The Ghost of Christmas Hearts (Excerpt)

Chapter 1: Arrival at Snowdrop

The blue hour pressed down on the valley, turning the evergreens brittle and black against a sky rimmed with oncoming snow. Graham Holt’s truck labored up the incline, headlights tunneling through a world reduced to powder and shadow. Fresh drifts gathered with vindictive purpose along the road’s crown, but he had grown adept at managing slippage and slide, his work took him from one wind-thrashed nowhere to another, and the late-model Chevy bore the scars to prove it. He stopped at the top of the lane, the last mile stretching before him as a white, unbroken expanse, and let the engine idle a minute. The dashboard clock glared at 4:18 pm. December’s curtain fell early here.

He rolled down his window. Cold slapped him with the clean, mineral tang that only fresh snow exhaled; it rasped his cheeks and brought water to his eyes. Even the sound here was different, a hush so total that his breath seemed loud. From this vantage he could see the silhouette of the Snowdrop Inn rising three stories above the grounds, Victorian gables jagged against the dusk, windows burning with the promise of firelight. The sign out front, suspended from a pair of wrought-iron arms, swung slowly and deliberately, the words “Snowdrop Inn, Est. 1806” scored deep into the battered wood. A figure-eight of footpaths cut through the accumulating snow, though as he watched the wind erased even those meager trails.

He shut off the engine. For a moment he lingered in the cab, hands braced on the wheel, letting the silence fill him up. Only when his body began to rebel, knee twinge, fingers pricking with pins and needles, did he reach for the duffel on the passenger seat and the battered wooden toolbox behind. He checked his phone out of habit; no bars, but that was to be expected. The town lay a good five miles off, and the mountains made a habit of swallowing cell signals whole.

Getting out, he was hit again by the cold, amplified now by the growing wind. Snow clung to his parka and beaded on his lashes, already dampening the collar of his flannel shirt. He made quick work of the tailgate, swinging it open with one hand and dropping the toolbox onto the packed snow. He moved methodically: shoulder the duffel, hoist the toolbox, pop the cab to check for any stray personal effects. Graham had spent the last six months living out of this truck, sometimes sleeping in the cab when the motels grew too sad or the work too remote. Everything he needed fit within two square yards. Still, he double-checked.

He followed the line of path lights, old-fashioned lanterns, each shrouded in a miniature blizzard, up the walk. His boots crunched with rhythmic precision, the sound echoed back to him from the clapboard façade. The main structure was even more imposing up close: three levels stitched together by elaborate gingerbread trim, the paintwork faded to a blue so pale it nearly vanished in the snow. Icicles, long as his forearm, dangled from the eaves, and every window glowed yellow with the promise of heat and light. The porch spanned the front of the inn, its balustrade laced with garlands of pine and white berries that, impossibly, looked fresh rather than plastic.

He paused at the bottom of the steps. Above him, the third-floor windows were rimed with frost, but here and there a section had been wiped clean from within, as though someone, or something, needed to see out. The sign creaked in the rising wind. Graham allowed himself a brief, involuntary shiver. There was no logical reason for it. He’d worked on stranger places: abandoned sanatoriums, old churches converted into yoga retreats, homes so steeped in mildew and black mold that ghosts would have been a relief. Still, the sight of the inn gave him pause, as if he’d stumbled on an artifact too sacred or haunted to touch.

He squared his shoulders and mounted the steps. The porch, recently cleared of snow, groaned beneath his weight; he made a mental note to check the joists. On either side of the door, candle sconces flickered with real flame. The brass knocker, shaped like an outstretched hand, was cold enough to burn his skin even through gloves. Before he knocked, Graham allowed himself one last survey of the grounds. The world behind him was a blue-white wasteland, unmarred except for his own tracks. For an instant, the sensation that he was being watched prickled his neck, but when he looked up, there was only the reflection of his own face in the glass: tall, dark-haired, cheeks roughened by cold and a week of stubble, eyes more tired than he remembered.

The familiarity unsettled him. It was as if he’d dreamed of this place once, or maybe several times, always in the same shade of winter evening, always with that uncanny sense of arrival. He shrugged off the feeling and knocked three times, steady and measured. The sound reverberated through the wood and into his bones.

For a long moment nothing happened. He stood still, breath ghosting in the air, snow collecting on his shoulders and the bill of his cap. Then, from somewhere deep within the house, came the muted but unmistakable echo of footsteps, first a shuffle, then a deliberate tread down the hallway. He exhaled, letting the tension go slack in his chest. He could still walk away, he thought. This could still be one more job, another old house in need of patching and paint, another temporary place in a long sequence of temporary places.

But as the footsteps drew closer and the light inside seemed to intensify, Graham knew with a disquieting certainty that he was meant to be here, tonight, at the door of the Snowdrop Inn. He didn’t know whether to feel comforted or cursed by the fact.

The door opened with a slow, deliberate scrape, as though the hinges had been oiled specifically to preserve the sound. A woman stood framed in the entry, small and white-haired, her form all but engulfed in a chunky wool cardigan the color of wet slate. “You must be Mr. Holt,” she said, voice pitched low and dry, like something long kept in a cedar chest. “You’ve made good time considering this weather. Please, come in before you freeze.”

She ushered him inside with a movement both imperious and oddly maternal, like a principal accepting a wayward student into her office. The foyer was a two-story chamber paneled in ancient, dark wood, its banisters carved with vine and acorn motifs smoothed to velvet by generations of hands. The air inside was thirty degrees warmer than outside, and carried a rich topsoil of scents: wax, lemon oil, the sharper tang of pine sap, and beneath it all a deep, secret undercurrent of something sweet and vanilla-soft. Graham set down his toolbox on the entry mat, careful not to track slush across the inlaid parquet.

The woman shut the door behind him, barring the cold with a solid iron latch that sang out as she released it. Up close, she could not have topped five feet, but every inch of her spoke to a lifetime of careful observation. Her face was lined in an even, methodical crosshatch, eyes the bright blue of cracked porcelain, and her hair, silver-white, immaculately swept up and pinned, gave her an air of severity that was undercut by the beginnings of a smile.

“Lillian Fairweather,” she said, extending a hand gloved in fine black wool. “Though most hereabouts call me Mrs. Fairweather. You’ll be wanting a mug of something hot, I expect.”

He shook her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Thank you, Mrs. Fairweather. Coffee would be… ” He hesitated, recalibrating. “Tea is fine, if it’s easier.”

“Nonsense. Guests are entitled to their little luxuries.” She pivoted on her heel, already leading the way down the main hall. “I keep the office this way, but let me show you the kitchen first. It’s the heart of the house, as my late husband always said.”

He fell in behind her, noting the precise alignment of every painting, every sconce. She walked with a brisk, no-nonsense gait, her shoes silent against the floorboards that creaked under Graham’s heavier tread. The hall was lined with mirrors, each framed in elaborate gilt or tortoiseshell, and though Graham kept his gaze forward, he couldn’t help noticing how the reflections seemed to lag a beat behind. The effect was likely a trick of the old glass, but it put him on edge.

They passed a grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor. “Thirty-four rooms in total, if you count the attic suites,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “Most are closed for the season, excepting a few regulars and the odd traveler.” She looked back at him, eyebrow arched. “Like yourself.”

“Your ad mentioned extensive woodwork in need of repair,” Graham said, almost apologetic. “That’s my specialty.”

“Exactly so.” She steered him past a set of double doors to their right. “We have guests, yes, but it’s the bones of the place that matter most this time of year. Tradition, you know. Memory.” There was a faint waver in her voice on that last word, but she covered it expertly. “And speaking of memory, do mind the step here.”

The kitchen, when they reached it, was bright and disarmingly modern. Stainless appliances gleamed beneath a grid of copper pans, but the hearth in the corner, blackened brick with an arched opening, reminded Graham that the room was once heated by fire alone. Mrs. Fairweather busied herself at the counter, drawing water from the tap and spooning coffee grounds into a battered French press. Graham set his duffel on the floor and stood awkwardly, taking in the sight of snowdrops in a vase on the windowsill, petals blindingly white against the night beyond.

“You’re not what I expected, Mr. Holt,” Mrs. Fairweather said without looking up. He smiled, self-deprecating. “Most people expect someone… older, maybe. Or at least not wearing three layers of flannel.”

“Oh, I have no prejudice against flannel.” She pressed the plunger and turned, her gaze appraising. “But I do have an eye for people who belong to a place. You walk like you’re measuring distances. You notice the mirrors.” A pause. “And you shivered at the threshold, which is always telling.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “It’s cold,” he said, too flatly. “Hard not to shiver.” “But not everyone does, in this house.” She poured two cups, hers with a generous splash from a bottle in the cupboard. “You’ll find the inn chooses its friends. Or its adversaries. Depending.”

He accepted the mug, grateful for the heat. “I’ll do my best to be the former.” Mrs. Fairweather sipped her coffee, studying him over the rim. “You’re divorced,” she said, matter-of-fact. He nearly choked on his first swallow. “Is it that obvious?”

“I make a study of people, Mr. Holt. You have the look of someone not used to staying anywhere long. A man who prefers things half-built, rather than finished.” He had to laugh at that. “Fair. Architecture didn’t suit me, either. That’s why I… ” He gestured at himself, the toolbox, the duffel. “The hands-on work helps.”

She nodded as if this was the answer to a riddle. “The hands know what the heart refuses,” she said, almost under her breath. Then, louder: “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Holt. I think you’ll find the house even more interesting by firelight.”

They moved through the dining room, table set for a party of ten, all chairs vacant save one at the head, where a small blue shawl was draped. Graham clocked the subtle list in the floorboards near the window and a ripple in the ceiling plaster above. In the parlor, a fire burned in an enormous tiled hearth, the logs arranged in a careful lattice that betrayed a practiced hand. Shadows jittered across the walls, dancing over portraits of stern-looking ancestors and still-lifes of winter fruit.

“This place is… ” Graham searched for the right word. “Immaculate. I’ve never seen a historic property in such condition.”

Mrs. Fairweather allowed a tight smile. “Most people don’t see what matters. You do, I think.” She stopped beside a sideboard, running her finger along the edge. “You’ll want to look at the ballroom first thing tomorrow. The floor’s original, and it groans with every change of weather.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “We lost a piano through the boards once. Dropped clean through to the root cellar. Scared the guests half to death.”

He laughed. “And the piano?”

“Oh, the piano was delighted, I’m sure.” She moved on, beckoning him up the main stairs, which gave under his footfalls with a polite, warning creak. “These will need reinforcement as well, but I’m sure you already knew that.” They reached the landing, where another series of mirrors flanked the hall. Here, too, Graham had the sense that something watched from within, a double layer of gaze, one from the reflection and another from behind it.

“Do you believe in hauntings, Mr. Holt?” she asked abruptly, pausing outside a closed door. He hesitated, uncertain whether she was joking. “Not really. I mean, I’ve never seen evidence that couldn’t be explained.” “Of course,” she said, almost to herself. “Skeptics make the best witnesses, in the end. You know the legend of this place?”

He shook his head.

Mrs. Fairweather drew herself up. “Every winter, on the anniversary of the fire, she comes back. They call her the Lady in Blue, though I doubt she ever wore anything so dowdy in life. She haunts the ballroom and the upper halls, searching. Some say for her lover, some say for justice, but I think… ” Here, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think she’s waiting for someone to see her. Not as a ghost, but as a person.”

Graham felt the back of his neck prickle, a sensation he attributed to the draft from the stairwell. “And has she been seen?”

Mrs. Fairweather’s lips pursed. “Once or twice. Often by those who don’t believe.” She touched the door lightly. “Your room is at the end of the hall, just past the music room. You’ll find it comfortable, if a little… ” She searched for a word. “Eccentric.”

“Thank you,” Graham said. “I’ll get started with a survey in the morning.” She smiled, this time with something warmer in it. “Rest well, Mr. Holt. The house is old, but she’ll keep you safe. Unless you go looking for trouble.”

With that, she retreated down the corridor, her footsteps swallowed by the thick runner. Graham watched her until she disappeared, then turned toward his room, toolbox in tow.

As he passed the music room, he heard a faint, high laugh, like a breath pressed into a flute. He froze, certain for a moment that someone stood on the other side of the door, but when he reached for the knob, the laughter died, replaced by the slow, steady tick of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.

He shook his head, chiding himself for falling prey to the local theater. He moved on, but not before noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that one of the mirrors in the hall now showed a door standing slightly ajar, when all the others remained shut.

He kept walking, but the image stuck with him, the warmth of the coffee replaced by something colder, older, and more intimately familiar than he cared to admit.

The guest quarters were at the far end of the second floor, overlooking the carriage drive and the smothered gardens below. Mrs. Fairweather had not exaggerated the eccentricity: the room was a time capsule, every surface crowded with evidence of prior centuries. Graham noted the four-poster bed, hung with blue damask drapes and surmounted by a carved tester, and the writing desk, mahogany, genuine, its legs like the necks of swans, set beneath the window. The bureau was a marvel of dovetailing, its drawers lined in faded chintz. Over the fireplace, a watercolor of the house itself in high summer, the snowdrop flowers bordering the front walk in white procession.

Graham set down his duffel at the foot of the bed and made a slow circuit, fingers trailing over polished wood, the glass knob of the closet, the cold marble of the washstand. The room was immaculate but not sterile; there was a faint, persistent hint of orange peel and old books, a sweetness he’d never encountered in a B&B or roadside motel. He checked the radiator (a Victorian cast-iron beast), ran water in the en suite to test the pipes, and found everything in order, if anything, the place ran too hot, the radiator ticking and popping like a metronome gone mad.

He unpacked with his usual economy: a week’s worth of flannel and denim, toiletries, a paperback mystery half-finished. He lined up his work shirts in the closet, the empty hangers clicking like castanets, then laid out his tools on the desk: digital tape, small level, the spiral-bound notebook where he mapped every site before beginning actual repairs. He had an hour or two of usable light before dinner, and planned to walk the perimeter and mark up tomorrow’s work.

He sat at the desk and opened his notebook, flipping past the scribbled floor plans and lists from his last three jobs. He sketched a rough diagram of the inn’s layout from memory, annotating possible trouble spots, ballroom floor, main stairwell, attic suites. He’d barely begun when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He looked up to see the flames in the fireplace jump from nothing, one minute the grate was empty and dark, the next, a neat pyramid of logs burst into yellow-white bloom, as if ignited by an invisible match.

He stood so fast the desk chair nearly toppled. For a moment he just stared, mouth dry, as the fire burned clean and odorless in the hearth. No kindling, no lighter in sight. He walked to the fireplace and crouched, peering in. The logs were real, stacked with the precision of someone who cared about the burn. The flames made no smoke, and the firebox was cold to the touch. Not just odd, impossible.

Graham shook his head, annoyed at himself. It was a trick, or some new house tech he hadn’t seen. Mrs. Fairweather, or whoever prepped the rooms, must have rigged it with a remote starter. But the certainty didn’t hold; the fire continued, bright and steady, never eating into the logs or leaving behind so much as a curl of ash. He forced himself to return to the desk, but his eyes flicked back to the hearth every minute or so, unwilling to let it out of his sight.

He lost time this way, caught between sketching and staring, until a new sound broke the quiet. At first, he thought it was the radiator again, expanding with heat. But then it came again: a laugh, high and clear, rising from the direction of the music room down the hall. Not a mechanical sound. Not a TV, unless someone had found the world’s most convincing actress. It was a woman’s laugh, light and unselfconscious, the kind that called up a memory of summer more than any painting ever could.

He froze, pencil halfway to the paper. The laugh repeated, now accompanied by the faintest rustle of silk or taffeta, the gentle sigh of fabric over hardwood. He listened, breath shallow, as the sound moved, no, drifted, from the music room to the corridor, then faded to nothing. He told himself, aloud, “It’s a guest. Or a recording.” But the explanation tasted wrong.

He finished the floor plan, though his handwriting wobbled. He jotted down questions for Mrs. Fairweather: Fireplace auto-ignite? Hidden speakers in music room? He set the notebook aside, reached for his water bottle, and found his hand trembling slightly.

The sky had gone indigo outside, the windows now nothing but squares of blackness punctuated by reflected lamplight. He crossed to the window and opened it a crack. The cold stung his face, shocking him back to his body, and for a few seconds he just leaned into the frigid air, watching his breath curl out and up. The night was silent, save for the wind and the distant groan of the inn’s sign on its chain.

He closed the window and sat on the bed, running through a mental checklist: Get a grip, Holt. Old houses make strange noises. Heating systems settle. People talk to each other in the hall. But the logic, for once, didn’t help.

The laughter returned, softer but closer, as though the woman had pressed her lips to the other side of his door. He held still, back ramrod straight, every muscle in his body alert for movement. He waited for the knock, the rattle of a doorknob, but nothing followed, just a lengthening, almost expectant silence.

Graham stood. He didn’t want to, but he had to. He padded across the Persian rug to the door, paused, and pressed his ear to the wood. There was only his own pulse, thudding slow and loud. He gripped the knob. It was icy cold.

He counted to three, then opened the door. The corridor was empty, lit by a single hurricane lamp at the far end. He stepped out, left the door open behind him, and let the soft click of it closing mark the line between logic and whatever this was.

The air out here was different: not just warmer, but charged, as though the whole hallway had been scrubbed with static. He turned toward the music room, drawn by a compulsion he couldn’t name. Halfway there, he caught a glimpse in one of the mirrors, a figure in blue, gliding just ahead of him, gone the instant he blinked.

He moved on, breath held, every sense stretched to breaking. He would follow the sound, because to do otherwise was to admit he was afraid, and Graham Holt refused to be haunted by anything but his own choices.

He placed his hand on the music room’s door. The wood was warm, humming faintly beneath his palm. He pushed it open and stepped inside, ready for whatever, whoever, waited in the blue-shadowed depths beyond.