty mill, I stepped into a completely different world. His world. It was still the mill, I could tell from the way it was laid out, but this looked…
It looked amazing. Laughing, chattering people lit up the space. Fresh white plaster walls reflected the light of dozens of tall candles. They glowed on every surface, including the enormous wooden cider presses. Garlands of fir and pine were tied together with ribbons and placed at the edges of tables and along the backs of ladderback chairs. A lantern hung from a familiar hook, only this hook was attached to a rope that was still sound. Right next to it stood a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree, decorated with delicate glass balls and glittering tinsel. The entire place smelled of pine and the woods and dinner ready to be eaten. One of the presses was given over to food and drink, covered in platters and plates and, at one end, a gleaming punch bowl.
“See?” I turned to Frankie. “We’re at a party! I told you it would work out.”
“Give it a minute,” the ghost muttered.
Most of the men wore double-breasted suits, although plenty of them had discarded their hats and jackets. Women in long dresses with simple floral prints punctuated the sea of suits like bright sprigs of mistletoe. The men shared friendly banter while the women, laughing and passing out food, occasionally called out to the children to “watch you don’t get stepped on, Dottie! And, Ferdinand, get off the banister. You’re not Tarzan, young man!”
One of the children ran toward us, and I instinctively drew back. Ghosts didn’t like to touch me any more than I liked touching them, and I braced for the icy impact.
To my surprise, she went right through me without even glancing up. I didn’t feel anything from it either.
“This is a vision of the past,” Phineas said. A muscle in his jaw jumped, but then his expression softened as he gazed out at the scene. “The only actual ghost in here is me—and now the sheik,” he said, indicating Frankie.
The gangster frowned, but I smiled.
“It’s a beautiful memory,” I told Phineas. “When was this?”
“Christmas Eve, 1930,” he said. “I’m about to make the toast.”
A younger Phineas climbed on top of an overturned crate. “Everyone!” he called. “It’s time to taste the Christmas cask!”
Phineas cleared his throat.
“Is it hard to watch?” I asked.
“Yes. No.” He never took his eyes off the happy family. “We used to wait all year for this. A celebration of everyone’s hard work.”
The adults whooped and clapped. The kids jumped up and down.
“I can see where you’d want to go back,” I told him. I’d have enjoyed a large family like this.
“We loved this place.” He gestured all around us at the shining apple presses and the spotless walls and the ornate brass W over the door behind us. “This was the first joint venture of the Wydell family. My father had always kept an orchard, but he’d never thought to do more with the apples than simply eat them.
“But my brothers and I, we knew it could be more. And once the hard times hit, it made sense for us to pool our resources.” He smiled sidelong at me. “You could say we put all our apples in one basket.”
He was almost as charming as Ellis. “I think that saying’s actually about eggs,” I said with a grin.
“Is it? Well then, we did that too. And it worked out pretty well. Kept the family together for years.” He pointed at one of the ladies standing next to the apple press that held all the food. She had blond hair streaked with gray styled in a sleek, wavy bob. The woman was slender to the point of being wiry, and even though she appeared a little tired, she also seemed deeply satisfied as she handed out Christmas cookies in the shape of stars to the children.
One of the little ones clung to her leg, and she kissed the top of his head before lifting him into her arms with a laugh. “My father died the year before we got the cider mill up and running, and I think if we hadn’t been around, my mother might have followed him,” Phineas mused. “But she made it through that winter and then through twenty more after it.”
The scene was so lovely, it hurt. “She clearly loves the kids,” I managed.
“Yes, she did. No matter how many dishes got broken, or how many frogs were hidden in the washroom sinks, that woman had the patience of a saint. The one she’s holding is my brother Saxby’s youngest.” He gestured to the side of the Christmas tree, where a blond man who looked startlingly like Beau was standing, one arm around a pretty woman in a bright red polka-dot dress, the other gesturing to the man standing across from him.
“And there’s my Charlotte,” Phineas said, his voice full of pride. He’d turned his attention to a short blond woman busy unwrapping her contribution to the feast and already fending off eager fingers. “She’s the best cook in the county,” he continued, walking across the floor toward her. I followed gingerly. This place might appear like a dream, but I was still out of my element—and in an abandoned mill with at least one huge, extended hole in the floor.
“Hands off, you rascals, wait for me to cut it!” Charlotte was saying. One of the other ladies stepped in to run interference while Phineas’s mother handed her daughter-in-law a long knife.
“I swear, I could tr
y a dozen times over and my apple pandowdy still doesn’t taste as good as yours,” she said, bouncing the little boy on her hip. “I always remember the ginger and the cinnamon and the nutmeg…what am I missing, dear?”
“My secret ingredient?” Charlotte teased. “I don’t like to brag about it, because it’s hard to get in these times, but…” She leaned in close. “I’ve got an airtight store of cardamom pods at home,” she murmured. “A smidgen of that ground in goes a long way.”
“Cardamom!” Phineas’s mother gasped and touched Charlotte’s arm. “Heaven sakes, I never would have guessed.”
“Nobody ever does, Mama,” Charlotte said, and the women chuckled together as she began to cut the rustic-looking galette and lay slices down on plates. They vanished almost as soon as she set them out.
The air was full of cheer and laughter, of the genuine happiness of people who enjoyed each other’s company. It was a scene that anyone would want to be a part of. “You are all so close.” So loving.
“We are,” Phineas said. “We were,” he said, as if I had something to do with it. As if he knew what had happened tonight.
But that was impossible.
I shuffled a little closer to the ladies, wanting to get a better look at the apple pandowdy, to hear if Charlotte had any more wisdom to impart, to watch Phineas’s mother cuddle the little boy in her arms like she never wanted to let him go.
“Be careful, Miss Long!”
All of a sudden the warm scene vanished, leaving darkness, cobwebs, and rotten apples in its wake. I reeled backward as I realized I was teetering on the crumbling edge of the chasm in the floor.
9
“Miss Long!” Phineas tried to grab me, which would have been shockingly cold and wet enough to make me lose my balance and fall straight down into that hole.
“I’m fine,” I lied, stumbling backward, my gut lurching as my right leg slipped over the edge. Pain radiated up my leg, but I held on. “Oh, please,” I whispered, my fingers catching on the uneven floorboards as I struggled up and away from the hole.
The fall would have been bad enough and—deep breaths—I absolutely refused to look down on the family of bears I’d almost landed on. My heart couldn’t take it. The pulley creaked over my head, with its crushing steel hook waiting to drop.
“I should have ended the vision earlier,” Phineas said, reaching for me again, frowning when I responded to his gentlemanly hand by scurrying away from him on all fours.
I stood quicker than I felt comfortable doing, considering the sharp pang in my knee. I was eager to show that I was all right. “It’s fine,” I insisted, making a cursory check of my aching body, all the while ignoring my pounding heart and the fact that I’d made a bloody hole in my new leggings. “I just got caught up in the people you showed me,” I added, noting the room as it stood now, empty of souls except for Phineas and me. Frankie hadn’t even bothered to stick around. “I had no idea the family used to be so close.” And how they could fill up a room. It didn’t feel the same in here without them. The silvery outlines of the cider mill mechanics stood still and lifeless.
Phineas cleared his throat. He looked to the place where his wife had stood serving apple pandowdy. “Most of the family has moved on, gone to the light. But I can’t seem to let this place go”—he shook his head ruefully— “not yet at least.” He smiled sadly. “We were very happy, for a very long time.”
I was glad for him and happy to have seen a glimpse of his past, despite the…complication. But I was also curious. “Why did you show me?”
He looked down to the rotting floor, then back up at me. “It’s important for you to know who we are. I know who you are, Verity Long.”
“All right,” I said, hoping he’d heard good things. I might have a shaky reputation among the living, but I’d done lots of good for the deceased in Sugarland. Still, I wasn’t sure what I could do for him. The memory he’d shown me had been a happy one, and he obviously was able to revisit it any time he liked. “The Wydells I saw tonight in this cider mill were a lot closer than the family is today.”
“We didn’t have a choice. We were so deep in debt nobody else would have us,” he joked before sobering. “It was scary at the time, but thinking back, it wasn’t so bad. The lean times made us stronger, closer. And we did end up making it. After I died, my son, Phineas Jr., kept up the traditions as best he could, but…” Phineas shrugged. “After a while, it seemed that nothing could keep the family from drifting in different directions.”
“It happens to a lot of good families,” I said, thinking about my own. My dad, who was gone. My mom, who hadn’t “had the time” to come back into town. And my sister, who was with her friends tonight, which was perfectly all right, except it would have been nice if we’d both had a family obligation instead. “I wish I could do something about it,” I said, almost to myself.
“You can,” Phineas said, surprising me. “You’re doing something about it by being here tonight, by witnessing what I have to show you. What you choose to do with the information is up to you, of course, but I believe that there’s a reason you came here tonight instead of the main house.”
“It had more to do with a bear,” I said, being honest, “not to mention this awful basket of pears.”
But Phineas wouldn’t be dissuaded. “You came to the one place where I have the strength to speak with you. That can’t be a coincidence.”
I preferred the pears and bears argument, but I wasn’t going to debate it with him. Phineas Wydell seemed like a nice man with a touch of sadness to him. If reliving his past could make him a little less lonely here, then I was glad to have taken the time.
But as Frankie would remind me if he hadn’t wandered off—I didn’t have a lot of time to dawdle tonight.
“Well, it’s been lovely visiting with you. But if you’ll excuse me,” I said, crossing over to a window, “I have a job to do in my own realm tonight.”
Phineas watched, brow furrowed. “You’re moving on,” he stated flatly. “Are you truly thinking about what I showed you?”
“I’m thinking, all right,” I said, searching the windows until I found a good, solid tree branch that had broken from one of the main trunks. It was half dried out, the bark already crumbling from it. It was also freakishly long and mostly straight—perfect for the job I had in mind.
“Family is important,” Phineas insisted.
“It is,” I agreed, hefting the branch. I’d much rather be with my family tonight instead of planning how to stretch out over a crater in the floor so I could shove a pulley aside with a stick. “How did my life get so weird?” I asked nobody in particular as I drew as close to the hole as I dared. I gripped my stick in both hands, aimed for one of the rounded wood center pieces, and, “Bam!” I said, a little too early.
Turned out I was too short to reach over the hole.
Or maybe it was my stick.
“That’s not going to work,” Phineas observed.
“Thanks for the insight,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice as I started to sweat. I’d found the longest stick I could. What now? “Is there anything you can do to help?” I asked the ghost. “I just need to get that hook and pulley away from the hole.”
The ghost frowned. “I wish, but I don’t have the strength to move heavy objects like that, at least not in the mortal plane.”
I nodded. Frankie couldn’t either.
“We used to need a special ladder to reach that pulley,” he added. “Once, my son George got a hold of it and—”
“Do you happen to have it still?” Not that I should be climbing on any centuries-old ladders. And I didn’t even know where I’d place it with the hole in the floor.
“It rotted away before the floor did,” Phineas said, deflating.
Of course it did.
Well, I still had my stick.
“Maybe I can make this work,” I said, hefting the stick again, thinking my way through the problem. So my stick was too short to
reach the pulley. That was my first choice because there was more surface area to hit, but I could still try to move the dangling hook below it. I mean, the hook was thick iron. If I got it to swing away from the hole, the pulley was bound to follow. Maybe. Right? I hadn’t quite made it past algebra to physics. “I can do this,” I said, with the confidence of one who had no other alternatives.
“Here…we…go!” I strained over the hole—arms stretching, back aching—and poked the hulking iron hook with the very tip of my stick.
It didn’t move.
Phineas eyed me skeptically. I adjusted my grip, choked up an extra inch, and tried again. This time, I reached farther, shoved harder, and hit the unyieldingly heavy chunk of iron dead-on.
It had the same effect as punching a stone wall.
“Bull’s-eye!” I said as the hook barely moved.
No problem. I’d hit it again. And again. However many hits it took. And just as I was reaching out for another good smack, I saw in horror that my single, somewhat pathetic strike had caused the hook to begin another slow spin.
“Oh, that can’t be good.” I lowered my stick. The leaden, steady rotation did nothing to move the weight off its deadly path and—“Stop, stop, stop”—the motion began to fray the rope even more.
Stars. I turned to the ghost. “We need to do something!”
“We?” he asked, eyes widening. “What can we do?”
He might look like Ellis, but he sure didn’t think like him.
“Frankie?” I implored. Wherever he’d gone, he needed to get back. Not that he could move anything, but maybe he’d have an idea. I’d just used up mine. “Frank?”
“I hate when you call me Frank.” His voice sounded from the hole.
“Be careful,” Phineas ordered, but I had already begun a quick scramble for the hole.
“What are you doing down there?” I asked the gangster, spying him in the cellar, crouching low over the sleeping hulk of a bear.