Sneak Peek!
Ghosts, Ghouls, & Growls
Book Description:
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
The September sunset melts like an orange popsicle over the Atlantic, painting the sky in stripes of cotton candy pink and lavender as Emmie, Leo, Jasper and I take it all in—or at least they take it in while I try to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve my unborn child using my internal organs as percussion instruments.
The bonfire crackles and pops, sending embers dancing upward like fireflies making one last desperate play before the new season crashes the party with all the subtlety of an uninvited relative. The salt-kissed breeze mingles with the woodsmoke and the sweet vanilla scent of the snickerdoodles that my bestie Emmie baked this morning, creating a perfect olfactory symphony that screams fall is here and it’s brought carbohydrates.
I inhale deeply, savoring the moment—or I would, if not for the tiny kickboxer using my ribs as a speed bag.
“Oof,” I grunt, shifting my very pregnant self on the driftwood log that’s serving as tonight’s seating arrangement because apparently when you’re nine months pregnant, regular chairs become as foreign a concept as comfortable shoes. “I swear this baby is auditioning for Cirque du Soleil—the internal organ contortion division.”
“Don’t worry, Bizzy. That baby will be here any day now,” Jasper says, tightening his arms around my shoulders as the breeze picks up. My handsome husband’s dimples flash as he smiles, making my heart do that flippy thing it’s been doing since the day we met. Even after marriage and impending parenthood, those dimples are still lethal weapons that should probably be registered with the local authorities.
“That’s what you said three weeks ago,” I mutter, watching as our sweet pets run across the sand and all up and down the cove just outside the Country Cottage Inn, our inn.
Fish, our long-haired black and white tabby, dances just out of reach of Sherlock Bones, our red freckled mutt, while Gatsby and Cinnamon—Emmie and Leo’s golden retriever and labradoodle—race in wild circles around them like they’re performing some kind of elaborate canine ballet.
Fish runs this way and I hold my tummy tighter as if it might accidentally fly away—and seeing that I’m nine months pregnant and counting that may not be a bad thing at this point.
You look like you swallowed a beach ball, Fish meows as she darts past my feet. Is that baby EVER coming out?
“Love the support,” I call out after her, earning an eye-roll from my cute but sassy feline companion.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder and I can read minds. Not all minds, not all the time, but most of the time—and animals are counted in that number too. And as you might have guessed, the furry among us usually have far better things to say than the human population, who mostly think about grocery lists and whether they remembered to turn off the stove.
Speaking of Emmie, my best friend since forever sits cross-legged on a beach blanket beside me, gently rocking her precious five-month-old boy, Elliot, in her arms with the kind of maternal grace that makes me wonder if I’ll ever figure out how to hold a baby without looking like I’m defusing a bomb. Her dark brown hair catches the firelight, and for a second she looks like she’s wearing a crown of flames, which is either magical or a serious fire hazard.
“Poor Bizzy,” Emmie teases with a laugh that suggests she’s enjoying my discomfort just a little too much. “I was pregnant for approximately eleven centuries with this little guy.” She drops a kiss on Elliot’s head. “And he was worth every stretch mark and hour of sleep I’ll never get back.” Okay so I’m not completely sold on the lack of sleep part but I’ll never say that out loud.
Both Leo and I laugh at that one. As it turns out, Leo can read minds too. It’s sort of an oddball quirk that we happen to share. And speaking of sharing, only a handful of people know about our little mind-reading secret.
Of course, Emmie knows, she’s my bestie. Emmie and I have been attached at the hip since birth. We not only look enough alike to pass for sisters with the same long dark hair, and same denim blue eyes, but we actually share the same first name—Elizabeth. And to avoid a lifetime of confusion, we’ve gone by the nicknames our families tagged us with since we were toddling around in matching overalls that our mothers thought were the height of baby fashion.
Leo chuckles my way. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the first woman in medical history to be perpetually pregnant,” he quips, poking at the fire with a stick. Much like Jasper, Leo works at the Seaview Sheriff’s Department, but while my husband deals with homicide cases, Leo handles the slightly less macabre duties of a deputy.
“Not funny,” I groan, but can’t help smiling. “I swear this baby has built a three-bedroom condo in there with a hot tub and home theater system. They’re probably never coming out—and why would they when the rent is free and room service is available 24/7?”
“You’re just afraid they’re going to mess up the inn’s squeaky-clean record once they arrive,” Jasper teases, his gray eyes smiling all on their own as he teases me mercilessly. “No bodies discovered, no mysteries solved for, what, a whole month now?”
I elbow him gently because he’s not wrong, but he doesn’t have to be so smug about it. “Don’t you dare jinx it. The Country Cottage Inn is officially a murder-free zone until further notice, and I’d like to keep it that way at least until this baby learns to sleep through the night.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Leo raises his mug full of hot apple cider with the enthusiasm of someone toasting world peace. “To Bizzy’s murder-free maternity leave!”
We all lift our drinks in a toast just as a familiar voice cuts through the momentary tranquility like a foghorn announcing the arrival of chaos.
“There you are! I’ve been looking absolutely everywhere! Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a beach party? Georgie made hand-knitted booties with anti-evil eye protection charms!”
I turn—slowly, because turning any other way requires specialized equipment at this point—and sure enough I see my mother bustling toward us across the sand. Her red hair is lifting in the wind in one piece—a testament to her love of hairspray, complemented by a teal windbreaker with shoulder pads big enough to land a small aircraft. She’s paid homage to her favorite era, the eighties, with her fashion choices for as long as I can remember.
And following close behind, waddling with surprising speed considering her age and footwear choices, is Georgie Conner in a kaleidoscopic kaftan that makes her look like a walking, talking acid trip—which would be an homage to her favorite era, the sixties when apparently fashion rules were more like gentle suggestions.
I wave them both over. “Come join us, ladies. Although it’s less of a party and more of a sunset shindig where we lament the joys of my eternal pregnancy.”
“A gathering of more than two people is a party in my book.” Mom laughs as they finally reach us. She’s carrying a wicker basket that undoubtedly contains something crocheted, knitted, or bedazzled—possibly all three.
Georgie, not to be outdone, is lugging what looks like an entire craft store’s inventory in a tote bag with the words GRANDMA SQUAD emblazoned across the front in rhinestones that could probably be seen from the moon.
“We brought supplies and emergency baby hats,” Georgie announces, already pulling out knitting needles that look sharp enough to qualify as weapons in at least twelve states. “I had a vision that the womb-dweller is making their grand entrance tonight.”
“I wish.” I blow out a sigh. “Apparently, first babies are notoriously fashionably late.”
“Not this one,” Georgie says with a certainty I wish I could rely on as she plops down beside my mother. “Mercury is in retroshade.”
“Retrograde,” Mom corrects.
“That too.” Georgie nods sagely before opening a basket and pulling out what I can only describe as a baby bonnet designed by someone having one serious LSD flashback. Think lots of color, lots of charms, and yet not enough charm to suffice. “I made this special for the kiddo. The protection charms are knitted right into the pattern.”
Jasper coughs to cover a laugh or perhaps it was horror. My husband, the tough-as-nails homicide detective, has learned to take my mother and her best friend’s eccentricities in stride, which is one of the many reasons I love him.
“It’s… colorful,” I manage as I wince at the thing.
“It’s hideous,” Emmie whispers, low enough that only I can hear, or so she thinks.
“I heard that,” Georgie says, despite it being physically impossible for her to have done so. I’m guessing she was expecting it on some level. She lifts a finger. “Just wait until your baby catches a cold because her head wasn’t properly protected from evil spirits.”
I exchange a look with Emmie, who smothers a giggle behind her hand as if we’re teenagers trying not to laugh during a serious lecture.
“How is the passion potion business going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Mom and Georgie’s latest entrepreneurial venture involves selling what they insist on calling gun oil or love potion but is actually just scented massage oil that they peddle to unsuspecting tourists.
Mom and Georgie own a shop down on Main Street called Two Old Broads where they sell mostly wonky quilts—quilts with all sorts of crazy shapes and colors that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a traditional quilt pattern and decided to wing it. And they not only sell those as traditional quilts but as quilted jackets, pet beds, pet clothes, and just about anything else you can turn a quilt into because apparently there’s no limit to what can be improved with the addition of random fabric scraps. Everything in their shop is adorable and I’m on a mission to one day own it all. I’m doing pretty good at the effort too, thus the storage unit I’m looking to rent.
“Business is booming, kid.” Georgie’s eyes light up as if Christmas came early at the mention of one of her zaniest ventures. “We’ve got a new flavor—cinnamon apple spice. Very seasonal.”
“Seasonal massage oil. How festive,” Jasper says with a wink. I’m not opposed to trying it out, you know. He shoots the thought my way with a waggle of his brows.
I waggle my brows right back because let’s face it, every last part of me could use a massage.
“I’m just glad they’re not calling it flash o’ fun anymore,” Leo adds under his breath, probably remembering the unfortunate marketing campaign that shall not be spoken of again.
The truth of the matter is those potions of theirs were made for closed door activities that involve delicate parts. And well, there might be a lawsuit or two pending for minor burns and some light blistering.
Mom ignores them both. “We’re thinking of branching out into scented candles—as in making our own. Macy’s not the only one who can sell things that smell good, you know. I’m making up a batch now that smells just as heavenly as chocolate chip cookies.”
“Speaking of cookies,” I say, struggling to stand up, “I should refresh the snickerdoodle platter. I’ve basically been fueled by Emmie’s cookies these last few weeks. Oh, who are we kidding? I’ve been fueled by those cookies these entire last nine months.” And probably as far back as preschool but no need to demonize a lifetime of sugar-laden carbohydrates now, or further highlight the fact my caloric intake has been on one serious uptick for almost a solid year now.
Jasper starts to rise. “Bizzy, let me get them.”
“No, no,” I wave him off. “If I don’t move every ten minutes, I’ll fossilize on this log. Archaeologists will find me in a thousand years and put me on display and call me—Pregnant Woman on Driftwood, circa the cruel maternity fashion era.”
I waddle over to the picnic table where we’ve set up our modest feast, feeling like a penguin with some serious bladder and balance issues. I no sooner reach for the plate of snickerdoodles than a warm sensation rushes down my legs.
For one mortifying second, I think I’ve finally done it. I’ve lost all bladder control—and who could blame me? I’ve been trotting to the restroom every ten minutes on a loop since the minute that stick revealed two lines. Then reality hits me like a ton of chocolate bricks. And boy, does chocolate sound good right about now. Have I mentioned my newfound addiction to all things created with cocoa butter? But I digress.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I mutter like some kind of panicked mantra. “Either I just peed myself in a truly spectacular fashion, or my water just broke.”
Five heads whip around to stare at me. Then chaos erupts faster than Georgie can utter the word retroshade again.
Jasper leaps up so fast he nearly falls face-first into the fire. “What? Now? HERE?”
Emmie thrusts baby Elliot at Leo and rushes to my side. “Are you sure?”
“Either that or I just accidentally piddled enough to fill a kiddie pool,” I say rather calmly even though my heart is suddenly doing the cha-cha-cha against my ribs.
Mom and Georgie start gathering belongings all while moving with the precision of a SWAT team.
“I TOLD you Mercury was in retroshade!” Georgie shouts to the sky as if the planetary alignment was personally responsible for my water breaking.
And honestly? Stranger things have happened.
Fish twitches an ear as she speeds my way. Bizzy, is it true?
“I think so,” I call out, and in less than three seconds flat Fish, Sherlock, Gatsby, and Cinnamon begin racing in circles and barking in a panic all their own. And all four of them ring out in a choir of It’s time! It’s time! Tiny hooman alert on the horizon!
“Tiny human alert is right,” I say twice as panicked. “Now if only I can figure out which direction to move in next without falling over or giving birth on a beach.”
Mom spins my way with a crazed look in her eyes. “Bizzy Baker Wilder you are not allowed to give birth on this beach, young lady.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I call out while giving her a mock salute.
Honestly, though if anything can keep me from doing so it’s a reprimand from my mother. I can’t help it. It’s ingrained in me to be a good girl, and not a contraction on earth is going to change that. I hope.
“Car keys!” Jasper pats his pockets frantically like a man searching for his last brain cell. “Where are—”
“In your hand,” I point out because apparently impending fatherhood has temporarily short-circuited his observation skills.
He looks down at his clenched fist. “Right. Hospital. We need to go to the hospital.”
“That’s generally where babies are born in this century, yes,” I agree, surprisingly calm once again despite the fact that I’m about to push an entire human being out of my body. “Unless you’d prefer I defy my mother and deliver right here on the beach with snickerdoodles as our only medical supplies and seagulls as witnesses.”
That gets him moving with the speed of someone who’s just remembered that beaches are not optimal birthing locations. Before I know it, I’m escorted—half carried, really—to our newly purchased minivan that we bought specifically for this moment, while Emmie promises to take the pets to her place and meet us at the hospital.
Mom and Georgie insist on following us, already arguing about who can drive there the fastest, which is terrifying for multiple reasons.
And just like that the contractions start coming in fast and hot—and have I mentioned with a lot of PAIN that no one adequately prepared me for despite nine months of nonexistent warnings?
The sunset blurs past the minivan window as Jasper drives like we’re in a high-speed chase, muttering under his breath about speed limits and hospital routes.
“Breathe, Bizzy,” he reminds me, reaching over to squeeze my hand at a red light.
“I am breathing,” I assure him through gritted teeth. “It’s kind of a non-negotiable activity.” Or at least I pray it is.
“Right. Right.” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Are you in pain? How far apart are the contractions? Should I call ahead for reservations? Is there something else I should be doing? Should I order a pizza?”
I laugh despite the fact my stomach is contracting at Mach five. “Jasper Wilder, homicide detective extraordinaire, undone by a baby. Who would’ve thought?”
On second thought, I’m feeling rather undone right about now too.
A pizza does sound nice.
Heaven help—we’re about to have the baby!
The next few hours blur together like a bad dream involving fluorescent lights, beeping machines, and medical professionals who keep telling me to just breathe while I’m pretty sure a tiny human is trying to karate chop their way out of my body. And how I wish it would already.
Cider Cove General’s maternity ward transforms into controlled chaos that would make a Black Friday sale look organized. Nurses appear and disappear like they’re playing some sort of medical hide-and-seek, doctors pop in to check my progress with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting a broken appliance—that they didn’t break but they have to fix anyway—and I’m pretty sure more people have seen my lady parts today than in the entire rest of my life combined. At this point, I should probably start charging admission.
But then, after what feels like approximately seventeen hours of pushing and wondering if I’m actually going to survive this experience, the doctor announces those magic words—
“It’s a girl!”
A tiny, indignant cry fills the room, and suddenly there’s a squirming, red-faced little person placed on my chest. She’s warm and perfect and absolutely furious about her eviction from her cozy womb apartment.
“Hello there, beautiful,” I whisper, and just like that, I’m completely smitten. Head over heels in love with this angry little peanut who’s currently expressing her displeasure with the outside world in the most adorable way possible.
My sweet babe is finally here.
She has a shock of dark hair that sticks up in every direction as if she’s been electrocuted by cuteness, and when she opens her eyes between protests, I catch a glimpse of light gray—just like her daddy’s. The combination is devastating in the very best way.
“She’s perfect,” Jasper breathes, leaning over us with an expression I’ve never seen before. My tough-guy homicide detective husband—the man who can stare down hardened criminals without blinking—looks as if he’s been sucker-punched by love and is enjoying every second of it. I know I am.
The baby gives another indignant wail as if to say, Perfect? I’ll show you perfect when I figure out how to use my lungs properly with some serious vocal gymnastics.
Soon enough, our little hospital room turns into Grand Central Station during rush hour, if Grand Central Station specialized in baby worship and had a gift shop that exclusively sold pink balloons.
Emmie and Leo arrive first, with baby Elliot snoozing peacefully in his carrier—the picture of angelic behavior that I can only hope our daughter will eventually embrace, preferably before she turns eighteen.
Mom and Georgie burst through the door with enough balloons to achieve lift-off, followed by my sister Macy, who already has her phone out and is clearly planning to document every second for her social media empire, because apparently nothing says family bonding like optimizing content for maximum likes. Not that I mind. My precious peanut is so preciously perfect, I think the entire world should be apprised of her beauty.
“So,” Emmie says, settling on the edge of my bed while gazing at our freshly minted daughter, who’s now been cleaned up and swaddled tighter than a yummy burrito. “What are we calling this little angel?”
I look down at my sweet girl, who’s finally decided that maybe the outside world isn’t so terrible after all. “Well, we were toying with naming her Elizabeth if we had a girl. It seems fitting all things considered.”
“Hello, Elizabeth.” Jasper smiles down at her with tears in his eyes.
“Elizabeth,” Mom repeats, and something flickers across her face—an expression I can’t quite read. It’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it, like a cloud passing over the sun. “It’s always been my favorite name.” She glances at Macy, who’s busy finding the perfect selfie angle. “Although I have to admit, your sister looked like a Macy from the moment she arrived.”
“Lucky me, getting the hand-me-down name,” I tease, but Mom’s expression suddenly grows serious. She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, they’re glassy with tears.
The room goes quiet. Even Macy pauses her photo session.
“Mom?” I prompt. “Are you okay?”
She nods, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s just that—my baby had a baby. It’s a lot.”
I’m not sure why but it feels as if there’s something else, something she’s not saying, but I’m too exhausted and too blissed out to dig deeper right now.
“She’ll need a nickname.” I grin up at Jasper. “Any thoughts?”
“How about Ella?” Leo suggests, gently bouncing his sweet son. “Goes well with Elliot. They could be a matching set.”
I glance at Jasper. “But that’s your sister’s name. Would that be weird?”
“Eleanor is her formal name,” he says as his finger traces our daughter’s tiny cheek. “I think she’d be honored. And I love it.”
“Then it’s settled.” I feel tears prick my eyes again—apparently, childbirth turns you into an emotional faucet that someone forgot to turn off. “Welcome to the world, Elizabeth Georgie Ree Wilder.”
The room erupts in cheers. Mom and Georgie immediately start sobbing as if someone just told them they’d won the lottery, which I suppose, in a way, they have.
“You named her after us?” Georgie manages between sniffles as her kaftan sleeves become impromptu tissues.
“The middle names were already picked out,” I tell them. “I’m just glad I got to use these particular ones.”
What follows is a beautiful chaos of cooing, crying, and enough photo-taking to fill several albums—or create a documentary series about the first hour of Ella’s life outside the womb. Eventually, a nurse takes pity on me and kicks everyone out with the authority of someone who’s dealt with overly enthusiastic families before, explaining that new mothers need rest—a concept that sounds absolutely divine right about now and probably mythical in practice.
Jasper settles into the torture device masquerading as a recliner beside my bed. “Can you believe we made her?” he whispers, staring at our sleeping daughter like she might disappear if he blinks.
“Well, I did most of the heavy lifting,” I point out, but I’m smiling too hard for it to sound like a real complaint.
“You were incredible.” He leans over to kiss my forehead. “I can’t wait to bring you both home.”
I close my eyes, picturing little Ella meeting Fish and Sherlock, then imagine her taking her first steps across the polished floors of the Country Cottage Inn. “She’s going to love it there.”
“I’m going to make sure nothing dangerous ever happens at the inn again,” Jasper says as his voice takes on that protective tone I know so well.
I want to agree with him, I really do. But as I drift toward sleep, that familiar chill creeps up my spine—the one that’s become my personal early warning system over the years. A harbinger of things to come. Very very bad things.
The Country Cottage Inn has been a magnet for murder since the day I took over, attracting homicides like a beacon for the criminally inclined. Between my mind-reading abilities and our property’s apparent open invitation to killers, I’ve solved more homicides than some detectives see in their entire careers.
And call it maternal instinct or just plain old paranoia, but I have a sinking feeling that Ella’s arrival hasn’t broken the inn’s deadly streak. If anything, it’s probably just given whatever cosmic force controls these things time to plan something extra special just in time for Halloween.
Here’s hoping the next body at least has the courtesy to wait until I’ve figured out how to change a diaper without having a nervous breakdown—or until I’ve gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep.
A girl’s got to have priorities.
Present day…
October
If anyone asks, I’m NOT with the woman in bat wings and the tiny hooman accessory, Fish mentally projects as she weaves between my legs, her sleek black and white fur partially hidden beneath a pair of red devil horns that are tilting precariously to one side. I’m an independent feline who just happens to be passing through on my way to somewhere infinitely more dignified.
“No one is buying it, Fish,” I whisper, adjusting Ella’s tiny bat costume while trying not to wake her. My one-month-old daughter snoozes blissfully against my chest, oblivious to the chaos around us—which, honestly, is probably a survival mechanism she inherited from me.
It’s two weeks before the big haunted day and the Country Cottage Inn is playing host to the spookiest fall festival in Spider Cove—as in a giant fall celebration is taking place right here on the grounds every day until Halloween night. It’s sort of an annual tradition at this point.
The night air is crisp, the sound of laughter and creepier sounds from the haunted house we’ve erected echo next to us, the twinkle lights are doing their thing and making the grounds look perfectly magical, and the scent of deep-fried apple fritters has me fantasizing about gobbling down a dozen of them in a single sitting. I’ve done it before.
I adjust Ella’s tiny bat wings, and I can’t help but think about the other bombshell that dropped right before her birth. Five months ago, Emmie’s wild baby shower wasn’t just memorable for the mountain of gifts and that slightly disturbing and very lifelike sleeping-baby cake—it was because of the happenings that day that I discovered I have another sister floating around in the universe somewhere.
It turns out Leo’s mother’s idea of party games included ancestry testing kits because apparently nothing says celebrate the upcoming baby like potentially devastating family revelations. While everyone else got predictable results—distant cousins in Ireland, a great-grandfather who was probably a pirate—mine came with an unexpected plot twist—a half-sister I never knew existed.
Of course, Jasper and I tried to contact her right away but she didn’t respond to any of my messages through the website. And the website refused to give us any more information on the woman. All I know about this mystery sibling is her username—Lovemydoodle—which suggests either a serious obsession with Labradoodles or a questionable taste in online aliases.
Either way, between midnight feedings and diaper changes that require the organizational skills of a NASA mission, I’ve barely had time to process having another Baker girl out there, let alone track her down.
Emmie had her baby right after and well, I finally had Ella and we’ve been too busy comparing sleep deprivation levels to think of anything else ever since. But I’ll admit, I am super curious about this new sister of mine and why in the world she won’t give me the time of day.
I’m secretly afraid something terrible happened to her and maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded. Suffice it to say, this surge of hormones has made me an expert in catastrophizing—I can turn a missing sock into a full-scale tragedy in under thirty seconds.
I glance up at the massive banner stretching across the front of the Country Cottage Inn, with the words FRIGHT NIGHT SPOOKTACULAR ANNUAL HALLOWEEN FESTIVAL emblazoned in dripping blood-red letters against a backdrop of cartoon ghosts and bats. Whoever designed it clearly graduated from the more is more school of graphic design—there isn’t a square inch without some kind of spooky clip art.
The inn itself looms against the inky October sky like something out of a horror movie—and I would know, I’ve watched enough of them during my late-night feedings with Ella. Blue lights pulse from every window, casting an eerie glow across the wraparound porch where mechanized ghosts swing from the rafters. A bolt of fake lightning flashes across the facade, followed by a thunderous boom that seems to shake the very foundation of the place.
The air is a bizarre sensory overload—equal parts sugar, grease, and artificial fog. The smell of corn dogs and funnel cakes hangs heavy, mingling with caramel apples and that unmistakable scent of pumpkin that retailers have convinced us is the official fragrance of fall. My stomach growls in appreciation, a reminder that nursing mothers are essentially always starving. True as gospel.
Clusters of children dart through the crowd like schools of colorful fish, their costumes ranging from store-bought superheroes to impressively crafted homemade monsters. Most clutch plastic pumpkins already overflowing with candy, their sugar-fueled excitement reaching levels that will have parents questioning their decision-making skills around bedtime.
Jack-o’-lanterns line every walkway, their flickering faces cast spooky shadows that make the inn’s grounds look as if they’re breathing—or possibly having a mild anxiety attack.
What was once our serene acreage has been transformed into a carnival that Walt Disney himself might describe as a bit much. The midway stretches to the left, dotted with game booths where teenagers try to impress their dates while failing to knock over milk bottles.
A much more elaborate haunted house than our own stands at the far end, its facade plastered with warnings about heart conditions and age restrictions that basically translate to Enter at your own risk, and please don’t sue us if you have a cardiac event.
Just beyond that, a makeshift graveyard sprouts from the ground, complete with zombie arms reaching from freshly dug graves and fog machines working overtime to create that authentic recently disturbed burial site ambiance.
And of course, there’s the obligatory pumpkin patch where kids are currently battling it out over who can find the most perfectly round specimen.
This place is crawling with small hoomans hopped up on sugar, Fish yowls with horror as a group of costumed children race past us, leaving a trail of candy wrappers in their wake. I’ll be hiding under the bed until Christmas if anyone needs me.
But don’t you want candy? Sherlock pants at the sight as his red freckled face beams with excitement beneath a superhero cape that flutters rather dramatically with each bound. I heard someone say dogs can’t have chocolate, but surely that’s fake news.
The only thing fake around here is your intelligence, Fish sniffs. And your superhero physique. That cape makes your behind look like two pumpkins in a pillowcase.
“Play nice, you two,” I warn them, although I can’t help but smile at their ongoing feud. “No chocolate for either of you. And as for the costumes, It’s just for a few nights.”
That’s what you said about the Christmas antlers last year, Fish grumbles. And the Easter bunny ears. And the Fourth of July sparkly collar. I’m developing a complex about holiday accessories.
I shake my head with a laugh. All of this hoopla is for Spider Cove—Cider Cove’s temporary Halloween identity. The town council voted to change the name for the entire month of October, complete with new sign overlays and special edition merchandise. As the owner of the biggest inn in town, I’m always expected to go all out or in as it were—and we have gone all in for the past few years hosting this spooky fall festival right here on the grounds.
“There you are!” Georgie’s voice carries across the yard as she waddles toward me in what appears to be a full-body pumpkin costume, her face beaming from the carved-out center. Her white hair pokes out from under a green stem hat, and she’s somehow managed to bedazzle the entire orange monstrosity to the point where you might need sunglasses to look at her despite the fact the night is dark as pitch. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I’ve been standing in front of the inn for hours,” I tease.
“Well, there are three other women wearing bat costumes. How was I supposed to know which bat had your baby attached to it?” Georgie huffs, adjusting her pumpkin suit with all the dignity one can muster while dressed as a gourd. “Though I should have guessed you’d be the one not having any fun.” She peers at Ella. “Is she still sleeping? That child could snooze through the apocalypse.”
“Lucky her,” I say, smiling down at my sweet baby girl. “She gets that from Jasper. That man once slept through an actual fire alarm.”
“Speaking of men…” Georgie says, waggling her eyebrows. “Have you seen the zombies over by the cider booth? I wouldn’t mind having one of them chase me around the graveyard if you know what I mean.”
“Georgie!” My mother appears beside us, dressed in what can only be described as a sexy bee costume, complete with striped tights and an antennae that bobs precariously with each step. “You want men chasing you to the grave? You’re terrible!”
“What?” Georgie feigns innocence. “It’s Halloween time! If you can’t flirt with the walking dead now, when can you?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Georgie is into zombies this time of year.”
“Pfft.” Georgie waves a gloved hand. “Don’t let her fool you, Bizzy. Your mother knows perfectly well I’m into zombies all year round. Remember that grave digger from Bar Harbor last spring? Talk about raising the dead.”
I clamp my hands over Ella’s tiny ears, even though she’s fast asleep. “There are children present, including my very impressionable daughter who is definitely not hearing about anyone’s necrophiliac tendencies.”
“Oh please.” Georgie snorts. “She’s a month old. The only things she’s impressed by are your milk delivery systems and diaper changes.”
“Still,” I say, “let’s keep it PG-13. We should probably try to maintain some semblance of respectability here.”
“At a Halloween carnival?” Mom quirks an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”
Fish and Sherlock stay close by my ankles, their costumes drawing coos from passing festival-goers.
I see the zombies Georgie was talking about, Fish mewls as she twirls around my ankles. They’re actually the Peterson twins from Sheffield. They just naturally look like they’ve been dead for three days.
Be nice, Sherlock mentally scolds. Not everyone can have my rugged good looks and charm.
Yes, because nothing says charm like drinking from the toilet and rolling in dead squirrels, Fish meows back.
I’m about to say something when I spot a group of people dressed all in black making their way up the path toward the inn. They stick out like sore thumbs among the colorful costumes and excited children—five somber figures carrying equipment cases and looking far too serious for a festival where the main attraction is bobbing for apples.
“Is that them?” Mom asks, following my gaze. “The ghost hunters?”
I offer a knowing nod.
That’s them all right.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****