Chapter 1

Dying is often worse than death itself. Particularly in romantic relationships. Not that I would call the relationship with my boyfriend, Brad, romantic. Not anymore. The romance part had all but died.

As I stood barefoot on the edge of the porch that overlooked the lake, waiting for his expected arrival and the likely breakup, movement behind the darkened window of the boathouse ripped my attention from my conflicted thoughts.

At my near-silent gasp, Aspen, my red retriever emotional support dog, sprang to a sitting position and touched my hand with his cool nose. I buried my fingers in his fur as I squinted and peered closely at the boathouse, focused on the possibility. Could it be? I’d been searching for signs of the infamous apparition since I’d moved here. Had the ghost finally shown me favor and allowed me to see it? I tugged the strings of my hoodie, shivering. Aspen kept his gaze glued between me and the boathouse. 

The ghost activity at the inn in Spirit Lake, Minnesota, drew people like hummingbirds to sugar water, resulting in profits for the entire town. Or storm chasers to a tornado funnel. When I was little and stayed with my grandparents, Grandpop stood by the screen door, his hands on his hips, during a tornado warning. I’d sneak up behind him, careful that he wouldn’t know I was there, and send me back downstairs. I would clasp my hands in front of me, adrenaline pumping as we waited for the tornado to materialize, yet desperately hoping it didn’t. The anticipation got my blood pumping just as much as the fear of what if it did. 

When I saw nothing more in the boathouse window, my heart resumed its normal pace. I sat on the edge of the porch beside Aspen, crossing my legs in front of me, my attention torn between the boathouse and Brad. It had been a long time since we fed our relationship significant attention, much less romance. We’d taken plenty of withdrawals from the account over the past year, but few deposits. It’d be fair to say we deposited nearly zero since my parents gifted me the Spirit Lake Inn six months ago, which they inherited from my grandparents. The last time Brad and I spoke three weeks ago, he’d said something had to change, that we were phasing out to nothing. Yet, neither of us so much as made a phone call to the other until today. Our relationship was breathing its last dying painful breath. I figured Brad’s visit this evening was to take off the tourniquet, stop the slow bleeding, and put the darn thing out of its misery.

Still, I wasn’t sure I was ready to let it go. What if this was only a phase, and we got the train back on the track? It had been Brad that carried me through my initial sobriety six years ago. And it had been Brad who was the stable, practical one, talking reason when I’d lost it. It had been Brad that I used to go to with everything. At one point, he had been my best friend. And now I wondered if we could even call what we had friendship.

Owning the inn had fulfilled me in ways Brad never had. I hadn’t even known my life was void of anything until I’d moved here. The industrial ovens for baking when I couldn’t sleep, the gardening shed, the employees, the guests—all of it. Even my name proved this was my destiny—Andie Rose Kaczmarek, Polish for Innkeeper.

There. The curtains fluttered in the boathouse window. I drew a deep breath and held it, afraid to even blink. I remained motionless, waiting…

The flutter stopped as suddenly as it started, now eerily still. I let out the breath I’d been holding and shook my head. Despite Grandpop and Honey—a name everyone called my grandmother, including me—being solid believers in the spirit world, (more in the form of angels), I’d never been convinced of a spirit presence, so why—Wait! There it was again. This time it wasn’t a mere flutter, but more a draft fanning the curtains back and forth. “Of course, you dummy,” I muttered. “That’s exactly what it was, a draft.” If the window was open, even a crack, that explained it.

I exhaled slowly and leaned into Aspen, who hadn’t yet relaxed enough to lie back down. I wrapped my arm around him and buried my cheek in his fur. I’d begun having panic attacks six years ago after a devastating health diagnosis of the “C” word that rendered me three months to live. It eventually turned out to be a misdiagnosis. But while the limited lifespan was off the table, the anxiety remained all too real. I could entertain what if scenarios better than Stephen King could write them. Three years ago, at the suggestion of a therapist, I’d found Aspen to be my certifiable support animal, near-constant companion, and best friend.

Now, we both gazed at the monstrous weeping willow tree along the lake’s shoreline and near the boathouse. A slight breeze in the evening air stirred the graceful droop of the willow’s silvery leaves. Though after the adrenaline rush moments ago, the willow’s leaves now resembled bony fingers, scratching and reaching, looking rather sinister in the setting sun. Aspen finally got comfortable and lay on his side, snoozing. Finally, I leaned over and laid my forehead against his, looking into deep brown eyes that comforted me more than a security blanket ever could. I slowly stood, stretched, and looked at the boathouse one more time. Nothing.

I glanced behind us toward two couples on the lawn as they finished a game of croquet in the last embers of daylight, and a young man and woman, clearly in love, as they huddled together in front of the fire, her head on his shoulder. The movement from the boat shed didn’t appear to catch anyone else’s attention. After one more look, I turned to go back inside, Aspen beside me.

Seeing as there had been only speculation and unprovable claims without solid proof of ghosts at the inn, the verdict was still out on whether I believed. Yet, I’m not sure how one could prove a claim. It’s not like you could chain up a ghost, then run and get everyone to come and see it. Although, if I decided I didn’t believe, I would never admit it. They’d run me right out of the town. The townsfolk took this paranormal stuff seriously. Halloween and the accompanying harvest festival had been the hot topic of conversation since I’d gotten here in April: who was handling what, improvements they could make from last year’s festival, friendly competition—and some not so friendly—on the business decoration contest, and plans for ghost hunting. As a child, when I visited my grandparents on school breaks, I’d learned that the inn was booked solid through the entire holiday season, from September through December. Also, many locals made frequent trips to the inn, hoping to catch sight of the ghost as early as August. They claimed to drive out to our on-site restaurant or our coffee bar, but I knew the ghost was the chief attraction. Now that we were at the beginning of October, the town’s energy had ramped up to astonishing—and often frightening—proportions. The founders of Spirit Lake had proclaimed it to be the Paranormal Capital of the country since Anoka had earned the title of the Halloween Capital of the World. 

Aspen and I checked in with Jade, the twenty-something gal working the front desk, before heading to my room to get ready to go meet Brad at Brewski’s Pub. The pub was next door to the protestant church and halfway down Spirit Lane, the main street that ran through town. It was disconcerting that he’d chosen a pub to meet since I was a recovering alcoholic. I have six years of sobriety under my belt and can frequent alcohol establishments without a problem, but I don’t go to one unless I have a good reason. I knew that if we were indeed ripping off the Band-Aid, which was probable and about time, I wouldn’t be tempted to drown my sorrows or celebrate with a glass of champagne. That alone told me the relationship wasn’t a healthy one, and it was time to let it go gracefully.

As Aspen and I walked past the library to my room, the copy of The Woman in Black by Susan Hill that I’d just re-shelved the day before lay under a lamp on the table between two reading chairs. I re-shelved it and finished the trip to my room at the far end of the inn. Last room on the left. 

A mere fifteen minutes later, I emerged in a pair of black jeans and a clean hoodie, my long curly red locks tied back in a ponytail. No need to waste time and energy on getting ready for a breakup. While I had dressed, Aspen laid on my bed with his nose on his front crossed paws, one eye open watching me. He’d come to know that when I dressed down, it meant he would go with me; when I dressed in my glad rags, there was a chance he would have to stay home—which wasn’t often. His behavior said it all. Today I needed him with me.

When I walked into the foyer, Ivan, the inn’s chef, stood beside Jade at the front desk. His elbows rested on the counter, and he leaned on them, towel clenched in his hands. When he saw me, he stood. 

“I was just leaving for the day,” he said, his tone chillier than the evening autumn air. 

Jade’s eyes widened ever so slightly. She and Ivan were friends, and she was more than aware of his resentment of me and my intrusion into his professional life. Before I acquired the inn, everything involving the kitchen was his turf, and no one dared to go near that line, much less cross it. As far as I was concerned, the inn was mine, and if I wanted to use the bloody kitchen while he was gone, I would use it. I cleaned up after myself, so he had nothing to fuss about. If I used the last of something, I ordered new. He would have to get used to it—or not. 

“Don’t rush on my account,” I said. “Aspen and I are just heading to Brewski’s Pub.” It was no secret that I abstained from alcohol because of addiction issues in my past, so it wasn’t a surprise when Ivan snorted in response. 

“The pub?” Jade inquired. 

“Yup. Meeting someone. Jade, I’ll see you shortly.” I turned toward Ivan and smiled, my usual attempt to soften the hardness there. “See you tomorrow.”

“The pub serves food,” he stated.

“You’re right. I’m aware of that.” I frowned, unsure where he was going with this. 

“So most people don’t like dog hair in their food.”

I cocked my head to the side. Though I didn’t bring Aspen into the inn’s kitchen, Ivan had made it clear since I’d been here that he didn’t like Aspen in the guest area of the inn at all. 

“He’s a service dog, Ivan. You know that.” I tipped my head. “See you tomorrow.”

I left before hearing any cynical comment he might have uttered. I wasn’t in the mood for his moodiness.

I opened the driver’s door of my forest green Kia Soul, and Aspen hopped in and over to the passenger seat, sitting tall and proud like he owned the place. He graced me with a brief glance of his chocolate brown eyes, the ones I could never resist. I slid in behind the steering wheel. It had been tempting to walk the mile and a half, knowing that Brad could give me a ride back home, but walking on the back road that led into town at dusk held no appeal. Animals didn’t scare me, but people did. What people can do to other people is astonishing. And there were many tourists here, meaning they were people none of the townsfolk knew. Not to mention that far too many people admit to not seeing well driving at dusk or after dark. Add to that, most drivers don’t exactly look for pedestrians on a back road. 

I found a parking space in the narrow strip around the side of the pub. I took a deep breath and looked at Aspen, who watched me closely, seemingly in tune with my every emotion. “Come on, dude, let’s get this over with, shall we?” He tipped his head to the side as if asking, Do we have to? I jerked my head toward the pub. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can move forward.” I slid out of the car, my devoted canine right behind me.