The Faery of Witchmas Past: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Special by Jeannie Wycherley

Author:Jeannie Wycherley [Wycherley, Jeannie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bark at the Moon Books
Published: 2022-12-19T16:00:00+00:00

I found myself standing in front of Whittle Inn. It was daytime and cold. The lawn, stiff with frost, was a testament to that. Over to my left, Speckled Wood spoke of a long, cold winter, many of the trees skeletal against the dull white sky. To my immediate right, a wooden board on stilts, as tall as me, had been hammered into the hard earth.

“For sale by public auction,” I read. “What the blazes?”

From behind me, Florence answered, “Don’t ask me, Miss. I was told to bring you here, so I did.”

“If Mary Daemonne asked you to jump over a cliff, would you do that too?” I sniped.

“Probably, Miss. She paid my wages.”

“Hmpf.” Fair comment. I didn’t pay Florence anything.

The exploitation of ghosts. I was good at that.

I stared up at my wonky inn in confusion. It didn’t look quite the same. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the white exterior paint wasn’t as white. In fact, I’d go as far as to suggest it appeared dingy. It might have been the weather, I suppose. And the black of the beams and the woodwork … Even from this distance I could see how flaky and scuffed the paint was. The windows were in desperate need of cleaning, and the thatch was green with moss and more sunken than usual.

“What is going on with my inn? Why’s it up for sale?” I turned to Florence.

“Sorry, Miss,” she whispered.

“Well!” I huffed. “I don’t know who’s behind this, but I’m going to put a stop to that right now!” I set off, marching towards the front door, unable to feel the crunch of grass beneath my shoes.

“You can’t do that, Miss Alf!” Florence floated after me, more agitated than ever.

“I can and I will!”

“No, you don’t understand—”

“I understand everything I need to.” I swooshed through the front door, standing open to receive me, and into what should have been reception. A rickety old table had been pushed against a wall. In prime place, a visitor’s book and a jam jar full of old biros and pencils with rubber bands wound around the top to act as erasers. Robes and books and magazines and newspapers were piled alongside, just chucked on any old how. The French dresser that lived next to the stairs was still in its habitual place, but it was chock-full of cheap trinkets I’d have chucked out at first sight.

The carpet of the main stairs leading up to the first floor was red and threadbare. The walls were also red, and the lights covered in red lampshades. These might even have been the silk lampshades of Gwyn’s time, so encrusted with dust and cobwebs were they.

“Ewww!” I shuddered and made my way into the bar before hastily pulling up. My head swivelled left and right and back again as I regarded the room with a mix of loathing and despair.

Here was the bar as it had been when I’d moved in. The grand fireplace had been walled over. The mirrors and shelving behind the bar removed.

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