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By Kay Hanifen
The wind howled, snowdrifts piling along the old inn as the inside slowly came to life. The Innkeeper, who’d had many names over the years, but simply preferred to go by his title, smiled as he stoked the flames in the fireplace, savoring the warmth that drove out the winter chill. Nicodemus, his massive, black, Norwegian Forest Cat, curled under the Christmas tree, which smelled of the sweetest pine. The scent mixed with the fragrance of cookies and the turkey baking in the oven.
The Innkeeper put on a Bing Crosby vinyl, sat in his chair, and grabbed the nearest book, reading by the firelight.
Everything was just so. A Christmas so idyllic that it would make Charles Dickens and Norman Rockwell seethe with envy. Now, all he needed was someone to share it with. Nicodemus notwithstanding, of course. The cat, for all his faults, was a wonderful companion during this time of year, but Christmas Eve was never meant to be spent alone.
Seeming to hear his thoughts, the cat got to his feet and growled, arching his back in anticipation of a new arrival. The Innkeeper rolled his eyes. “No need for that. You knew guests were coming.”
Nicodemus scratched at his chain collar, unimpressed with the admonishment. He circled his spot between the Christmas tree and fireplace and flopped down for another long winter’s nap.
The quiet of their evening was soon interrupted by a loud rapping at the front door. The Innkeeper smiled and set aside his book, getting to his feet. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,” he said to himself as he made his way to the front door.
The moment he cracked the door open, the wind blew it the rest of the way, revealing eleven people bundled up in heavy coats and carrying their baggage. An older man in his sixties smiled, his eyes crinkling behind his scarf. “Hi, I don’t mean to be a bother, but we were on our way to a Christmas caroling competition when our bus hit some black ice. Reverend Lane spotted the candles in your window and thought you might be willing to help us out.”
The Innkeeper stepped aside, letting them stomp their way inside. “You’re no bother at all. My inn welcomes all travelers. Dinner is just about ready.”
One by one, the eleven travelers filed inside, shaking the snow off their boots and sighing with relief as they stepped into the warmth.
“You can set your baggage anywhere. I’ll take care of it once I’ve warmed you all up.”
♪♪♪
Mildred stumbled inside and relaxed as the heat warmed her skin. Unzipping her coat, she hung it in the closet with the rest. Her neck ached a bit, probably whiplash from when the bus spun out. It was lucky that nothing worse had happened other than getting stuck in a snowbank. She’d been white knuckling the seat in front of her as Ronnie made his way along icy switchbacks.
“Let me take a look at that head, Carrie,” Erica said from the living room. Reverend Lane had taken the brunt of the crash, hitting her head hard enough for the skin of her forehead to split open. The splash of red looked unsettling against the blinding white of the snow. She was probably fine, but it conjured memories of another fall, one from so many years ago.
Maven elbowed her and grinned. “Come on. The Innkeeper said he just took dinner out of the oven. I’m starving.”
Behind her, Rich and John both wrinkled their noses in sync. “It smells like turkey,” Rich said, looking faintly queasy. He and John were both avowed vegetarians—John, because he was a card carrying PETA member who believed meat was murder, and Rich, for reasons he never really liked to discuss.
“We’ll see if he made something edible for us,” John said. “If not, I have my stash of trail mix.”
Maven rolled her eyes. “Right, because a random old man obviously made food to accommodate the vegetarians that he didn’t know would stay at his B&B tonight.”
“I never said I’d be mad if he didn’t have food we could eat,” John retorted. “And I’m a vegan, not a vegetarian.”
“How can you tell if someone’s a vegan?” Maven smirked in the way she always did when she was gearing for a fight. “Don’t worry. They’ll tell you.”
Usually, Mildred enjoyed watching Maven verbally spar with the others—especially Kate, whose holier-than-thou attitude grated on everyone—but she wasn’t in the mood. The Christmas Caroling competition was tomorrow, and if they were stuck at this inn, they were going to be a no-show. She had been looking forward to this for months. It was the first time St. Wenceslas had made it to the state level, and it was thanks to Rachel, who despite not being a regular attendee at the church, volunteered for the position of choir director for the first time this year. She’d turned this small, underdog congregation into regional champions, and soon, hopefully, champions for the state. If they got out of this stupid snow storm, of course.
“Did somebody say vegan?” the Innkeeper asked, making all four jump. They hadn’t heard him coming. For an old man, he seemed to move on cat’s feet.
“Uh, yeah. I’m vegan. But don’t worry about it,” John said. “I know you didn’t plan on visitors tonight, so it’s okay. You don’t have to do anything special.”
“Actually, my niece is vegan, so I made her a mushroom seitan wellington. I doubt my family will make it in the storm, so I’ll just pop it into the oven for you.” The man’s eyes were eerily bright and intense. Right now, they were kind, but Mildred would hate for him to turn a wrathful gaze on her.
“Oh, that’s too kind. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Come on. I’ll show you what I made for her.” He led Rich and John into the dining room, where the table was covered with a massive feast. Mildred’s jaw dropped. Turkey, green bean casserole, flaky meat pies, bowls of pomegranate seeds, mashed potatoes, three different kinds of breads, and a massive bowl of stew adorned the table.
“How did we end up at Martha Stewart’s Inn?” Maven whispered to her.
Reverend Lane limped in with Rachel and Erica at her arms while the rest—Kate, Ronnie, Brenda, and Bethany—followed behind her. They helped her to her seat, Reverend Lane flashing them a grateful smile. She wore a bandage on her forehead, red faintly showing through the gauze.
“Thank you, mister—uh—” Reverend Lane began, frowning as she tried to recall the Innkeeper’s name. It was at that moment that Mildred realized she didn’t know his name either. She glanced over at Maven, but she wore the same expression of mild consternation.
“My home is welcome to all who need it,” the Innkeeper replied, ignoring her question. “Go ahead and grab what you want. My family likely won’t make it this year, and we don’t want any of this to go to waste.”
Reverend Lane smiled at him, though there was something calculating in her gaze. “So, should I have the traditional six pomegranate seeds, or is it time for me to have all twelve?”
As the others glanced around, confused, the Innkeeper chuckled, smiling at the reverend like she was an old friend. “You can have as many as you’d like.”
A massive floof of a black cat jumped onto the chair at the head of the table. Without thinking, Mildred cooed as she approached. She’d always been fond of cats. Her adopted stray cat had been a source of comfort after everything that happened in the aftermath of the Christmas she preferred to forget. She’d loved that creature until he passed a year ago. “Oh, aren’t you pretty!”
She held out a hand for the cat to sniff. It let her pet it, shooting the Innkeeper a look that seemed almost smug. As she scratched under the chin, she noticed the collar—a chain like the chokers that dogs will sometimes wear, but with strange symbols carved into it.
Kate wrinkled her nose in disapproval of the cat taking a seat at the table. “Does your cat normally take its meals with you?”
“No, Nicodemus usually eats in the kitchen,” the Innkeeper said. “But the little pampered prince thinks that holidays are the exception. Just one moment.” He took a small plate and carved into the turkey, cutting some up and placing it on the floor for the cat.
Nicodemus gracefully hopped off the table and began nibbling at it. Kate sniffed in disapproval, but the cat ignored her completely. He was engaged by something else. No, someone else. Nicodemus stared intently, almost hungrily, at Erica, as though he was imagining that the food on the plate was her instead of the turkey. But that was silly. The cat was probably just watching as some of the jewelry she wore glinted in the candlelight.
After serving herself, Mildred took her seat between Maven and Bethany. They were about to dig in, but then Kate cleared her throat. Everyone looked at her. “Are we forgetting something?” she asked primly. “We are a church choir for goodness sake.”
Reverend Lane gave her the placid smile she always wore whenever Kate voiced her disapproval. “Ordinarily, yes, but we’re guests here, and we don’t want to make our host or anyone else uncomfortable. Matthew 6:6. But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you. You’re welcome to say grace to yourself if you would like. Just like I did before digging into this wonderful meal.”
“Ooh, Biblical shade,” Maven whispered, making Mildred and Bethany giggle. Kate glared in their general direction and harumphed.
Ignoring the exchange, Reverend Lane turned to the Innkeeper. “I feel so bad for your family to be missing out on all this amazing food. They really are blessed to have you.”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to eat it all on my own. So, please. Enjoy.”
Soon, the room was filled with the sounds of chewing, combined with the crackling fire and the Bing Crosby record in the next room. Mildred’s eyes widened when she took her first bite. Everything exploded with flavor. The green beans in the casserole were perfectly crunchy without being undercooked, and the mashed potatoes were creamy and salty while the cranberry sauce added a touch of sweetness. It took her back to the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners her mom used to make before she got sick.
“So, how long do you think it’ll take for the roads to be dug out?” Ronnie asked between bites of turkey.
The Innkeeper shook his head. “We’re in a pretty remote place, so it’ll be a couple days at least.”
Collective groans rose from the table. “Isn’t there someone you can call?” Bethany asked.
“Sorry. This place is a bit of a dead zone for the cell signal. And the blizzard already knocked out the phone and internet. The only reason we have electricity right now is that I have a backup generator.” He sighed. “It happens every snowstorm. The best we can do is sit and wait.”
Another round of collective groans. They all had been so excited for the competition. Everyone had given up their Christmas plans to be there. And now they were stuck at this inn on Christmas Eve with nothing to show for it.
“It’s a shame we have to miss it,” Reverend Lane said, picking at her food. “Ramona would have been so proud we made it this far. The Christmas Choir was her pride and joy.” Her wife had been the choir director before passing from cancer the year before. Last year, they had no music for their Christmas service, all mourning the other Mrs. Lane. Then, Rachel came along and transformed their choir like Whoopi Goldburg in Sister Act.
Rachel took her hand. “I’m just honored you let me fill those shoes.”
Reverend Lane smiled. “I know she would have been so proud of you.”
They all fell into a solemn silence for a bit, the room feeling slightly emptier as Mildred’s mind drifted to those who she would never spend a Christmas with again.
But then Reverend Lane shook her head and clapped her hands, smiling brightly in the way that people do when they’re trying to put on a cheerful front. “But let’s not dwell on auld acquaintances. We still have this wonderful meal, this beautiful inn, this wonderful host, and each other. Let’s make the most of it.”
Bethany grinned and raised a glass of red wine. “Hear, hear.” She and Mildred clinked them, and soon, the whole table was toasting.
“You know,” Rich said, chewing thoughtfully on his mushroom seitan wellington, “We all have our Secret Santa gifts, right? We can do our gift exchange now instead of after the performance.”
“Oh shit, I almost forgot about that,” Maven said.
“Language,” Kate admonished, glaring in her direction.
Maven rubbed the corner of her eye with her middle finger, not so subtly flipping her off. Kate must have noticed, because her nostrils flared as though she was about to lay into her.
But then, they were saved by Brenda, who laughed awkwardly. “You guys can do that. I’ll just help clean up back here.”
“You don’t have to worry about it. You’re my guest,” the Innkeeper said.
She shook her head. “It’s no problem at all. I’m not participating in Secret Santa this year. Money’s tight, you know?”
“No, I insist you don’t lift a finger.” For a moment, something intense flickered in the Innkeeper’s gaze. But the moment Mildred saw it, the look was gone. “Even if you’re not participating in the gift exchange, I’m sure they all want you around. They’re your friends after all.” He smiled warmly, his bright eyes shining. “Besides, all the cookies are in the living room, and they always go fast. You’ll be missing out on the good stuff if you stay behind to clean up.”
For a moment, she looked as though she was going to protest, but then a thoughtful expression crossed her face. “I guess it can’t hurt to watch.” She smiled, her expression becoming mischievous. “And pig out on Christmas cookies, of course. If your baking is half as good as your dinner, I bet they’ll be the best cookies I’ve ever had.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “You’re too kind.”
When they finished dinner, the Innkeeper led them into the living room, which looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. A well-trimmed tree stood watch in the corner near the blazing hearth while stockings had indeed been hung by the chimney with care. Three plates of cookies had been placed strategically on side tables.
Mildred avoided the sugar cookies, as was her custom, and went for a chocolate chip. It was perfectly soft, the bitterness of the dark chocolate and the sea salt sprinkling creating a wonderful contrast to the sweetness of the milk chocolate and the cookie. She closed her eyes, savoring it as she took her seat in a wingback chair near the fireplace. Her neck still ached from the whiplash, and she hoped that the warmth from the fire would help relax her aching muscles.
“I went ahead and put your presents under the tree. I hope you don’t mind.” the Innkeeper said as he changed the record player, and Judy Garland’s voice warbled “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Reverend Lane said from her seat on the couch. “Now, who wants to go first?”
Mildred saw her name on one of the boxes, and it seemed to call to her, pulling her in a way she hadn’t felt since she was eight years old. She got to her feet and reached for it, picking it up and taking it back to her seat.
“Well? What’s inside?” Maven asked, curiously peering over her shoulder.
She slowly untied the bow and pulled off the wrapping paper. Then, she pulled off the lid from the box, revealing her gift.
Sunny Day’s Bakery Sugar Cookie mix.
She hadn’t seen this brand in years, but it used to be her favorite. Once, out of morbid curiosity, she looked it up, only to find that the brand had been discontinued. It was probably for the best. After that one Christmas, she could barely stand to look at it.
But where did this bag come from?
She held up the gift for people to see and plastered a smile on her face. “I don’t know how you found this but thank you.” She massaged the powdery ingredients, feeling them squish beneath the plastic packet. Suddenly, she had to say it. There was something ugly festering in her chest, and she had to get it out. “It kind of reminds me of a story, actually. I guess you could call it a ghost story. But I don’t think you want to hear it.”
What was she doing? They were all going to think she was crazy. But she felt as though she had to tell it. She had to lance the poison from her system before it was too late.
The Innkeeper watched her, the intensity once more returning to his gaze. His smile did nothing to help soothe her in the onslaught of his bright stare. “You know, the Victorians used to tell ghost stories during the holidays. They would stay up late on Christmas Eve until their Yule Log burned out and take turns scaring each other. I’ve always been fond of that tradition. It’s a shame that it fell out of fashion.”
“I’ve always loved a good scary story,” Reverend Lane said, staring at him, her gaze almost as piercing as the Innkeeper’s.
“Tell us, tell us, tell us,” Maven chanted. Soon, Rich and John joined in.
She stared at the cookie mix. If she didn’t tell the story now, it would go with her to her grave, and she wasn’t sure if she could live with that. She couldn’t carry this secret, this burden, for any longer. “Okay!” she exclaimed, and then softer, “Okay.”
Looking up, she met the expectant gazes of her friends. “So, this is the story of a girl named Millie.”
