Halloween Heebie-Geebies: Wonky Inn Book 13 by Jeannie Wycherley

Author:Jeannie Wycherley [Wycherley, Jeannie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bark at the Moon Books
Published: 2021-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

Later, as the rain fell once more, I walked back to the shops. The crowd had dispersed, mainly because the local uniformed community police officer had attended and told everyone to go back to their homes. I kicked through the rubbish that had been left: a few banners, the litter, a couple of cardboard placards.

I crouched in the gutter to retrieve one of the banners. Lisa’s. Halloween treats for girls and boys, not quiet nights in for moaning killjoys. Turning it over in my hands, I noted the neat writing. That’s what came of being a teacher. They were used to doing lettering and displays. Lisa had a talent for it, I guess.

“Do you think Halloween is wrong?”

I looked up to see the little boy from Lisa’s class staring at me, his large eyes solemn, his pale face pinched, as poorly dressed as always.

I forced a smile. “No. I don’t call it Halloween though. Not usually. I call it Samhain.”

He nodded, still serious. “So does my granny.”

That piqued my interest. “Who’s your granny?” I wondered if I knew her.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Just granny.”

“Okay.” I understood. When I’d been a little girl, I hadn’t really wanted to discuss my mother with anyone. Some things were best kept to yourself.

“Are you upset?” the little boy asked me.

I studied him. He was hard to read. My instinct told me I shouldn’t fob him off. “A little. Some strange things have been happening where I live.”

“At the inn?” He knew about that then.

“Yes.”

“Is it haunted?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it!” He clapped his hands together, more animated than I’d ever seen him. “Can I come and see it?”

“Of course,” I said. “Ask your granny to bring you.”

His face fell again. Would that be a problem?

“She doesn’t go out much.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She doesn’t like people.”

Oh. Fair enough. I struggled myself, some days.

“Tell her we’ll have tea and cake,” I continued, lowering my voice as though I was sharing a secret, “because my housekeeper, who is herself a ghost, makes the best cakes.”

“Like, ever?” The eyes widened.

“Ever. Ever.”

“Has she won prizes like at the village fete?”

“Big prizes.”

He nodded, solemn once more. “I’d like that.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Freddie,” he said, holding out a small hand to shake, like a man five times his age would. “What’s yours?”

“Alfhild,” I said. “But you can call me Alf. All my friends do.”

A soft light shone in his eyes. “I don’t have many friends.”

“It’s quality, not quantity that counts,” I told him. “I’m happy to be your friend. Good to meet you, Freddie.” We shook, my large hand swamping his tiny one.

Suddenly he perked up, lifting his head as though listening to something in the distance. “I have to go. Nice to meet you too, Alf.” With that, he took to his heels, scampering away in the direction of Whittle Stores and beyond.

I stood, watching him go.

Interesting, I thought, before stooping once more to begin collecting all the rubbish together to dispose of in the nearest bin.

There was something gloriously endearing about that little chap.

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