“Hot chocolate sounds lovely,” Claudia said. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Especially if it has a nip of crème de menthe in it.”
Mrs. Hawley smiled, and for a brief moment Claudia thought the older woman was going to fist-bump her. “Absolutely,” she said.
Up the gorgeous staircase and down one hall and up another, all carpeted in faded runners, framed old photographs lining the walls, until they came to a room with a hand-painted wooden plaque that said “The White Lady” hanging on the door.
“I hope you don’t mind me putting you in here,” Mrs. Hawley said. “But given that your purpose here is to decide whether our resident ghost is worth publicizing…”
“This is perfect,” Claudia said. The turned-wood four-poster bed had a cream-colored, crocheted blanket at its foot and a lavender-scented sachet on the pillow, and the room’s uneven wooden floors creaked as she entered. Cozy and charming. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
It took her even less than that—the lingering chill (although the room itself was toasty) drove her to drop her backpack and shuck her parka before plugging in her traitorous phone and heading downstairs to properly meet the rest of the guests.
She was here to determine whether the Heather Mountain Lodge was a viable candidate for an episode of
America’s Legendary Ghosts
. Proving the existence of ghosts wasn’t the focus or purpose of the show. It was highlighting the facts behind them, and then analyzing how those facts had developed into legends, and why.
Essentially, Claudia was a sociologist in a location scout’s clothing. And as long as she didn’t think about it too hard, she was quite all right with that.
Back in the parlor, she met the other six guests who had chosen to spend their Christmas holiday waiting to see a ghost. She was happy to settle in an antique rocker near the stone fireplace, where a fire crackled and spat heat and the scent of wood smoke.
“Mrs. Hawley’s off making your hot chocolate; we had an early supper so she could let the cook go for the night because of the snow,” Reese said. “Which doesn’t bode well for breakfast.”
“We aren’t going to be snowed in for long, I hope?” asked a man wearing glasses and a Dr. Horrible T-shirt. He held hands with a pretty redhead wearing multicolored striped socks and a matching crocheted hat.
“The weather report said it should stop snowing overnight,” said a teenaged girl with a blond French braid, glancing up from her phone.
“And once the plow comes through, we’ll be fine,” Reese added.
Introductions were made. The young couple were Matt and Holly; the girl was Brittany, with her parents Tom and Sherry; and the final guest was Angela, a musician looking for inspiration for a gothic musical she was writing.
The lodge officially closed down over the holidays—from two days before Christmas through two days after—except for a limited number of people. Only eight could reserve during that time…and there was, Claudia had been told, a waiting list. Apparently she’d been able to sneak in this year because of a last-minute cancellation (or, she half-suspected, because Mrs. Hawley wanted the publicity).
The proprietor in question returned with Claudia’s hot chocolate, and now that everybody was assembled, began her story.
“The White Lady,” Mrs. Hawley said, settling herself into her chair and into her story. “We don’t know much about her past, really—we don’t know who she was when she was alive.
“And I realize the name ‘The White Lady’ is a common one when it comes to ghosts,” Mrs. Hawley added, glancing at Claudia. Claudia nodded, but didn’t comment. This was the host’s show.
“What we do know is this: The White Lady, whoever she was, was married, and her husband was away one night in late December. We’re not sure why; I’ve heard he’d been out hunting that day, and also that he went out in the storm to help someone. As the snow came down harder, she knew it would be more difficult for her husband to find his way home. So she went from window to window, lighting candles to guide him to safety.”
Mrs. Hawley paused to take a sip of her own hot chocolate before continuing.
“Since then, each year, starting a day or two before Christmas and going until a day or two afterwards, after dusk falls she moves through the lower rooms of the house, lighting candles in the windows to bring her beloved home.”
Holly shivered. “That’s a beautiful story.” She squeezed Matt’s hand. “So romantic and tragic.”
Claudia fought not to roll her eyes. Tragic, yes, and somewhat romantic—The White Lady did seem to mourn her husband given her actions—but not beautiful. Just sad. And whether there was any truth to the story…well, that was her job to figure out.
“What style of clothing does she wear?” she asked.
“She’s seen dressed in white,” Mrs. Hawley said.
“A nightgown?” Claudia pressed. “A Victorian dress? Earlier period, later?”
“Oh, well, I can’t say for sure,” Mrs. Hawley said, looking down at her hands. “I’m not an expert in these things.”
“I understand,” Claudia said. “It’s just, if we can narrow down her clothing style, we can narrow down who she might be.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Reese said. “You’re from one of those reality shows—you’re a ghost hunter.”
Claudia laughed. “Not hardly. I’m a location scout; I don’t get any air time at all. And
America’s Legendary Ghosts
isn’t a ghost-hunting show—we don’t run around with EMF detectors or try to debunk the stories. We focus on the truth behind the legend…we want to know whether the ghost story has some basis in history. That’s what’s interesting, the history. We’re more of a history program than a reality show.”
“So you’re here to decide whether The White Lady is real or not?” Angela asked.
“I’m here to discover whether there’s any historical basis for The White Lady,” Claudia said. “If I can find records that prove that a woman lived here whose husband or other close male relative was found dead in the snow around Christmas time, then we have a show.”
“I’ve always wanted to know her background,” Mrs. Hawley said. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Do you have a history of the lodge? A list of owners?”
“Yes and no. The lodge wasn’t always this big. It started as a large home, and was added onto over the years, attaching other cottages and outbuildings to it and then renovating them. So The White Lady could have been someone from one of the smaller homes. We also know that caretakers took over when the family was away, and we don’t know all the servants’ names over the years. Or, of course, it could have been one of the family’s guests.”
Well, that was going to make things more fun. In truth, Claudia had already done some preliminary research, which she intended to supplement with local records now that she was in the area. She’d been hoping Mrs. Hawley would give her more useful information, but that might not be the case.
“And you’ve seen her?” Claudia asked.
“Indeed I have.” Mrs. Hawley sat up straight. “Every year.”
“Please, tell me.”
Mrs. Hawley surveyed her audience, and Claudia knew she was going to tell the tale she’d always told, a familiar story, the rhythm and cadence driving her words forward rather than an unrehearsed account.
It didn’t mean she wasn’t being honest, that she wasn’t telling the story of what she believed she saw. It just meant she was…telling it in the most suspenseful way possible. Which meant the details might be a wee bit fudged for dramatic purposes.
“Like I said, The White Lady lights candles in the windows to guide her husband home. She goes from window to window, with a tallow in hand. We’ve had candles in the windows here in winter for as long as I can remember—and I’ve been here since I was a little girl. Even if no one sees her, people come down in the morning and find candles burning, or melted wax where the candles have burned down.”
“And what happens if people try to interact with her?”
“They can’t. She doesn’t respond to questions or any verbal attempt to communicate with her. As far as I know, nobody’s tried to touch her—plus, if they come close, she disappears.”
“Vanishes?”
“Essentially.”
“Did her husband make it home?” Tom asked.
Mrs. Hawley looked sad. “We don’t know,” she said. “We just don’t know.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t,” Claudia said. “If he had, she wouldn’t feel compelled to keep lighting the candles.”
They all stared at her as if she’d just kicked their collective puppy. Clearly she’d harshed their mellow. What had they expected? Before she had a chance to speak, Brittany looked up from her phone and said, “Well, isn’t it
obvious
? It’s a
ghost
. It’s not supposed to be
happy
.”
Although the others nodded in agreement, that effectively killed the conversation. After one or two more half-hearted questions, the group broke up, Mrs. Hawley retiring for an early night, no doubt so she could handle breakfast.
“You didn’t get any supper, did you?” Reese asked Claudia.
“I had a snack on the train, but that was it.”
“Come with me.”
She followed him to the kitchen. It had been upgraded with professional appliances, but still held the sense of a homey Victorian kitchen, thanks to details such as herbs drying from a rack hanging from the ceiling, a fireplace with a bread oven along one wall, and an open wooden cabinet displaying blue-patterned china.
“Do you live around here?” Claudia asked. “Mrs. Hawley seems comfortable with you.”
“I don’t live here now, but I did when I was young,” Reese said, opening cabinets and pulling out a plate and bread with a comfortable ease, as if he were well acquainted with the layout. “My mom worked for Mrs. Hawley for a few years, so I hung out here a lot. I’d like to say I was helping, but I’m pretty sure I was just underfoot.”
Claudia settled on a stool and propped her elbows on the butcher block island. “So, have you seen The White Lady?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.” He was leaning into the industrial refrigerator, so she couldn’t see his face, although his deep voice was casual and confident. He didn’t sound like he was lying. “I was walking by the parlor and I saw her in there. It scared the snot out of me, and I ran to find my mom.”
He emerged from the fridge, balancing ham and cheese and condiments in his arms. Claudia held her breath until they were safely deposited on the butcher block. She felt bad for not helping, but damn, she was tired.
“We moved the year after that,” he went on. “Late summer. So I never had the chance to see her again.”
“Is that why you’ve come back?”
He turned away to find a knife, turned back. “No, not really. I…my folks are both gone, and my brother and sister were off doing their own thing, so I just wanted to come back and recapture the fond memories.” He handed her the knife and shoved the condiments across the island. “What about you? It must suck to work on Christmas.”
She opened the jar of stone-ground mustard, spread some on the wheat bread. “Kinda. My family’s big, and we decided a few years ago to make Thanksgiving the big holiday—we rotate between locations—and we’re on our own for Christmas.” She added ham, Swiss, and tomato slices. “It gives me a little more leeway—you’d be surprised how many ghost legends revolve around the holidays.”
“Maybe Dickens was on to something.”
She laughed. “Maybe so. There certainly haven’t been any Thanksgiving ghosts for us.” She put some baby spinach on the sandwich, covered it with a second slice of bread, and pressed down with both hands to smoosh it down to a more comfortable height. “I’m just glad I’m here this year. It’s always depressing to be without snow on Christmas. Despite what the rest of Hollywood likes, I don’t want to be wearing shorts in December. It’s just
wrong
.”
“I hear you,” Reese said. “One year I was in Australia for Christmas. The big heavy Christmas dinner makes no sense when it’s a bazillion degrees out.” He was already tidying away the sandwich fixings.
“What took you there?” Claudia took a big bite of her sandwich, stifling a moan of pleasure. She hadn’t realized she was
that
hungry. Maybe it was the crème de menthe talking.
“I’m a structural engineer,” he said. “I was working on a government contract.”
Now that she had a little food in her (that wasn’t sugar laced with alcohol), she was able to focus again. She found herself distracted by his hands, competently wiping down the butcher block.
She was tired, but she wasn’t
that
tired.
Then they heard a shout, and then Holly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come quick!” she said. “We’ve seen The White Lady!”
Claudia dropped the second half of her sandwich and bolted for the foyer, Reese on her heels. When they arrived, the rest of the guests were there, in various stages of settling in: Angela was in a flowered flannel nightgown, with a matching robe belted firmly around her, while Tom’s wet hair suggested he’d been in the shower.
“In the parlor, where we were earlier,” Holly said.
They all trooped in. Sure as shooting, the candles in the window had been lit, a smudge of wax on the windowsill indicating someone had bumped the candle after it had been burning.