Hex the Halls: A Paranormal Christmas Anthology

by Deanna Chase

  Ah, he must have struck out with the young woman we’d seen earlier. I scooted around him and peered out through the swinging door. Only a few ghostly guests stood in the dining room, speaking in hushed tones. They did seem a bit older and stuffy, but that wasn’t my fault. “I’m sorry this isn’t your sort of crowd. But try to make the most of it, okay?” You could bring a gangster to a party, but you couldn’t make him enjoy it.

  Frankie followed me and my deviled eggs out into the large, ornate dining room. When I had Frankie’s power, I could see things as the dominant ghost residing on the property did. This dining room appeared Victorian, with a fire blazing in the hearth, and the current generation of Sugarland’s upper crust conversing in groups. An antique table stood at the center of the room, and over it hung a ghostly chandelier with dozens of blazing candles. It made the jewels worn by the real guests glitter.

  These were the types of parties I used to attend with my ex, before the scandal that had left me an outsider in my own town.

  I paused as an older man in a reindeer bowtie winked at me and took a deviled egg from my tray.

  Frankie stood next to him. “I tried to work that cute skirt we saw before. Found her in the parlor,” he said, as if I wasn’t busy working. “She’s got that whole Southern belle thing going on. But she only had eyes for some dead guy.”

  I hesitated to point out the obvious.

  “Have you seen Matthew’s mother?” I murmured, advancing through the crowd.

  Frankie took a drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, and I knew it was her because she’s wearing a name tag.”

  I heard another crash, this time from the direction of the front hall. I tried to keep my own tray balanced as I rushed to see what happened.

  The redhead knelt at the entrance to the parlor, frantically scooping up bacon-wrapped shrimp. I hurried to help her.

  The guests had shrunk back from the mess, but make no mistake, our fumbled trays were the talk of the party. At this point, I feared more food had ended up on the floor than with the guests.

  “Somebody tripped me,” she whispered frantically as I knelt down beside her. “I swear!”

  Her friend walked out of the parlor, with Frankie’s urn teetering at the center of her half-filled tray. The gangster glared at his last resting place, then at me as if I were responsible for him becoming a centerpiece. “That dame lifted my urn!”

  “What do you expect me to do?” I hissed.

  Frankie didn’t hesitate. “Shoot her.”

  Luckily, the redhead and the blonde were too worried about the mess to notice me and my not-so-friendly ghost.

  “I’ll help you two in a second,” Frankie’s urn-napper said, maneuvering around the mess. She leaned down. “They’re complaining that the food is cold,” she said in a harsh whisper before heading for the kitchen.

  “I’m on you like a tick, lady!” Frankie gnashed, following her.

  Oh, heavens. He’d better not appear to her.

  Quickly, I gave the redhead my deviled eggs and took the ruined shrimp tray. I hurried after the blonde and Frankie and the urn.

  When I got to the kitchen, I found all three. And poor Lauralee. She stood wide-eyed, staring at her friend. “You didn’t cook it all the way?”

  “It was piping hot when I took it out of the oven,” the blonde protested.

  I touched the tray in her hand, ignoring the ghost directly behind her. “The whole thing is freezing.”

  She handed it to Lauralee and looked about ready to tear up. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  I could.

  The cold sensation at the back, an accidental tripping, chilled appetizers. It all pointed to unhappy ghosts—ones with an even bigger beef than my gangster buddy—and I had a feeling I’d find them in the parlor.

  “I’ll keep serving, and try to calm any ruffled feathers,” I told my friend. It’s not like I could locate Matthew’s mother or her necklace while standing in the kitchen.

  Unfortunately, me being on the case didn’t seem to reassure Lauralee. “Don’t start talking to everyone,” she warned.

  “I won’t.” Not to everyone at least.

  “Take this,” Lauralee said, handing me a tray of artfully arranged holiday cookies on gold doilies.

  “And this,” I said, knocking a few beef Wellingtons loose as I freed Frankie’s urn from Kim’s tray and placed it squarely in the center of my own.

  “Hey,” Lauralee said, “isn’t that…”

  I hurried out of the kitchen, with Frankie on my heels.

  “It’s not a decoration,” the gangster groused

  Still, he seemed relieved that I had it. Me too. If we were taking on any more ghostly exploits, I’d have to find a better way to carry Frankie’s urn. But for now, it was safe.

  Guests snagged my cookies as I worked my way to the parlor. As far as I could tell, all of the disturbances had happened there. I couldn’t imagine what I’d find.

  “The Jacksons have terrible luck with catering,” a woman in a clingy red dress said, waving away my tray as her well-built date grabbed two mini sugar bells and a chocolate chip. “The club could never get anything right, either. Last year, the entire buffet table went over. They said it had to be an uneven floor.”

  It was more than that. No wonder the club had dropped this event from their annual calendar.

  I cringed as the woman’s date dropped a handful of beef Wellington wrappers into Frankie’s urn.

  “Hey,” the gangster hollered as the man walked away, “that ain’t a trash can!”

  I forced myself to smile at the finely dressed partygoers, thankful that none of them could hear Frankie’s outburst. Although several did shiver from the chill.

  “Focus,” I whispered as we stepped past the giant, unlit Christmas tree and into the parlor.

  The temperature plunged twenty degrees. Oh my. “Welcome to the anti-party,” Frankie murmured.

  The country club crowd clustered in groups, sparser than in the other rooms, but still fairly thick. That probably had a lot to do with Mike and John serving drinks at the bar just inside the door. I gave them a small wave as I passed and soon realized that not everyone was celebrating.

  A group of ghostly women huddled near the huge bay window overlooking the front yard, weeping. Heavy velvet curtains draped a good portion of the glass, making the room feel stifled and dark. In the light of the fading sun, I could see Matthew standing outside in the yard, looking in. He was counting on me.

  Party guests walked straight through a grouping of empty overstuffed chairs at the center of the room and didn’t notice the large black casket standing open near the wall opposite the window.

  A casket. I halted for a moment, shocked.

  “It really is a funeral in here,” I murmured.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Frankie groused.

  Wreathes of lavender and freesia draped the casket. Dozens of tightly massed floral monstrosities packed with roses, daisies, peonies, dahlias, and even pearls and fruit crowded the casket on either side. Not to mention the small mountains of ferns.

  “Do you know who died?” I whispered to the gangster at my side.

  Frankie perused the room half-filled with the living, half-filled with ghosts. “A lot of people from the looks of it.”

  As usual, my sidekick was no help.

  Holding my tray aloft, my fingers shaking only slightly, I made my way to the casket.

  Yards of tufted white silk lined the top and splayed over the front edge. A pair of stuffed white doves clung to the rim. It seemed the deceased had been well loved.

  If Matthew’s mother lay inside, it would certainly make it easier to find the necklace, although I wasn’t sure how I felt about taking such a thing from her coffin.

  If it was even her. It could be a ghost with a different beef. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my racing pulse. If there was an angry ghost inside, we might as well introduce ourselves and get it over with.
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br />   I stared down into the casket and gasped.

  Matthew.

  He lay in state, his eyes closed, his face so waxy and formal it almost didn’t look like him. He’d been stripped of his union officer’s uniform and instead wore a severe black suit with a white shirt and collar. He looked so still. So dead.

  I gathered my courage and leaned close.

  “Matthew?”

  The form in the casket didn’t respond and I wondered if I was looking at my friend at all or merely an image of him. This may only be a memory, a view from the eyes of the most dominant ghost in the room.

  He’d told me that he wasn’t allowed back inside his house anymore, and I’d seen him alone in the yard. Which meant…

  Just then, a handsome All-American guy I recognized from one of my ex-fiancé’s golf foursomes brushed past me, laughing with another guy our age. I started as they strode right into the space where Matthew’s body lay on the ghostly plane.

  “Excuse me,” I began, but before I could say anything else, a heavyset woman in black rushed him.

  “Show some respect for the dead!” she hissed, slapping him on the cheek.

  Her blow passed straight through him, but as it did, I saw his fingers loosen around his glass. “Hey,” he said, staring down at his drink. “This hot toddy is freezing.”

  No kidding. I could see the beginnings of ice on the rim.

  “Go get another one.” His friend laughed, holding up his near-empty mixed drink. “And grab something for me, too.”

  The ghostly woman fumed under her black lace mourning veil. “This is a funeral, not a party.” She tried to take Mr. All-American by the scruff of the neck.

  He touched a hand between his shoulder blades. “Criminy. I think the air just kicked on. Are we under a vent?”

  “Excuse me,” I said again, this time trying to catch the ghost’s attention.

  The guy with the hot toddy shot me a winning smile. “I remember you, Verity.” He drew closer, smelling faintly of cigars and scotch. “Does Beau know you’re a waitress now?”

  I didn’t like his attitude. My ex had nothing to do with this. And besides, “Are you saying there’s something wrong with being a waitress?”

  He shot me a cocky grin. “I just didn’t know if I was allowed to talk to the help.”

  “Actually, you’re not,” I said, pretending to regret it, glad when he barked out a laugh and resumed the conversation with his friend.

  I drew closer to the ghost woman, who had begun to weep, and resisted the urge to offer her a comforting touch. She didn’t seem to be wearing a necklace, although I couldn’t tell from her high collar. I pitched my voice low, for her ears only. “Are you Matthew’s mother, by chance?”

  She turned her head and stared at me, tears shimmering on her cheeks. The blank look in her cold and lifeless eyes sent a chill straight down to my toes. “Matthew is dead.”

  4

  I had to cut the ghost some slack. She was in pain. Even if her mere presence sent chills up my spine and made my fingers numb with cold, I had a job to do.

  Courage.

  This ghost was powerful, just like her son. I couldn’t afford to upset her. We didn’t need any more incidents like last year’s overturned buffet table. But if I could get her to listen to me, I might be able to make things right for her, for Matthew, and even for poor Lauralee back in the kitchen.

  Mrs. Jackson stood over Matthew’s coffin, keeping vigil.

  There was no good thing to say, nothing that would make it better, so I said what I felt in my heart. “Mrs. Jackson, ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I couldn’t imagine how it might feel to lose a child, even if he did consider himself a man. Matthew couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three when he died. He’d had so much to look forward to in life.

  A portion of the anger drained from her as she turned back to the coffin that held her son. “He’s right here,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. “For as long as I stay with him.”

  Matthew’s mother had been reliving his funeral and loving him for more than 150 years. And all that time, Matthew had been locked away in the basement of the library, thinking nobody cared. It didn’t have to be that way.

  “Can I show you something outside?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t even look outside. My life is in here now. With my boy.”

  Then he’d have to come to her. “Your son was very brave,” I said softly, as his mother nodded.

  But would he have the courage to come home?

  I had to try.

  “Will you excuse me?” I asked the ghost.

  Matthew’s mother nodded graciously, and I hurried to the front door.

  Matthew had believed his mother no longer wanted him after she threw him out of the house. Even now, he stood on the lawn, convinced he wasn’t welcome, when she’d mourned him since the day he died. And likely even before that.

  I hurried out onto the porch, tucking my empty tray under one arm and Frankie’s urn under the other. “Matthew!” I called, trying to spot the ghost on the darkening lawn. His image strengthened, glowing in the moonlight, and I rushed to where he stood.

  “Do you have the necklace?” he asked, looking me over as if he expected me to produce it.

  “I didn’t get it yet,” I said, watching him deflate. “But I spoke with your mother. She misses you, Matthew,” I said, even as he pressed his lips together and shook his head no. “Please. Go inside and you’ll see.”

  “Shame on you, Verity,” he uttered before he disappeared.

  Oh, darn it. “Matthew?” I searched frantically for any sign of the ghost.

  His voice hit me like a punch to the stomach. “Do not meddle in my affairs,” he boomed, sounding like a dangerous stranger instead of my friend.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I realize I overstepped. Badly. But you deserve so much more.”

  He didn’t appreciate the effort. “Bring me the necklace. That’s all I ask.”

  “Matthew—”

  “The necklace.” His energy washed over me, forcing me a step back, making me cringe at the malice and the anger I hadn’t felt from him since the first time we’d met, back in the haunted library.

  “Okay,” I said softly.

  We’d find another way.

  Quickly, quietly, with my heart nearly beating out of my chest, I returned to the chaos of the house. The noise assaulted me as soon as I opened the front door.

  The redhead spotted me from the dining room and rushed toward me, carrying a tray. “We’re backed up in the kitchen. Take these.” She handed over a serving plate of mini beef Wellingtons.

  “Déjà vu,” the gangster muttered as I cleared a space for his urn.

  “I’ll be in the parlor,” I told her.

  I knew Frankie would follow if for no other reason than to make sure I didn’t drop his urn.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I whispered to him. “Matthew’s mother hasn’t so much as glanced outside in a century and a half, and he won’t come in. How do I get them together?”

  “Don’t bother. Just do what he asked and get him the necklace,” Frankie muttered.

  “That won’t solve his problem,” I said as the gangster rolled his eyes. “There’s way more at stake here than a necklace.”

  We needed to do more.

  Matthew needed to know his mother loved him, and I was going to make that clear to him even if it was the last thing I did, even if I had to drag her outside to do it.

  Wait. That wasn’t a half-bad idea. Without the dragging part.

  “Whatever you do, make it fast,” the gangster warned.

  His left foot had disappeared. Dang.

  “Follow my lead and I’ll take you to a real party,” I said to the poor gangster, pausing to allow a guest to snag three mini beef Wellingtons.

  We approached the entrance to the parlor and saw Matthew’s mother stalking a man who was about to kiss his
date under the mistletoe.

  I breezed past them in the doorway, knocking them apart before the ghost could do anything worse.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” I said, inwardly cringing when two live women turned to me. It seemed to be a common enough name around here. And both living Mrs. Jacksons would think I was nuts.

  “Did you see that couple?” Matthew’s mother fumed, her black veil askew. “Kissing at a funeral!”

  “Terrible,” I agreed, hoping to calm her down.

  The live Mrs. Jacksons raised their brows and moved away from me, whispering over their wineglasses.

  Lovely.

  The dead Mrs. Jackson made a sign of the cross.

  We needed some privacy. Soon.

  I approached the live Mrs. Jacksons and hoped one of them was the matriarch. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the sixty-year-old blonde with the large diamond earrings. “Isn’t it about time for the annual tree lighting?” I asked her, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  She seemed surprised at the question, most likely because it was a waitress asking it. But she did think it over. “Is it dusk already?” she asked, looking past me toward the bay window. “We usually do it when night falls.”

  Close enough. I cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I called out, addressing the partygoers in the parlor. The live ones. “Now that it’s getting dark, Mrs. Jackson has requested that you please proceed to the foyer for the annual tree lighting!”

  “Thank you,” she said, still a little taken aback.

  Anything to keep everyone happy.

  As the crowd chatted and filtered out, I approached the bartenders. “You guys, too. Mrs. Jackson needs this room cleared.” The dead Mrs. Jackson, at least. “She’s very adamant about it.”

  The taller one gave a shrug. “Come on,” he said to his coworker, “let’s take a smoke and then start restocking.” He gave me a wink. “These people are drinking scotch like it’s water.”

  I pasted on a smile and hustled them out, closing the pocket doors to the parlor.

  The ghost kept up her vigil at her son’s coffin. The room had quieted, save for the roar of the party crowd outside.

  Slowly, delicately I approached her. I was careful to keep my voice low and my hot hors d’oeuvres at arm’s length. “Mrs. Jackson,” I said gently, “I have some news for you and it may be quite shocking.” I paused, giving her time to adjust. “Matthew died, but he’s not gone, not in the way you think. I can arrange for you to see him.”