The Spirits of Christmas

by Sarah Wynde

  The Spirits of Christmas

  By Sarah Wynde

  Copyright Notice

  The Spirits of Christmas is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Wendy Sharp

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph: www.shutterstock.com

  Cover design: Wendy Sharp

  Visit me on the web at http://sarahwynde.blogspot.com/

  Dedication

  To Carol and Judy: thanks for being sparks of light on some gray days

  The Spirits of Christmas

  “It’s so bizarre,” Akira said thoughtfully, staring up at the motionless ceiling fan.

  “Is the baby moving?” Zane asked, sliding a hand along the slight curve of her belly. He hadn’t been able to feel a kick yet, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

  “No, not that.” Akira tilted her head sideways, letting it come to rest against his shoulder, feeling content with her position despite her mild exasperation at her body’s demands.

  “Bizarre,” Zane repeated. “Would that be the miracle of life growing inside you?”

  “A natural process that women have been managing for thousands of years.” Her voice was dry. Of course, it was a little strange that she knew she’d met her baby’s previous incarnation—she imagined that not too many women throughout history could claim the same. But no, that wasn’t what she’d been thinking about.

  “What then?” Zane stroked up, long fingers reaching the underside of her breast and lightly tracing a pattern along her skin.

  “How much I want red meat.” Not just red meat. Steak. Gorgeous steak. Red in the middle, seared dark on the outside. Mmm, with salt. Luscious salt, bursting with flavor on her tongue. Or maybe a hamburger, juicy and rich, dripping with . . . ick. Fat and blood. That’s what hamburgers dripped with. But even knowing that didn’t change the way her mouth watered at the thought.

  Zane chuckled.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Akira protested.

  “Sure it does. The baby needs some protein.”

  “I ate a pound of edamame last night. A whole pound. That’s about five times the amount of protein the average person needs.”

  Zane’s hand stilled. “I read something . . .” He pulled away, Akira’s head dropping to the pillow as he got out of the bed and crossed to the dresser on the other side of the room.

  “Hey!” she complained. She’d been comfortable. And his clever hands had been starting to stir up something a little more interesting than hunger for steak.

  He looked back over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Coming right back,” he promised. He grabbed his smartphone and started tapping. “Soy,” he reported, “contains phytic acid.”

  Akira raised her eyebrows. “And?” She’d never even heard of phytic acid. Why had Zane?

  “It blocks the absorption of minerals.” He joined her on the bed again, lying down and putting a proprietary arm over her body.

  “Minerals such as?”

  “Calcium, magnesium, and iron,” he said cheerfully. “Also zinc and mercury, if they matter.”

  “Let me see that.” Akira held out a hand for his phone and he passed it to her, a small smile playing around his lips.

  She read the information on the website he’d found, scowling. “Damn it. All right, maybe I’m craving meat because I need iron. Fine, I’ll eat broccoli.” She couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought. Broccoli. She loved broccoli. But not for the past few months. Just the thought of it brought a nasty taste into her mouth.

  Zane leaned down. “Good job, Henry,” he whispered to her abdomen. “You and me, bud? We’re gonna be friends.”

  Akira groaned. What was a semi-vegetarian doing getting involved with a confirmed meat-and-potatoes man? Worse, having his baby?

  Zane grinned. “How about I pick up a couple filets? Fire up the grill? We can have steak and baked potatoes for dinner tonight.”

  “Steak and salad,” she answered grumpily.

  “Baked potatoes. With butter. Maybe some sour cream.”

  Akira closed her eyes. Why did that sound so good? What was Henry doing to her? Having her body taken over by a sentient creature with his own tastes and desires was not what she had expected from pregnancy. Was it like this for every new mother?

  “Knock, knock!” The cheery voice from the other side of the bedroom door stopped Akira’s response to Zane before she could make it. She called out, “What is it, Rose?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .” Rose paused and Akira’s eyes narrowed. Was that nerves she heard in the ghost girl’s tone? Rose wasn’t the nervous type. “I need your help.”

  *****

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be okay. She acts real mean, but she wasn’t like that when I knew her.”

  “When you knew her? When she was alive, you mean?” Akira didn’t bother to look toward the ghost seated in the passenger seat next to her. Florida drivers were insane. She needed to keep her eyes on the road.

  “Uh-huh,” Rose responded eagerly. “She was a few years younger than me in school, so I didn’t know her well, but she was nice enough.”

  “Nice enough. Huh.” Akira thought back to the mean old woman ghost she’d met briefly on her first day in Tassamara. Meredith, her realtor, had been showing Akira houses supposedly available to rent. Akira hadn’t even been willing to go into the little lakefront cottage. The angry ghost grumbling on the porch had made it clear that she wasn’t welcome. “Is that what they call damning with faint praise?”

  “No, really,” Rose answered. “I’ve visited her a few times recently. As long as you’re not planning on moving into her house, she’ll be perfectly friendly.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” This time Akira dared a glance at her passenger. To Akira, the ghost looked almost like a typical teenage girl, with only her full skirt and blonde curls showing that she was out of her own time.

  “Yes.” A little frown between her eyes revealed Rose’s worry. “She’s determined to get rid of the new tenant.”

  Akira turned her gaze back to the road. Determined. She didn’t like determined ghosts. She didn’t like angry ghosts, either. She sighed. “I was supposed to be writing Christmas cards and wedding invitations today.”

  “Zane said he’d take care of them,” Rose said.

  Akira didn’t roll her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, as she tried to imagine Zane’s version of a formal invitation. It wouldn’t be neat calligraphy, that was for sure. If she had to guess, he was picking up the phone and calling most of the people on their list. And then he’d tell her they were all set.

  She dropped a hand to her belly. Rose had promised there’d be no danger from this ghost, but Akira still didn’t like the thought of taking any chances with the baby. But she’d be careful. The slightest sign of dangerous energy from the old woman’s ghost and she’d be back in the car and headed away, she thought, as she pulled the car over and looked at the small house.

  No ghost stood on the porch, but she couldn’t see any sparkling energy either.

  She got out of the car and closed the door. Turning away from the house, so that no one would be able to see her lips move, she said to Rose, “You just want me to talk to the tenant?”

  “Yes,” Rose said quickly. “That’s all. Find out if she’s willing to move.”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m worried that Hannah will start trying to drive her out. She’s only held off because – well
, you’ll see.”

  Akira nibbled on her lower lip before turning toward the house. As she walked up the short path to the front door, she tried to think of what she could say. Should she tell the truth? Or come up with a plausible lie?

  Maybe she could claim that something was wrong with the house. Mold, maybe. Or some undetectable poison in the air, like radon gas. Oh, or she could say that it was a former meth lab. No one would want to live in it if they thought they were being exposed to poisonous chemicals.

  Perfect.

  Of course, the owners of the house might be angry about losing their tenant to a lie. Would they sue her? Could they?

  She reached the porch, still trying to decide what to say. Behind a closed screen, the front door stood wide open. A small boy crouched on the foyer floor, a wooden train in each hand, earnestly talking to himself. “I am spendid, so I should not have to do dat job, Thomas. But James, you must take da fate to da dock. It is a Vewy Impohtant deyivey.”

  Akira paused, wondering whether to interrupt him or find the doorbell.

  The boy looked up at her. He had big, solemn brown eyes framed with dark lashes, short close-cropped dark hair, and cheeks so round and chubby they belonged on a chipmunk. She smiled at him. It was impossible not to.

  He smiled back, exuberant joy radiating from him. “Mama, da pwetty yady is back. And she bought a fend,” he called out, scrambling to his feet. “Mean yady, mean yady, ya fend is heah.” He dashed away.

  Akira’s brows raised in surprise. She glanced at Rose. Rose shrugged and stepped through the screen door. “Hannah?” she called out as she followed the boy into the house. “I brought Akira to meet you.”

  Akira tucked her hands under her arms nervously. The boy could see ghosts. Would that be a problem? Oh dear, she wished she was at home, enjoying her Saturday and planning her wedding. Or getting ready for Christmas. She and Zane had bought a tree and decorated it the previous weekend, but she wanted to bake Christmas cookies and the holiday was only a couple short weeks away.

  “Toby, please stop that. How many times have I had to say it? There is no mean lady living here. It’s just us, sweetheart.” The female voice that answered him from the back of the house sounded tired, but kind. And not at all southern.

  Akira’s unease deepened. Although some Tassamara natives had strong southern accents, plenty of people in central Florida didn’t and she’d never felt like her own Californian tones stood out. But this woman clipped the ‘t’ on ‘it’ and pronounced the ‘r’ in ‘here’ in a decidedly northern, maybe even British style. What could she be doing in Tassamara?

  She looked for the button to ring the bell. The porch paint was fresh and glossy, but the button was old-fashioned, set deep in the door frame and lower than Akira expected it to be. She pushed it firmly, hearing a rattle and buzz echo through the house.

  “Yes?” The woman was a shadowed figure in the back of the hallway, but sounded wary, edging toward hostile.

  Akira forced a smile, trying to make it bright and friendly and inwardly cursing Rose. “Hi. I’m not selling anything. Or looking for a donation.”

  The woman came no closer.

  “Or, you know, trying to convert you. I’m not religious. Not that religious is bad. No offense, I hope. I actually think it’s sort of nice of the Jehovah’s Witnesses to care enough about other people’s souls to spend their free time getting doors slammed in their faces.” Akira paused and swallowed and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous.

  “Quit dithering,” Rose said from behind the woman. “Good heavens, you’d think you’d never introduced yourself to a neighbor before.”

  Akira tried to think if she ever had introduced herself to a neighbor. She was more the keep-to-herself type, really.

  The woman took a few steps toward the door. She was wiping her hands on a dishtowel, which she slung over her shoulder with casual ease, but Akira barely noticed. The woman was tall, probably six feet or maybe even a little more, mostly thin, with long slender arms and legs, and gorgeous, with an exotic look that matched that of her son, minus the chipmunk cheeks.

  “Oh,” Akira said with relief. “When are you due?”

  The woman put a hand on her great mound of belly. She could have swallowed a basketball. Or maybe even a beach ball. The big kind.

  “In a few weeks,” she said briefly. “May I help you with something?”

  “I’m not due until June.” Akira patted her own stomach. Her bump was barely noticeable, she knew. She wasn’t even wearing maternity clothes yet. “Still, if you stay in Tassamara our kids will start school together.”

  “Really?” The woman’s stiff expression melted into delight. “How nice. Please, come in.” She unlatched the screen door and opened it, waving Akira inside.

  “Ooh, well done,” Rose said with approval, clapping her hands together gently. “Now just talk about babies a bit to soften her up.”

  “Hmmph.” Akira couldn’t see the mean old lady ghost, who must have been standing behind Rose, but she knew that had to be her. “She don’t need softening. She needs to get out.”

  “Now, Hannah,” Rose started, but Akira ignored them as she followed the other woman into the living room. She glanced around curiously. She hadn’t come into the house when Meredith had brought her by but it was attractive, with smoothly painted walls, polished wood floors, and modern double-pane windows. The furniture, though, looked like rejects from Goodwill, including a square-edged plaid sofa that must have been new in the 1970’s, a battered coffee table, and a patched armchair. Cardboard boxes, some open, some still sealed, were stacked in the corners of the room. A small artificial Christmas tree sat on a side table, its branches heavy with ornaments that were too big for it.

  “We’re a little…well.” The woman waved her hand at the boxes as if to apologize for them, before saying, “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

  “Tea would be wonderful, thank you,” Akira answered, sinking down onto the couch. The cushions had worn away and it felt like sitting on a rock, but she smiled as the woman nodded and hurried away.

  The little boy had followed them in and stood in the doorway, thumb firmly planted in his mouth, staring at Akira as if she had two heads.

  “Hi,” Akira tried, feeling shy and a little awkward. She’d never dealt with children much.

  Wait.

  She’d never dealt with children at all. She tried to remember if she’d ever even spoken to a boy his age.

  Oh, shit.

  Her breathing suddenly became shallow, the gasps of an impending panic attack hovering, as she tried to recall one occasion—just one, any time in her life, in her whole entire life—that she had ever spoken to a child as small as the one that was staring at her.

  And she was going to be a mother? She was going to be responsible for nurturing a person that size? It was brain freeze. Like the panic felt in nightmares about final exams for classes you didn’t know you were taking or walks down Main Street naked.

  She knew she didn’t whimper. Her throat was far too closed off for that.

  “Cut it out. Akira, stop it.” Rose’s words finally penetrated Akira’s fog of fear.

  “I can’t have a baby,” Akira mumbled. “I don’t know anything about kids. I don’t know how to be a mother. I didn’t even have a mother. She died when I was tiny. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how—ow.”

  The sizzle as the ghostly energy passed through her head felt like an electric shock, only cold. She put her hand up to her cheek. “Ouch,” she repeated.

  “You needed it,” the old woman ghost said, entirely without sympathy. “Don’t be stupid. People have children all the time. You’ll be fine.”

  Akira worked her jaw. Shit. That hurt. It wasn’t like a physical hit—she wouldn’t bruise—but the pain lingered.

  “Da mean yady hit you,” the little boy said.

  “She sure did,” Akira answered, rubbing her face.

  “Mama can’t see heah.” The
boy tilted his head to the side, as if considering whether or not to pay the asking price at an auction. Akira wondered what was on sale and whether it was her.

  Warily, she said, “Most people can’t. She’s a ghost.”

  His eyes went wide, wider than nature had already left them. “Like Caspah?”

  The smile tugged at her cheeks but she kept her face straight as she answered, “Maybe more like his cousins. Or brothers. Whoever those other mean ghosts are.” She didn’t look at Hannah, but she heard her harrumph of disapproval.

  “And da pwetty yady?” he asked eagerly.

  “Rose,” she answered. She glanced over at the girl ghost, wondering why Rose hadn’t introduced herself to the boy.

  Rose shook her head. “He can’t hear us,” she said quietly. “Seeing us will pass, probably soon.”

  “Yike da fyower?” he asked.

  Akira nodded.

  “She’s pwettier dan dem,” he said. “She should be a daisy.”

  Rose laughed and patted her blonde hair. “Tell him roses smell better,” she suggested to Akira, before blowing a kiss to the boy.

  Akira passed along the message as the boy’s mother came back into the room, a teapot in one hand, and the handles of two mugs looped around her other index finger.

  Hannah snorted. “Not even a tray. And she’ll chip the dishes carrying them like that.”

  “Do you take milk or lemon?” The woman asked.

  “Black is fine,” Akira responded as the woman set the pot on the table. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No.” The woman put the mugs down with a slight clatter. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Southerners think tea is a cold drink with lots of ice and lots of sweetener,” Akira answered her. Drat. She’d guessed as much already, but if the woman had been a local, telling her the truth—that her house was haunted by an unfriendly ghost—might have worked.

  “Is that what you wanted?” About to sit down, the woman paused, looking dismayed. “I can get some ice.”

  “No, no.” Akira shook her head. “I’m not from here, either. I like my tea hot.”