by Heloise Hull
“So what happened?” I asked.
“About a decade ago, strange things transpired. Ghosts and apparitions appeared. Things went missing. Tourism dried up and people blamed malocchio curses.”
“Seriously! Like what?”
“One night, all of the island’s goats were found feet in the air, dead as a doornail. The scariest part?”
I bent closer to her shoulder to catch her words. Nonna’s voice had this forceful quality to it that compelled you to pay attention. It was probably what made her such a good film star.
“Their eyes had turned a milky purple-white.” Nonna laughed her scratchy smokers’ laugh, breaking the spell. “All nonsense. Except for the goats and stomach aches. I think it was something in the water that made everyone sick. Sewage or rot of some sort. Anyway, we Italians adore a good ghost story, true or not.”
“Me too. I actually ghost hunt as a hobby,” I said. “It must be the Italian in me!”
Nonna had that glint in her eye again. “Oh, do you, girlie? What a coincidence.”
I couldn’t deny the shivers that went up and down my arms at her words. Or how nice it felt to feel spooked. I loved it. The spine-tingling chills and the impulse to look over my shoulder always made me feel alive. Probably because I’d been living half-alive before that.
I remembered the voice in my room. Maybe it was Nonna herself, trying to scare me before she told me this story. I’d only just met her, but I wouldn’t put anything past this wily old woman.
Nonna turned a corner and putted into a town square. The village had kept its medieval city planning with all the buildings surrounding a central square with a fountain tinkling in the middle. Nonna kicked out her stand like a pro, clipped her helmet around the handlebars, and hobbled to an old stone structure with candles flickering in the window. A creaking wooden sign read, Taverna Est. 1260.
It had little round tables with two chairs set up to people watch, and dominoes and checkers on a few of them. Each table had a bottle of wine and a tea light. I rubbed my hands eagerly. Now this was what I came to Italy for. Jim might have been in bed by eight p.m. every night to watch the news, but I was going to enjoy myself.
I pointed to the wood-smoked sign. “This little island has had the same bar since the thirteenth century? Wow. And I thought you were old.”
Nonna chuckled. “They used to sell ‘We survived the Plague’ t-shirts, but they’re gathering cobwebs in the corner now. I should get you one.”
She ushered me through the thick, wooden door with iron nails the size of my eyeballs. Guess that meant no fae could enter. I loved imagining those delicious thoughts. It was so much fun to sink into a fantasy world. Nonna knocked on one of the iron nails as she entered.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Italian superstition. Instead of knocking on wood, we knock on iron. Tocca ferro.”
I followed her lead and gave a little rap with my knuckles as I passed. Inside, it was dark and smoky and louder than I expected. It appeared the whole town came here after work to have drinks and an early dinner.
As if she read my mind, Nonna said, “Everyone likes to gather for apertivo hour on Thursdays and Fridays. Lucky you, girlie. It’s Friday.”
I had completely lost track of the days, which was precisely the way I wanted it for now. Let Monday come. I’d figure out life then. For now, I was going to enjoy my Italian weekend.
Nonna went straight to a table that seemed to be reserved for her and held up two fingers. “Due limoncello per favore, Marco!”
“Sì, Signora Nonna!”
The whole taverna was alive with friendly banter. Now I understood why the island had appeared dead on my arrival. All of the life was beating in the center of the town. Candle wax and scuff marks laced the tables, while the smell of grilling lamb chops and acidic lemon scented the air. Even if it was a tourist trap with a fake date—thirteenth century, come on—it felt real.
People milled up to talk to Nonna and slyly pry. I got the feeling that while Nonna was an institution, many were a little wary of her, and they were definitely wary of me. As she held court for a few minutes, Marco bustled up with a tray of cloudy, yellow limoncello and little plates of grilled bread with something golden white smeared on them.
“Marco makes the best goat cheese butter,” Nonna said. He had to have been nearing sixty with a grizzled face and a mane of reddish-gold hair mixed with salt, but she made him blush like a sixteen-year-old.
“Grazie, Signora Nonna. I have tomatoes marinated in olive oil and herbs, too.”
I noticed there was only one person who hadn’t come up to say hello and pay their respects. A tall, hulking figure of a man, hunched over the bar. He was alone.
Nonna followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s Luca,” she said craftily. “All the women love him.”
“Easy to see why,” I said before I had time to stop myself.
Nonna gave my cheek a soft pinch. “Yes. A fine, strapping man. He came a decade ago to get over the death of his first wife. He mostly keeps to himself outside of being the town’s self-designated polizia. He sweeps in, arrests the drunks, tickets over-eager goats for tearing apart garden beds. That sort of thing. All with a frown. We all think he needs a good woman to loosen him up, but he won’t hear of it. Too honor-bound to his dead wife.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to play matchmaker?”
Nonna gave me a smile. “Humor an old woman, per favore.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but why not?” It was one weekend. If he was a total boar/bore, it’d be ciao, see you never come Monday morning. I walked up, my confidence nosediving with each step. My wing woman was a 115-year old bed and breakfast owner. Who talked to chipmunks. What was I thinking?
Up close, Luca was over six feet with dark brown hair graying at the temples. A few loose pieces dangled over his forehead. It was thick and luxurious, and for a second, I heard a loud droning in my ears as I imagined running my fingers through it—and up and down his gorgeously golden skin and around his square jaw. Hello, hunky Italian man.
It took a second to realize he’d been asking me something in rapid-fire Italian. “I’m sorry what?” I asked at his questioning face. He seemed shaken by my sudden presence.
“Ah, American.” His thick accent coated each word, while his chocolate brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “What is an American doing on Aradia?”
“Vacation,” I said innocently, attempting to ooze seduction. I couldn’t quite remember. Was it rim the top of the wine glass with a finger or a thumb or do something with the bottom? I settled for biting my lip slightly in the corner.
Luca watched me intently, as if every movement I made was something exquisite to be savored. The gaze invited me to stare back.
“So, I heard you were the town’s law enforcement. I’m Ava Falcetti,” I stuck out my hand, liking the taste of my old name on my tongue.
“Planning on committing a crime on your holiday?” he asked, amusement lilting in his voice.
“If I got to speak to you, maybe I’d consider it,” I said, cringing the whole time. Lord, I was out of practice.
“I suggest you don’t. Italian courts of law are notoriously sexist.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get an urge to kidnap a goat.”
Luca continued to stare with an expression that could have hid multitudes. Or just attitudes. I didn’t know what to make of this man. He was delicious to look at, with rippling muscles and fathomless eyes, but there was something else underneath his casual chinos and button down shirt. Something a tad dangerous. Although, I had to admit that part was the most alluring of all.
Luca set down his half-drunk beer and some Euros. “Grazie, Marco,” he said in a deep, vibrating accent that had my insides quivering. “Stay safe, Signora.” He nodded his head at me and left.
I winced. Ouch. So, Jim was right. I was over the hill. I couldn’t tell which part hurt more—the Jim being right part or
the over the hill part. But why should it matter what one man thought of me? I may not be in tip top shape, but I wasn’t completely out of it. I had my thick, long, dark hair with only a handful of grays—and my dignity. Or had I just lost that too?
Before my thoughts could spiral to the dark side, the wooden door banged open.
“Il fantasma!”
Everyone’s heads snapped up like they’d been pulled by a string. A young boy was heaving on the doorstep, his eyes dilated and his cheeks red. He pointed with a shaking arm outside, barely able to speak.
“Ghost!”
Chapter Five
Instantly, the taverna cleared of people. They all looked terrified. Those old ghost stories had clearly left an impact.
Nonna hobbled through the stampede and grabbed my elbow. “Come on, girlie. Time to go.”
“Home? I didn’t think you believed in all that nonsense.”
“Certo che no,” she admonished me with a finger wag. “Of course not. We’re going to see this ghost!”
“Oh yes, I’m the silly one,” I said, but I grabbed my purse and followed. Shoot, I wished I had my recorder and night vision goggles. Or a thermometer to measure cold spots. Anything but an iPhone camera.
“Do you think it’s there?”
“Do you?” she asked, moving fast for a centenarian.
“I hope so,” I said honestly. “What were the sightings before? Just orbs or actual apparitions?”
“Apparitions. Italy has too much history,” she complained. “If it’s not Roman, it’s Renaissance. If it’s not Renaissance, it’s Napoleonic. Lately, they say a man in a black plague masque has been hovering around, but the last sighting was a while ago. That one was a bit creepier. He never spoke. Only stared.”
We made our way to the center of the square. At first, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Just the townspeople hovering near the light, talking low. The gurgle of the fountain was the loudest thing in the square. Then a cat yowled and shot across the courtyard. A chill spun up my spine and peppered my skin despite the warm fall air.
“Feel that, girlie?” Nonna whispered.
I nodded, too terrified to speak. Something was actually here!
All at once, a burst of cold shot through the courtyard, and something materialized to my left. My breath turned to ice; I could reach out and shatter it with a finger.
By the feathered cap and tights, it was a Renaissance ghost. He circled around me, back and forth, floating a few feet above the ground. The crowd gasped, but no one took out their phones. That was weird. If I could get my muscles to move, I could capture all of this.
“Who… who are you?” I chattered.
The ghost stopped in front of me. His skinny goatee and clipped mustache jiggled as he tilted his head back and forth. Like he was considering me. I hoped it wasn’t the alcohol affecting me, giving me weird visions, since this was one of the greatest moments of my life.
“No, no, no. Mi sono infatuata di te. Sei bellissima. Dio mio, ho un debole per te!”
“Nonna,” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. “What is he saying?”
“Nothing important. He thinks he’s in love with you, he’s going weak for you, etc. Ask him again what he wants.”
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice shaking only a little.
“You speak English. That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. But what else to uncover? What are you, my delicious cannoli? I would suffer another round of the Inquisition just to see you again.” He sniffed around my hair. “And to plumb your depths.”
I shivered. “Your voice…”
“Yes, dolce pasticcino mia?”
“Were you at Villa Venus?” I dropped to a whisper. “Spying on me?”
The ghost winked. Honestly. I said that sentence. A. Ghost. Winked. At me, no less.
“Non posso vivere senza di te!” he exclaimed, bowing and kissing my hand. His incorporeal body couldn’t touch me, but we all got the gesture.
Nonna scoffed. “You’re already dead, so I think you did live without her.”
The Renaissance ghost glanced at Nonna and recoiled. His form flickered like a bad television reception, and he skyrocketed for a moment before floating back down. He let out a string of Italian sentences and curses that I had no hope of catching. Until the last word.
He lifted a bejeweled finger at Nonna and hissed, “Strega!” before vanishing in a gust of arctic air.
Chapter Six
That night, I dreamed of Italian pools of pasta and rivers of red wine. I floated in the Adriatic, letting my hair drift around me like some mermaid or nymph. The waves were soothing and the salt cleansed the wounds I’d acquired from forty years of life. The late carpooling days, the hot mess yoga hair, the attempts to be funny that fell flat at soccer practice. “How ‘bout them balls” should really be left to the professionals.
Now, I didn’t care if I made people laugh. I didn’t have to worry about being late to pick up every Axel and Rose my boys befriended. (True names. This is what happens when Guns N’ Roses fans become parents.) Before I’d left, I saw on Facebook that an old friend I’d known from elementary school was pregnant again with her second husband. At forty! I couldn’t imagine. Couldn’t fathom. No and thank you. I didn’t consider myself over the hill. I had more grays than five years ago and got a secret little pleasure every time I brushed my hair and one fell out, but I wasn’t infirm. I merely couldn’t imagine giving my body over to another tiny human again.
Jim was a jerk because he wanted out. Because he’d gotten bored, and instead of trying to fix things, he took the easy way. An affair. And that rejection would make me stronger. If only I could stop from drowning.
Water flushed over my face and filled my mouth. Soon my lungs expanded and contracted as I flailed in the sea.
“Help!” I gurgled, while a beautiful woman braided her hair on a rock. She watched curiously.
My nose went under, and I floated like a still life through the warm waters. I could feel the end coming, warm and unforgiving. Then I did a rather impressive jolt, spasmed off the bed and clunked to the floor, where I laid tangled in the sheets, my head against the wooden planks.
“Just a dream,” I told myself, but it felt so real. I coughed and sputtered. Had I been choking on my own spit?
“Here, take this.” A chipmunk handed me a glass of deep red wine. “Blessed water. It will take the edge off.”
I screamed again and hit my head against the metal bed frame.
“Shhhh. You’ll wake the rest of the dead with that screaming,” said something translucent, floating behind the chipmunk’s twitchy ears.
I screamed again. I could swear this ghost looked like…
“Nonna, is that you?”
“Yes, girlie.”
“Why are you hovering over me like—”
“Like a ghost?” she supplied.
I could feel my pulse beating through my neck, my heart rate skyrocketing into dangerous stratospheres. Twenty years of ghost hunting and the most I could claim was some odd noises and a few cold spots. Now this?
“Tiberius is my familiar,” the ghost of Nonna said, as if that explained anything. “I’m a witch. Your Renaissance romancer was right about the strega bit. That’s Italian for witch.”
I pinched my arm to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. It left an angry, red welt, and it hurt. “Is this the part where a big, hairy giant comes in and tells me ‘Yer a witch, Ava’? Are you my Hagrid?” I asked seriously.
“I don’t know who that is, but Bigfoot isn’t available. I guess I could put in a request for a troll or something.”
“Lord, no. Just… no,” I said, putting my hand to my head. Clammy, moist. I wished I was a doctor so I could diagnose myself. Nightmares, visions, scratch that—delusions—and an erratic pulse.
In the middle of my self-diagnosis, the chipmunk jumped up on my leg and began sniffing me. “Good, because I don’t think you’re a witch.”
I screamed ag
ain. “It really does talk!”
“Of course, he talks,” Nonna admonished me. “Take a drink of wine. It will help, I promise.”
I took a long swig as Tiberius continued his investigation. He crawled up to my nose, and I got my first good look at him. On the surface, he appeared to be a normal chipmunk, but his eyes looked older and wiser than any rodent’s I’d ever seen.
“What are you sensing?” Nonna prodded him.
“I’m not sure. Not a witch, but something. Surely she can’t be a MILF.” He put his paws together and rubbed them. “A mystery. I adore mysteries.”
“Yeah, I used to think I did, too,” I grumbled. “I no longer believe that.”
“Well, you don’t have a choice,” Nonna sputtered, her image flickering as bits of her ectoplasm splashed into my wine. “Something’s murdered me, and you need to figure out who!”
I tossed my wine against the plaster wall where it splattered. It hadn’t taken the edge off anyway. “Murdered?” I repeated, hoping I’d heard her wrong.
“Yes, murdered. Now, grab a weapon and go find my body.”
“Fine,” I said, grabbing the vase of flowers and dumping the water and petunias on the ground. “But I really hope this is some kind of sick joke.”
With a cautious look around the corner of my door, I inched along the wall, feeling my way to Nonna’s room. She floated behind me, giving me orders like a war general. All in all, she seemed to be in her element. “You’ll need to avenge me, girlie. Get a stake and some Holy Water from the basilica. Garlic doesn’t work, but this has to be Aurick’s doing.”
“Will you be quiet?” I hissed back. “I’m trying to find your body.
“It’s there alright, girlie. Blood splatters and everything. Prepare yourself. It’s gruesome.”
“Why do you look so happy about that?”
As we passed the kitchen, I grabbed a butcher’s knife, just in case. What the hell I would do with a butcher’s knife was another question.
With the tip of my blade, I nudged the door. It swung open with a loud creak, and I managed to only pee myself a little. Damn bladder control. Why couldn’t I have gone to the bathroom first? Oh right, killer on the loose.