The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella]

by Marley Gibson

  GHOST HUNTRESS

  THE TIDINGS

  A CHRISTMAS NOVELLA

  BY MARLEY GIBSON

  Copyright Information

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2012 Marley Gibson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  eISBN: 978-1-937776-50-3

  Praise for the Ghost Huntress Series

  “This book has suspense, chills, and adventure—everything ghost hunting should be!”

  ~ Zak Bagans, star of Travel Channel’s Ghost Adventures

  “Every young woman needs to read this!”

  ~ Steve Gonzalves, of SyFy Channel’s Ghost Hunters and Ghost Hunters Academy

  “Real life ghost huntress, Marley Gibson, pulls no punches.”

  ~ Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson, stars of SyFy Channel’s Ghost Hunters

  “Kendall's witty narrative voice (she quotes Shakespeare and Ugly Betty with equal aplomb) drives this fast-paced, wholesome-with-an-edge tale.

  ~ Publishers Weekly Review

  “This book reads like a good episode of your favorite ghost-hunting show…. Teens who watch Ghost Whisperer or Haunting Evidence…will eat this up….”

  ~ Booklist

  “Ghost Huntress has it all - mystery, romance, ghost hunting and a quirky psychic teen named Kendall who I’d love to be friends with! ”

  ~ Simone Elkeles, New York Times bestselling author

  “Marley Gibson’s heroine, Kendall, walks into the room and the party starts. She’s your ebullient friend from high school, always ready with a joke, who can’t be kept down and won’t let you stay down, either. ”

  ~ Jenn Echols, award-winning author, MTV Books

  Also by Marley Gibson

  Books for Teens:

  Poser

  Radiate

  Ghost Huntress: The Awakening

  Ghost Huntress: The Guidance

  Ghost Huntress: The Reason

  Ghost Huntress: The Counseling

  Ghost Huntress: The Discovery

  Ghost Huntress: The Journey

  The Other Side: A Teen's Guide to Ghost Hunting and the Paranormal

  Books for Adults:

  Can't Touch This (Resisting Temptation series)

  Can't Fight This (Resisting Temptation series)

  To learn more about Marley visit her website www.MarleyGibson.com, friend her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @MarleyGibson!

  Table of Contents

  Ghost Huntress

  Copyright Information

  Praise for the Ghost Huntress Series

  Also by Marley Gibson

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Stanza 1: Kaitlin’s Apprentice

  Stanza 2: A Cheerleader’s Ghost

  Stanza 3: A Directive for the Night

  Stanza 4: The First Visiting Spirit

  Stanza 5: The Second Visiting Spirit

  Stanza 6: The Third Visiting Spirit

  Stanza 7: The Tidings

  Excerpt from Ghost Huntress: The Journey (Book 6)

  Excerpt from POSER

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Professor Deidre Knight, who tossed me the magical bean seed of an idea so that I could plant it, water it, and watch it grow into a gigantic paranormal beanstalk for readers to climb up this holiday season. Wow, there’s a sentence that includes everything but the kitchen sink! Thank you for constantly inspiring me.

  “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this.”

  ~ Ebenezer Scrooge from

  Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol

  STANZA 1: KAITLIN’S APPRENTICE

  I can’t freakin’ believe how utterly stressed out and exasperated this ridiculous joke of a Christmas season is making me. In a nod to Mr. Dickens’s time-tested opus, my holiday spirit is akin to Old Jacob Marley: dead as a doornail. And poor, misunderstood Ebenezer Scrooge was definitely on to something with his ‘tude and outlook—even back in his day—on this taxing and hectic time of year.

  Bah! Humbug!

  It’ll take all my strength and intestinal fortitude just to model through these last few days of December to get to the other side of the calendar flip.

  Nothing’s going right and everyone wants a piece of me. There aren’t enough hours in the day to get everyone else’s “to do” lists accomplished. Not that I’m a selfish cow who doesn’t understand the true meaning of the holiday, but after all I’ve been through recently, is it too much to want some quality Kendall time for just…being? The frustration rolling through my veins is enough to rattle my chains. And I’m not a Dickens ghost at all – although I’ve encountered plenty.

  I’m seriously about one inch close to the point of making a grand proclamation that Christmas is canceled.

  A long, pent-up sigh escapes me as I try to concentrate on this tarot card reading I’ve got going for Suzanne Pilfer, the nice postal clerk who’s been working extra hours sorting and stacking Priority Mail packages, just so she can have some time off to go up to Stone Mountain to enjoy a lovely roasted goose dinner with her daughter, Chandra Pilfer, and her eight year old grandson, Max. The cards don’t have anything encouraging for me to tell to Suzanne, though. Instead, my psychic headache tap dances away at my temple as visions of Suzanne’s future materialize to me. Sadly, the premonition grips at my heart like it’s juicing a fresh orange. I see little Max, wigged out over his new video games Santa brought him, but it’s not a lasting kid high. Because I also see that Max will inevitably be fighting spinal meningitis in the near future. Geez, what part of “Happy Holidays” does that fall under?

  Suzanne taps a red glittery nail on the table bringing me back into the present. “So what does that card mean, Kendall?”

  I wince inwardly, tamping down my desire to flip the table like a gansta’ and walk out, thereby erasing the message from the cards. How do I relay the news of her grandson to this sweet lady when all she really wants to know about is her own financial security, her daughter’s happiness, and if there will still be a United States space program in the future so Max can become an astronaut?

  Lying isn’t really part of the whole enlightened and awakened game when doing a reading. It doesn’t lend to your integrity as a budding psychic, one who people come to for guidance and answers. However, I can’t just, like, ruin this woman’s Christmas or her holiday or her… everything. I swallow hard at the need to spread good tidings and great joy to Ms. Pilfer.

  I move my hand to indicate the Ace of Wands lying on the velvet table cloth. “This card usually signifies a new spark of energy. A new passion.”

  Her face lights up and she sits tall. “Ooo, I like the sound of that.”

  Gulping down my own distress, I force away the image of Max crashing his bicycle into the side of his mother’s car that seems to be replaying non-stop in the DVR of my brain. I brush aside Max’s possible skull trauma that allows nasal cavity bacteria to creep in and spread the meningitis through his young body. I’m certainly no medical doctor—just a teenage psychic who picks up energies and sees visions—so who am I to rain on Suzanne’s family parade? I bli
nk hard to ponder on this card’s meaning.

  Keep it positive and light.

  “You might be out to discover some new concept or philosophy or a change in your career path. Or, it could mean a new man in your life.”

  A smile brightens her sun-wrinkled sixty year old face. “Well, my Walter has been gone for eight years.”

  I nod. “Pay attention to any surges in your personal energy. The Ace of Wands is telling you to pick up this opportunity and start walking.”

  Walking. How ironic. Sadly, Max will have difficulty with the simplest trip across a room if the meningitis visualization is true.

  “You’re so good at this, Kendall,” Ms. Pilfer tells me. “I do so enjoy your readings.”

  She opens her black leather Betsey Johnson wallet—that my intuition tells me she sniped with three minutes to go in a recent eBay auction—and passes over a twenty dollar bill. Reluctantly, I take it from her and try to offer the best smile that I can.

  “You have a h-h-happy holiday, Miss Suzanne.”

  “Same to you, dear.”

  As she heads out the door into the chilly December day, a clog of emotion lodges itself in my throat and I sense tears beginning to well up. Good thing it didn’t happen in front of a client.

  My heartbeat hammers away inside my chest and I feel the proverbial weight of the world rest on my shoulders. As much as I’m trying to work with my still-developing gift, the empathy aspect of it sometimes makes me want to crawl under the kitchen table, curl up into the fetal position, and suck my thumb.

  I blink away the nonsense swimming around in my own head. Overhead, the Muzak in the store pipes up with Burl Ives’s “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas,” and I want to hurl the pack of tarot cards at the corner speaker. Anger and defeat and sheer exhaustion roil through my body and I want to scream out at someone.

  School has been a stress-bomb with a multitude of calculus exams eating at my very brain cells, coupled with miles and miles of reading and essay assignments in AP English class. Then, I’ve been working extended hours here at Loreen’s store, Divining Women, assuaging the townsfolk of Radisson, Georgia, about their futures. Who am I to tell these people about their possible paths when my own is so bumpy and uncertain at the moment?

  My besties and fellow ghost huntresses, Celia Nichols, Taylor Tillson, Becca Asiaf, and I have been overrun with paranormal investigation requests of late, as well. You’d think every freaking ghost, spook, specter, apparition, presence, wraith, phantom, demon, whatever in Radisson and surrounding counties had nothing better to do other than annoy the crap out of their host families. After all the cases we’ve handled since the school year started, I’m about EMF’d, EVP’d, and KII’d to death. Pun intended.

  On top of everything else, Loreen and Father Mass are getting married Christmas Eve night and I’m the maid of honor. That’s wicked cool and—as the title says—a total honor. Thing is, I’ve taken the task to the extreme, trying to shoulder the burden of the event’s deadlines, seating charts, and floral arrangements for Loreen while she tends to all of her last minute items like the bad dress fitting in Buckhead, the caterer who refuses to take the walnuts out of the red velvet wedding cake, and the fact that her own father wants nothing to do with the ceremony. Most depressing of all, though, is that it finally hits me that Patrick’s blowing off being together for Christmas so he can go diving in Belize with his dad at something called The Blue Hole. After everything we’ve been through, I just wanted to be with my sweetie, and spend time making out under the mistletoe and dancing in his arms at the wedding reception.

  And don’t even get me started on the queen diva herself, my little sister, Kaitlin. Casa Moorehead has become The Kaitlin Show. She won the part of the major soloist/angel in the church pageant, beating out her best friend, Penny Carmichael. Kaitlin gets to stand high atop the living Christmas tree in a fancy, sparkly gown, and sing “O, Holy Night” during the Eucharist service. Not that I wanted the role—God knows I couldn’t hit the high C in that song—but it’s propelled our household into a frenzied high of all-Kaitlin, all-day. I feel like an unwelcomed stranger as Mom tends to my sister’s costume, planning out her hair design, and calling every living soul in Radisson on her cell to brag about Kaitlin’s starring part.

  I suppose I should be proud of my sister and all of that, but I can’t bring myself to rah-rah, thereby putting a spotlight on Kaitlin and making her the center of attention, like she so desires twenty-four/seven.

  School, Patrick’s vacay, the wedding, and Kaitlin’s drama aside… there’s the ultimate in final straw department. One of those last drops of trouble that cause the emotional liquids to spill over. The type of thing that breaks the camel’s back and depresses an already tense and terse teenager: I had longed to have some holiday bonding time with my newly-discovered grandparents, Anna and John Faulkner. They’re the parents of my deceased birth mother, Emily, and I only just found them last summer when I was in Italy. I wanted nothing more than to have them with me on Christmas morning as we all awakened to my mother’s breakfast smorgasbord of frittata, home fries, fresh baked bread, and, yes, figgy pudding. A family tradition that dates back in the Moorehead household to before I was even born.

  Of course, now, that’s all out the window because my grandparents got a “good deal” they “couldn’t pass up” and opted to take a seniors cruise throughout the Mediterranean instead of flying from Italy to the states to be with me.

  Seriously… bah freakin’ humbug!

  Why wouldn’t I want to cancel Christmas?

  I honestly just want to go to bed Christmas Eve and wake up the Monday after New Year’s, ready for whatever academic challenges the next school semester holds for me.

  Another sigh escapes from me, bouncing off the walls of Loreen’s now empty shop. Other than requests for readings and the occasional candle purchases, our foot traffic has been nil this holiday shopping season. The folks of Radisson are off in Atlanta spending their hard-earned money on trinkets and presents their relatives likely won’t appreciate. I know I don’t care what I get for Christmas this year.

  So what?

  Who cares?

  What’s the point?

  I nab my bag, turn off the heat, the lights, and the annoying Muzak, and lock up the shop. Outside, a whipping chill surrounds me with tickling fingers of annoyance. Not cold enough for a good, strong, blast of snow to blanket the city, but not warm enough that I can go without tucking my North Face jacket tightly under my chin. The bright, white, decorative lights wrapped around the street lamps spring to life and fill the Square in a holiday glow. Emerald greenery with red bows and finely crafted wreaths hang from nearly every business door, the evergreen scent wafting in the air with each gust of December wind. In the center of the Square, a full nativity scene in a small, handcrafted stable is showcased with a huge orangey spotlight on the Baby Jesus. Too bad one of the wise men has fallen over with his face in the hay, totally ruining the effect.

  The ginormous gifted tannenbaum from Radisson’s sister city, Radisson, Saskatchewan, Canada, stands tall in front of City Hall where my dad works. Oversized silver and gold ornaments sway in the night breeze. I wish it all meant something to me. I wish it had an effect on me. I wish it mattered.

  Don’t get me wrong. Typically, I adore everything December. I am, after all, a Capricorn myself, born on the twenty-second of the month. I’m eighteen now. An adult. Able to cast a vote in an election, go to war, and move out on my own. Not that I want to do the latter two. As I trudge along the sidewalk headed for home, I recollect days gone by. A different life I once led: I thrived in my former Chicago existence, frolicking in the thick, wet snow, shopping for hours up and down the Miracle Mile, and peering at the window displays on State Street with my nose pressed against the glass staring wide-eyed at the shiny, sparkling ornaments and festive decorations.

  Now look at me. I’m not the same Kendall I was then.

  I’m changed.

  Sure, I’m
older, but I’ve had a lot of shit happen. I’m the poster child for it. A new town, a new school, a psychic awakening, a near-death experience, finding out I’m adopted, boys coming in and out of my life, and now this. This squeezing, wrenching, gasping, scraping, clutching—okay, I took that from Dickens—at my heart, tugging me in directions I didn’t know I was headed in. The harshness of my recent experiences—dealing with the dead, helping them pass into the light, or facing down malevolent and belligerent spirits who mean harm to me and my friends—well, it toughens up a person. It gives you a hard edge you didn’t otherwise have before, a tight grip around your soul that sucks the meaning of everything out of the corners of your brain.

  Even though Radisson isn’t freezing, I am icy cold on the inside suddenly. Resentful and offended. Disappointed and disjointed. The idea of the familial warmth of Christmas morning does nothing to thaw the ice-age thickness of bitterness within me. Neither does the glory of a worshipful church pageant or the impending wedded bliss of my good friends.

  Fifteen minutes later, I burst through the back door of our house. My three cats, Buckley, Eleanor, and Natalie, scatter away in surprise as I barrel past their food bowls. I toss my bag and purse on the kitchen table and move to the counter to seek something warm and caffeinated.

  “Kendall? Is that you?” my mom calls out.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I grab a mug, fill it with water from the Brita, and slide it into the microwave to heat for two minutes.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” she says from the front stairwell.