Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River

by Fiction River

  “Even though he has only aged a number of months, he’s lived hundreds of years in the past,” Duster had told her. “That’s the man you fell for, not some college kid.”

  So she had agreed to stay away from him. Instead she focused all her attention on the mansion remodel.

  And now, it was done. And she had decorated in wonderful Christmas decorations and put a big tree in the main entry and another in the television and family room.

  And Carson had returned to this time as the person she had met.

  For the first time, they were together in a dual time, in both their real times.

  She was so nervous, she felt almost sick. Like prom night or something.

  Somehow, she managed to stumble through the next number of hours, knowing it was going to take Carson some time to get off the mountain and then drive to Boise. He might stop and change at his apartment on the way here. Finally, she decided that she needed to make a salad and cook herself a light dinner, then make some cookies.

  She loved working around the mansion in the modern kitchen. And even though the day outside was a cold December day, the house remained warm and inviting. Even more so with the wonderful Christmas decorations.

  She understood why Carson had built this wonderful place way back in time. It was a joy to live in and it seemed to make her feel at home, like she had always lived here.

  Then, as she focused on the second batch of cookies, there was a knock at the door.

  She glanced at her watch. Six hours and ten minutes from the time he arrived back in this time in the cave. It might be him. It might not be.

  She took a deep breath, wiped off her hands, took the cookies out of the oven, and made herself walk calmly to the door. Part of her had thought that meeting Carson was all a dream. Part of her knew that for her it had been months, but for him only a matter of hours since they kissed.

  But even more importantly, a large part of her didn’t really believe she could have someone special in her life, have a relationship like Bonnie and Duster’s.

  She made herself take a deep breath before pulling open the door.

  There stood Carson, about her age in his early twenties. His chiseled face just as handsome as ever and those wonderful, dark-brown eyes of his showing pure joy and laughter.

  He still had on the same clothes he had changed into in the mine under an open ski parka.

  He bowed slightly and if he had had a hat he would have tipped it. “Miss Sherri, I got here as fast as I could.”

  She couldn’t control herself any more. She flat jumped at him, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him harder than she had ever kissed anyone before, doing exactly what she had wanted to do the moment he answered the door for her in 1898.

  He held her without strain, kissing her even harder.

  Finally, they came up for air and he lowered her gently to the front porch.

  She looked up into his beautiful eyes. She could lose herself in those eyes every day.

  “You want to see what I’ve done to your home?” she asked, smiling at him. She really, really hoped he liked it.

  “Our home,” he said, smiling at her. “Our home.”

  With that she kissed him again on the porch, her heart soaring higher than she could have ever thought possible.

  And then she kissed him again in every room of their home and under every piece of mistletoe she had hung in every doorway, as she gave him a tour of the house they had both built.

  Introduction to “Christmas, Interrupted”

  The marvelous short story writer, Lisa Silverthorne, can write in any genre she puts her mind to. She has published more than fifty short stories, many of them extremely romantic. Like me, she combines a love of fantasy with a love of romance. Her story, “When The Sea Gives Up Her Dead,” which you can find in her collection, Shipwrecks in Sea Minor, is one of my favorite romantic ghost stories.

  About this story, she writes, “Some of my best and worst moments have been spent on San Juan Island [in Washington State]. Enduring my first Christmas without my grandmother and breaking up with my boyfriend. Taking my first ferry ride, discovering sea glass in hidden coves, and singing to a super-pod of orcas with friends and locals at the lighthouse. Rowan and Mallory came from a difficult Christmas I spent on the island. A time where love had tempered loss, and grief was softened by the island’s magic and spirit.”

  She captures the romance, magic, and spirit in “Christmas, Interrupted.”

  Christmas, Interrupted

  Lisa Silverthorne

  Something didn’t feel right about the new apartment. From the first day Mallory Winter moved into the hundred-year-old house, she felt uncomfortable and anxious, like something was pushing her or she was late for something. It was only her second week back home on San Juan Island, but she still felt uneasy. And at times, like an intruder.

  The white gingerbread house looked like a fairytale with its white picket fence, stepping stones, and English roses. After three years living on the mainland, she was glad to come home to San Juan Island. The furnished, upstairs apartment seemed perfect with its full kitchen, two bedrooms, and big bathroom. At first.

  It had been a rough year. First, the breakup with Ben and then months of friends trying to fix her up. Blind dates, friend of a friend, her best friend’s cousin’s best friend— she’d lost count of all the failed dates. She tried, she really did, but none of them clicked. One didn’t even show up. And none had the spark she craved.

  Then her sisters moved away to find jobs—Portland, Seattle, and Spokane, leaving her alone in the area (both parents were gone now). Even she’d moved to the mainland for a job. And got laid off. Right now, she felt a little lost and a lot lonely. December was officially the worst month ever.

  Mallory sank back on the brown leather couch, her mind racing. She needed to find a new job. She glanced around the still unfamiliar apartment, wondering if the previous tenant had lost their job, too. It looked like someone had just walked out and left their life behind.

  Dust outlined empty spots on the walls where pictures had hung. Rings imprinted the beige area rug where furniture had been. Pens and papers were scattered across the Moroccan-style desk along with a year-old grocery flyer and a DVD of It’s a Wonderful Life (one of her favorite movies). A six-pack of Pyramid ale and two Coke cans had been left in the refrigerator and a can of shaving gel, a bottle of aftershave, and a disposable razor were left in the medicine cabinet. A grey flannel shirt had been left hanging behind the bathroom door.

  Apparently, no one cleaned up after the last tenant. The apartment had a quirky, old beach cottage feel to it with its antique chairs and hand-painted tables in cool blues and pale greens. The art deco lamps of nymph-like women holding frosted globes of light were charming against the clusters of glass floats and lanterns strung across the soft blue walls. She hadn’t expected glow-in-the dark paint on the ceilings that splashed stars and galaxies across the darkness.

  The space almost felt magical except ... sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. A shadow. A shimmer. A brush of cold air. Like someone had just walked past. Several times, she’d smelled the faint scents of cedar and sandalwood, like someone had just slapped on the aftershave in the bathroom.

  Something rustled behind her. She turned.

  Two newspapers lay on the desk, pages fluttering as a burst of cold air ached through the room. The chill hurt, turning her arms to gooseflesh as she stared at the newspaper. She’d bought one this morning, but it was still in her backpack.

  Shivering, Mallory approached the billowing blue curtains. The window was open.

  Her UGGs squeaked across the honey-colored hardwood as she closed the window. She hurried past the leather sofa and hand-painted coffee table to the desk, fingertips like ice, and picked up the newspaper. The Seattle Times.

  The headline read, San Juan Island Man Fatally Shot. The San Juan Islander lay beneath it, front page headline glaring back at her, Local Wom
an Arrested in Christmas Day Slaying. The photo of a gorgeous young man stared back at her.

  Her heart dropped—Rowan Brophy.

  The caption read, Twenty-seven year old local, Rowan Brophy, was shot to death on Second Street around 6:30 P.M. on December 25, 2012.

  Her eyes welled with tears. No wonder he hadn’t shown up for coffee last December.

  She had such a crush on him in high school. Last year, a friend reconnected them. They’d exchanged texts, agreeing to meet. She just thought he stood her up. She had no idea he’d been murdered.

  Her stomach twisted into a knot, hands shaking as she read the details. She couldn’t stop staring at Rowan’s photo. Large, wide-set blue eyes that looked into her soul. Sandy blond hair and sweet smile that went right through her. He’d always been so funny and so kind in school, quick to help anyone with anything—homework, moving, a ride home after too much beer. It was so unfair.

  She read both articles, sickened when she saw classmate Lindsey Tull’s mug shot. The woman stalked him for nearly a year, leaving dozens of messages every day on his phone, showing up at his shop, at his house, and outside his store. The restraining order had only kept her at a distance.

  Two gunshots thundered through the apartment. All the lights flashed.

  Mallory screamed, dropping to the floor.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and someone knocked on the door.

  Heart racing, Mallory got to her feet. She straightened her lavender sweater and opened the door.

  Her landlord, Strother Kittering, stood in the doorway, brow furrowed, thin white hair disheveled. He was tall and stocky with wide-set, clear blue eyes. He and his wife Stella lived below.

  “Mallory?” he asked, glancing past her into the apartment. “Are you all right? I heard you scream.”

  She nodded, still out of breath. “Didn’t you hear those loud bangs?” she asked.

  He shook his head, frowning at her.

  “Must have been a car backfiring or something.” Had she somehow imagined it? This apartment was starting to unnerve her.

  One of the newspapers tumbled across the hardwood, wrapping around Strother’s leg. He picked it up, his face turning white.

  “Where’d you get this?” he demanded.

  Mallory pointed behind her. “It was on the desk. The previous tenant must have left it.”

  He shook his head, his lips turning pale. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mallory asked.

  His eyes turned watery. “My grandson was the last tenant. He was murdered in front of his shop last Christmas.”

  Mallory gasped and took the paper out of Strother’s hand.

  “You’re Rowan’s grandfather?”

  Strother nodded.

  Rowan was gone and here she was living in the place he called home. Sitting on the sofa he probably made plans on, dreamed of things on, lived his life. So many remnants of unfinished things he’d left behind and couldn’t finish. She felt sick.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please, come in.”

  Strother stepped inside and walked through the apartment. He seemed lost in thought as he touched some of the furniture.

  “Going through his things was hard. We weren’t very thorough in clearing everything out I’m afraid. Probably left behind some important things. Stella still can’t come up here.”

  “We went to high school together. We were supposed to meet for coffee last year after Christmas. I didn’t know until now that he’d been murdered. I’m so sorry.”

  Strother smiled, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Everybody loved Rowan. He was the kindest, sweetest guy. He did everything around this place for Stella and me. Helped people all over the island. There were over a thousand people at his funeral last year.” He pointed at the hand-painted chest with beach scenes. “Rowan painted that. He was quite an artist.”

  It was Mallory’s favorite piece in the apartment. “I loved walking past his shop. His displays always brightened my day.”

  “That shop was his pride and joy,” Strother said with a nod. “It was his way of bringing a little more magic to the island. He was always filling the shop’s windows with little treasures. Rowan was such a light in this town. Killing him was like shooting down the sun.”

  Mallory felt a breeze brush across her face, like fingers against her cheek, a hint of sandalwood warming the room.

  There’s still time, a voice whispered in her ear.

  She glanced at Mr. Kittering, but he didn’t react.

  “We haven’t got much to remember him by. Not even that cat.”

  “Cat?”

  Strother bowed his head. “Rowan and that cat of his were inseparable. Found the four-week old kitten in the middle of a rainstorm and bottle-fed it until it could eat solid food. Vet said it was a purebred Maine Coon. Marshall ran off the night Rowan was shot. Stella and I searched for months, but finally gave up.”

  “Too bad no one ever found him.”

  The old man wiped away tears. “God, I miss that boy. He was like a son to me and Stella. She cries every day. Rowan never hurt a soul and he had his whole life ahead of him.”

  Mallory put her arm around Strother and hugged him. “I’m honored you’d let me live here.”

  He kissed Mallory on top of the head. “Rowan always said you were something special, Mallory. I see that now. Wish you’d been with him instead of that crazy woman. Why’d she have to kill him?”

  Mallory winced. Crazy had no rules and it only heard its own voice. “I’d give anything to go back and change it,” she said.

  She’d been crushing on Rowan for so long. She couldn’t believe it when he’d texted her about meeting for coffee. Now, he was gone.

  “Didn’t mean to go on so long,” said Strother. He moved back to the door and Mallory followed. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right. If you need anything, just call.”

  “I will, Mr. Kittering. Thank you.”

  Strother started out the door, but paused a moment then turned around.

  “Mallory, have you come across a small crystal clock? Shaped like a snowflake? It’s a family heirloom. I looked all over, but couldn’t find it. It’s been in the family for generations. Stella gave it to Rowan a week before he died. To help him find his true love.”

  “What?” Mallory asked. A magic snowflake clock? She didn’t believe in magic.

  Strother shrugged. “Stella says it has a strange power to it. It draws true love to the owner. We met because of that clock. Stella says relationships are like snowflakes. No two loves are alike. When two matching hearts find each other, they can start an avalanche. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Just takes a turn of those clock hands during Christmas and the snowflake will glow in the presence of true love.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Rowan never got the chance to find his.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  “Thank you, it might bring Stella some comfort,” said Strother, closing the door.

  Mallory headed to the bathroom, taking a quick shower and drying her hair. She ate some leftover chicken fried rice and streamed Modern Family on her laptop until her eyes were closing. She slipped on a yellow nightshirt and turned out the lights, the shimmering stars and galaxies on the ceiling lulling her into a restless sleep.

  Around two A.M., she awoke to the sound of clicking against the hardwood. Somewhere nearby, a bell tinkled.

  She sat up, glancing around the room. Clock on the nightstand burned red numbers into the darkness, everything so deathly still.

  Click, click, click. Jingle.

  Her breath quickened, the sound closer.

  Click, click. Jingle, jingle. Thump!

  Mallory froze, her heart pounding as a dark shape appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  Two glowing orbs stared back at her. She couldn’t move, her breath ragged and aching through her chest as her heart slammed against her rib cage.

  Whump! Jingle.

  Something hit the bed and Mal
lory screamed, fumbling for a light.

  A large, cat-shaped object sat on the bed, staring at her with green eyes the size of nickels. It had huge pointed ears, tufts of cream-colored fur streaming out like a lynx. It had long white whiskers, a pink nose, and black stripes against a thick grey coat. A worn green collar was fastened around its neck, a tiny bell and something bright hanging from it. It was small and gleamed with a strange light. The snowflake clock!

  The cat looked thin. Its long, shaggy coat was cold and wet. It poked her with a big paw then rubbed against her shoulder.

  “I hope you’re not planning to eat me,” she said, the fear dissipating.

  She let out a sharp breath and cupped the silver tag that hung beneath the snowflake clock. The cat meowed, poking her again. Mallory turned the tag toward the light. Marshall. Beneath it was a phone number.

  “Rowan’s cat!” she cried.

  She hugged the huge cat and he rubbed his face against her cheek, purring like a buzz saw. He was beautiful. And the biggest cat she’d ever seen!

  He tapped her with his paw.

  “You must be hungry, huh?”

  He head-butted her, lifting his chin and she stared at the snowflake clock again. She tried to unwind it from a tangle of string, but finally used some nail clippers to free it.

  The faceted snowflake clock was small, only about three inches across. It gleamed with a strange, inner blue light, looking like a fallen star that had frozen solid. The clock hands were loose.

  Save me, a voice whispered in her ear.

  Near the window, the air shimmered, a wispy coil of white smoke floating through the room.

  She froze when it took on a ghostly human shape, like a man.

  There’s still time, Mallory.

  A hand stroked her hair, fingers brushing her cheek. Then the apparition disappeared into the closet.

  Mallory couldn’t move. Was that Rowan’s ghost? Or maybe she just needed to lay off the caffeine?

  The cat meowed again, the bell on its collar jingling.

  “Let’s get you some food,” she said and bolted out of the bedroom, turning on every light in the apartment.