A Halloween Heart: A Romantic Holiday Story

A Halloween Heart:

  A Romantic Holiday Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

  * * * * *

  A Halloween Heart

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer

  * * * * *

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © Maksim Šmeljov – Fotolia.com

  This title was formerly released as “Haunted Snowflake”.

  * * * * *

  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!

  Happy reading… and Happy Halloween!

  Enjoy!

  * * * * *

  A Halloween Heart:

  A Romantic Holiday Story

  “Something wrong?” he asks with a knowing grin as I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes.

  I’d resent the smirk if it wasn’t so genuine. And devilish. And charming.

  I mean, the guy’s done everything but hold my hand for the last ten minutes.

  “No, not at all,” I bluff, putting on my best walking ghost tour face as I straighten my old-timey bonnet. “I just, you know, this is supposed to be my biggest night of the year. Halloween and all.”

  I do this little “jazz hands” thing and make my voice kind of fake spooky on the “Halloween and all” bit, instantly regretting both.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. “Well, there is that State Fair going on off the highway, and tons of costume parties and then there are those folks who just like to stay in with a big bowl of popcorn and an all-night monster movie marathon…”

  His voice trails off, as if perhaps a scary movie marathon is what he’d rather be doing as well. (And, frankly, it sounds pretty darn good at the moment.)

  I adjust my knee-length apron for the fourth time and give him yet another apologetic smile. “I’d be glad to give you a refund, sir.”

  He looks almost… hurt… that I’d even offer.

  “I just mean, well, these tours are usually a little more… lively… with more people on board.”

  He gives that handsome smirk, runs a smooth hand through dark curls and says, “Should ghost tours even be lively?”

  I snort. “No, not really.”

  I take one more look out the front door of the Frightful Footsteps main office, hoping for at least one or two more guests, see none and plaster on a smile.

  “Guess it’s just you and me then,” I say brightly.

  I mean, hey, there are worse things a single gal could be doing on Halloween than guiding a handsome hunk around the “haunted” houses of tiny Snowflake, South Carolina, am I right?

  I stand from behind the registration desk, squeeze my way past the life-size plastic skeleton hanging beside it and allow my ankle length skirt to fall to brush my black walking shoes. (Pretty much the only nod to “modern” attire allowed on the job.)

  You see, here at Frightful Footsteps Walking Ghost Tours – emphasis on the “Walking” – we’re not just supposed to know the ins and outs of every haunted house in Snowflake, but dress from the time period that most of the “ghosts” come from.

  Why most of the ghosts come from the Salem Witch Trials era I have no idea, but that’s apparently where my boss Mr. Ghoulson – NOT his real name – came up with the inspiration for my current getup.

  No matter.

  The pay is good, the hours sweet and instead of paying $40 for an hour to walk around town with a personal trainer, I get paid to do it instead. Forty-five minutes of straight-up cardio, Halloween style, here I come!

  Sorry; here we come.

  The office has been decked out for Halloween pretty much since I started working here, nine long months ago. By now I know just when to avoid the talking pumpkin over the (fake) crackling fireplace and when to duck as the dusty Paper Mache spider descends from the ceiling to hiss and glow its red eyes every hour on the hour.

  He follows me through the Victorian era cottage that houses the Frightening Footsteps “corporate” offices until we’re outside the front door and I’ve locked it, tight, checking three times just in case.

  “You’re very… thorough,” he comments, regarding me with that playful smirk of his.

  I resist an eye roll and give him my standard line: “Yeah, well, the ghosts have a way of sneaking inside if I don’t lock the place up tight.”

  He smiles rather than chuckles.

  See, this is what I mean when I say these tours are more fun with more people.

  Usually that crack gets a bigger laugh.

  “Have you lived here long?” I ask, hoisting my old-timey flickering lantern, which is really plastic and little more than a dressed up flashlight.

  “Just a few months,” he answers as I slow down a little so that we can walk side by side.

  I sneak a peek at his 30-something face and try to remember where I’ve seen him before.

  He looks vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for me to snap my fingers and place him. He’s tall, a few inches taller than me, and fit and trim in his crisp khakis and maroon turtleneck sweater that hugs his athletic torso.

  Ahem, I think, forcing myself to focus. Then, out loud, I ask him, “What made you want to take our ghost tour tonight?”

  “It’s Halloween, right?”

  I make that “Peshaw” sound. “I wish more folks felt like you.”

  After a brief pause he says, “Actually, I was driving home the other night and saw you in your… costume… and had to check you out. I mean, check this out.”

  I turn to him, fluff up my frilly lace apron with my free hand and smirk. “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. The group you were guiding that night seemed very interested and I just had to come see what all the fuss was about.”

  I nod as we reach the sidewalk in front of Frightening Footsteps.

  We’re on Icicle Lane right now, what passes for a “Main Street” in tiny Snowflake.

  To our left are quaint and cozy little shops, all with gable roofs and rich wood siding, big front windows featuring pumpkins or hardware or fall leaves or books or coffee mugs.

  Trick or treaters walk from door to door as shopkeepers poke their heads out, arms filled with big plastic witch cauldrons heaping with top shelf candy and paper cups full of cider and hot cocoa.

  Yeah, it’s that kind of street, in that kind of town.

  To our right is more of the same; a picture postcard scene straight out of Norman Rockwell. That is, if Normal Rockwell specialized in Halloween.

  But we’re not headed down Main Street. Not tonight.

  “If you’ll follow me,” I say, taking the wide alleyway directly to our right. “Your tour is about to begin.”

  I’m using my extra spooky voice and he follows quietly, his leather sneakers crunching on the gravel in the alleyway.

  Darkness has come to Snowflake, and with it Halloween Night.

  I walk slowly; the fewer people there are, the faster the tour goes and I want to give my one and only paying customer his money’s worth, especially on the spookiest night of the year.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Asher?” I ask, recalling his name from the debit card he used to pay for the $24.95 Deluxe Tour.

  His face blushes in the light of my boxy lantern. “Please, call me Greg. And, to answer your question, I’m more of a doubter than a beli
ever.”

  I smile. “I was too, Greg, before I started this job.”

  The alleyway is wide but short, bordering on Arctic Avenue, yet another of Snowflake’s many charming side streets.

  Past more Victorian era homes – or those built to resemble the period – and three bedroom, two bath “gingerbread” houses featuring glowing pumpkins is a decrepit three story boarding house that looks more haunted than it really is.

  The only house not decked out for the holidays with blinking orange lights and 99-cent spun cotton spider webs, Slocum Manor – or as we like to call it at Frightening Footsteps, “Slaughter Manor” – has been abandoned for over a century.

  “100 years ago,” I croak, beginning the tour in earnest, “Snowflake, South Carolina didn’t exist. Instead, the town was called Slocum, South Carolina, on behalf of its founder, Jebediah Slocum.”

  I hear a soft chuckling coming from beside me and look up a few inches to see Greg covering his face. “Sorry, it’s just… how come every spooky old ghost story starts with a guy named ‘Jebediah Slocum,’ you know?”

  I stifle a grin and continue my tour. “As I was saying… Jebediah Slocum owned the town’s only fishing