Six Months Later
Alban House
Lights twinkled on the ten-foot-tall Christmas tree that stood in the parlor, filled to the brim with my family’s ornaments, some from many generations before, others from my own childhood, and still others accumulated by Amity and me over the years. She, Matthew, and I had decorated the tree together, Christmas music softly playing, spiced eggnog in a tureen on the sideboard, a fire blazing in the fireplace. I couldn’t remember a time when I was so deliriously happy.
After Amity had gone to bed, Matthew and I sat together on the sofa in the darkened room, watching the fire.
“It came today.” He smiled at me. “I was waiting until now to show it to you.” He opened the drawer on the end table, pulled out a small hardcover book, and handed it to me.
THE HAUNTING OF WHITEHALL MANOR
David Coleville
Foreword by Harris Peters
Months earlier, Harris and I had held a press conference at Alban House to announce the creation of the David Coleville Retreat for Artists and Writers, which we planned to run together. We also announced the discovery of a lost manuscript by Coleville himself.
It caused as much of a furor as we thought it would—the literary world was knocked on its collective ear and produced expert upon expert who examined the manuscript and concluded that it was indeed written by Coleville.
What would become of the manuscript itself remained to be seen. If we sold it at auction, it could bring millions of dollars. But I was leaving that up to Harris, and he seemed to want to keep something of his father’s all to himself, for the moment at least. I also left it up to him to tell the world, or not, about his parentage. Although it involved my family, this was really his business, not mine. He chose to keep that to himself as well, for the time being.
I opened the book for the first time. “In the foreword, Harris tells the world the truth about Coleville’s death,” I said to Matthew, my eyes scanning the page.
“Do you still feel okay about that?” he asked, putting an arm around my shoulders.
“I do,” I said. “The man died saving my mother. If he hadn’t given his life for her, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“I knew I liked the guy for some reason.”
I opened the book to the first chapter, marveling at the look of the words on the printed page.
“You know, we never did go back and read this entire story,” I said. “We always said we’d find some time to read it from beginning to end and learn how they fell in love.”
“That’s right,” Matthew said, leaning back and setting his feet on the ottoman.
“What do you say, Reverend?” I grinned at him. “In the mood for a good ghost story?”
“Why not?”
So with snow falling, the tree lights twinkling, and the spirits of my family swirling around us, I took a deep breath and began to read.