The first guest to complain about a ghost arrived at my front desk wearing fuzzy pink slippers and the expression of a woman who was one inconvenience away from committing a felony.
I knew the look well.
I worked in hospitality long enough to recognize it.
“Miss Walsh, I specifically requested a quiet room.”
Mrs. Pritchard stood across from me, clutching the front of her floral bathrobe. Her silver hair was twisted into a bun, and the moisturizing mask covering her face had begun to crack around her mouth.
I glanced at the clock.
9:37 p.m.
Sixteen hours into my shift. Three cups of coffee. One functioning brain cell.
“Of course, Mrs. Pritchard. Is there a problem with your room?”
“There’s a crowd of people standing beneath my window.”
That was new.
“Are they making noise?”
“They’re calling for a woman named Violet.”
I stopped typing.
“Violet?”
“Yes. Apparently, she’s dead.”
Of course she was.
“I see.”
“And they’re asking her to show herself.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Well, that does seem a little inconsiderate of her.”
Mrs. Pritchard blinked at me.
“The woman is dead, Miss Walsh.”
“Right. Of course. I meant the people.”
Behind me, someone made a strangled noise.
Mina.
I didn’t need to turn around to know my assistant manager was fighting for her life trying not to laugh.
Mrs. Pritchard leaned closer.
“I paid two hundred and eighty-nine dollars to spend the weekend in a peaceful historic inn. Not to participate in some ridiculous séance.”
“And you absolutely shouldn’t have to.” I stepped away from the computer. “I’ll take care of it right now.”
“Thank you.”
She adjusted her robe, then hesitated.
“Although, while you’re looking into it, you might want to check that upstairs hallway.”
I paused.
“What about it?”
“There’s a peculiar draft.”
I waited.
“And?”
“And I thought I heard someone whispering.”
Old house. October. Overactive imagination.
A classic combination.
“I’ll have someone take a look.”
She seemed satisfied and shuffled toward the stairs.
I watched her go, mentally adding investigate supernatural draft to a list that already included fixing a leaking faucet, approving payroll, and calling an electrician about a light fixture that only worked when the universe felt generous.
Owning a historic inn was supposed to be charming.
That’s what the real estate listing had promised.
An enchanting Victorian property with original details and endless possibilities.
What it should have said was:
Congratulations. You now own fourteen bedrooms, seventeen varieties of plumbing problems, and a staircase that sounds like it’s filing for divorce.
“Don’t,” I warned.
Mina burst out laughing.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking you handled that beautifully.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
She grinned and pushed a loose strand of black hair behind her ear.
At twenty-eight, Mina Chen was one of the most organized people I’d ever met. She could juggle a full reservation calendar, calm an angry guest, and reorganize an entire linen closet before I finished my morning coffee.
She was also entirely too entertained by my suffering.
“Want me to go outside?” she asked.
“No. You’ve been dealing with the Whitmore family since breakfast. I’ll handle this.”
“The kids did finally stop trying to flush things.”
“Please don’t tell me what things.”
She hesitated.
“Might be best.”
I grabbed my cardigan from the back of my chair and headed toward the entrance.
“Keep an eye on the desk. I’ll be right back.”
“Try not to get possessed!”
“No promises.”
October in Briar Glen was unfairly beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made people spend ridiculous amounts of money on pumpkin-flavored beverages, overpriced sweaters, and weekend trips where they photographed leaves as though trees were a rare occurrence.
I understood the appeal.
The Hudson Valley had completely won me over the first time I’d visited.
The little downtown was filled with brick storefronts, independent cafés, antique shops, and restaurants that changed their menus with the seasons. Every porch seemed to have a pumpkin. Every shop window had a fall display. Even the air smelled expensive.
Woodsmoke, cinnamon, damp leaves.
It was practically begging to be turned into a holiday movie.
Which was why I’d purchased Briar House Inn.
Or at least part of why.
The other reasons involved a spectacularly miserable corporate job, a large amount of personal savings, and the kind of life decision that seemed much more reasonable after two glasses of wine.
Still, there were moments when I stepped onto that porch and couldn’t quite believe the place belonged to me.
Briar House was a sprawling Victorian with pale gray siding, white trim, a wraparound porch, and a rounded turret that looked straight out of a storybook.
Warm light spilled through the tall windows. Mums overflowed from stone planters near the steps, and pumpkins lined the walkway.
I’d spent most of September decorating.
Every wreath, lantern, and throw pillow had been selected with unreasonable care.
Tonight, the whole place glowed beneath a darkening sky.
It was perfect.
Except for the approximately twenty people gathered outside my front gate.
I stopped on the top step.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
A group stood along the public sidewalk, their faces illuminated by phone screens. Several had drinks in their hands. One woman wore a sweatshirt that said Here for the Boos.
Adorable.
Then I heard the voice.
Deep. Warm. Confident.
The sort of voice that probably convinced people to buy extended warranties they didn’t need.
“And according to local legend, Violet Ash never truly left the house.”
I followed the sound.
A tall man stood beneath the old maple tree just beyond my gate, addressing the crowd with the ease of someone who enjoyed being the center of attention.
He wore dark jeans, a black shirt, and a brown leather jacket. His hair was slightly messy, and he gestured toward my inn as he spoke.
“Some say you can still see her standing in the second-floor window, waiting for the man who never returned.”
Several people looked up.
One raised a phone.
Another whispered, “Oh my God.”
I closed my eyes.
Count to three, Eden.
Be professional.
Don’t become the reason your own business ends up on the evening news.
“Excuse me!”
The man stopped speaking.
Twenty heads turned.
Fantastic.
An audience.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
He sounded amused.
I already hated that.
“I’m the owner of Briar House.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Well, that explains the excellent decorations.”
I stared at him.
“Thank you. Now, could you please stop encouraging people to haunt my guests?”
Someone in the group snickered.
His mouth twitched.
“Technically, we’re here to discuss the haunting. Very different service.”
I folded my arms.
“Wonderful distinction. Perhaps you could discuss it somewhere else.”
He glanced at the inn and then back at me.
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes. Several, actually. But the immediate one is the crowd standing beneath an occupied guest-room window.”
The amusement faded from his face.
“Someone’s being disturbed?”
“Room Thirteen. My guest is trying to enjoy a peaceful evening, and apparently your audience is attempting to summon a dead woman outside her window.”
He turned toward the group.
“Okay, folks. We’re going to move along a little earlier than planned.”
A few people groaned.
He raised a hand.
“Hey, the living need their sleep, too.”
That earned a laugh.
“Follow Ollie down to the next stop. I’ll catch up.”
A bearded man near the edge of the group stepped forward.
“All right, everybody. This way.”
The crowd began moving down the sidewalk.
One woman lingered to take another picture of the inn.
I gave her my best please don’t make me come down there smile.
She lowered her phone.
Excellent.
The man in the leather jacket approached the gate.
Up close, he was worse.
Not behaviorally.
Visually.
He was tall. Easily six feet, maybe a little more. Dark blond hair with just enough wave to suggest he didn’t spend much time worrying about it. Strong jaw, light stubble, and a smile that probably caused perfectly sensible women to make extremely questionable choices.
There was also a small scar through one eyebrow.
Of course there was.
Because apparently the universe had decided to make my evening unnecessarily difficult.
“I’m sorry about the disturbance,” he said.
I blinked.
That was unexpected.
“You are?”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize anyone was being bothered.”
“Well, they are.”
“Understood.”
I studied him.
No argument.
No excuse.
Suspicious.
“I’ll move this stop farther down the street,” he continued. “The old cemetery entrance should work better. Less traffic, too.”
“That would be appreciated.”
He leaned one hand against the fence.
“I’m Kit, by the way.”
“Eden.”
“I know.”
My eyes narrowed.
“You know?”
“Small town. New owner of Briar House. Pretty major renovation last spring. Kind of hard not to hear about you.”
“Right.”
“And you’re the person who got rid of the creepy porcelain dolls in the lobby.”
I shuddered.
“Those things were horrifying.”
“Local tragedy, apparently. Mrs. Hendricks still talks about it.”
“Mrs. Hendricks is welcome to adopt them.”
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Low and easy.
I found it irritatingly pleasant.
“So,” he said, “Eden Walsh.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
“Do you always introduce yourself by interrupting ghost tours?”
“Only when the tour guide is disrupting my guests.”
“Fair.”
He glanced at the upstairs windows.
“Although, for what it’s worth, Violet Ash is one of the reasons people come to Briar Glen.”
“People can appreciate Violet Ash without standing beneath my windows.”
“True.”
“And without trespassing.”
“Absolutely.”
“And preferably without attempting to make contact with anyone who has been dead for a hundred years.”
He tilted his head.
“That last one’s going to hurt business.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Don’t laugh.
He’d been outside my property for thirty minutes, caused a guest complaint, and apparently turned my inn into an amateur paranormal investigation site.
I was not going to laugh at his jokes.
He watched me for another second.
“Can I ask you something?”
“That depends.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Mr.—”
“Wilder.”
“Mr. Wilder, I own a building that’s over a hundred years old. I hear unexplained noises every day. Usually, they’re pipes. Occasionally, it’s the heating system. Last week, it was a raccoon.”
“A raccoon?”
“In the attic.”
“Did you charge him for the room?”
I looked away.
Damn it.
He caught the smile before I managed to hide it.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He was still smiling.
I suddenly became very aware that I was standing in leggings, worn ankle boots, and a cardigan with a missing button.
Not that it mattered.
Obviously.
I could have been standing there in a potato sack.
This was a professional conversation.
“I appreciate you moving the group,” I said, straightening. “I’d also appreciate it if your tours didn’t encourage visitors to enter private areas.”
“We don’t.”
I looked at him.
He didn’t seem offended. Just matter-of-fact.
“We stay on public sidewalks. Our guides are trained to keep people out of private properties, and we remind guests not to approach windows or doors. If someone’s doing that after the tour, I want to know.”
That was annoyingly reasonable.
“I’ll let you know if it happens again.”
“Please do.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card.
I took it.
Lantern & Lore
Historic Walking Tours & Local Experiences
Christopher Wilder, Owner.
Of course his actual name was Christopher.
Kit sounded like someone who rescued kittens and flirted with bartenders.
Christopher sounded like someone who owned investment property and made sensible financial decisions.
I had a feeling he was both.
“My direct number’s on there,” he said. “Text me if you have any more trouble.”
“With the ghosts?”
“With the tourists. The ghosts don’t usually answer.”
I glanced at the card.
“You always this helpful?”
“Depends who I’m helping.”
That sounded suspiciously like flirting.
I wasn’t interested.
Not even slightly.
He stepped back from the gate.
“Have a good night, Eden.”
“You too.”
He started down the sidewalk.
Then turned.
“Oh, and for the record?”
I sighed.
“What?”
“Your place really does look incredible.”
For some ridiculous reason, that landed differently than the jokes.
I glanced over my shoulder at the porch, the carefully arranged pumpkins, the warm light glowing through the windows.
“Thanks,” I said.
He gave me one last smile.
Then disappeared around the corner.
I stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Mostly to make sure he was gone.
Mostly.
When I returned to the lobby, Mina was leaning against the front desk with the expression of a woman who had just witnessed something deeply entertaining.
“No,” I said immediately.
She blinked.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your face is being loud.”
She grinned.
“Was that Kit Wilder?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He’s cute.”
“He runs a business that involves convincing tourists my hotel is haunted.”
“So?”
“So I’m not interested.”
“I didn’t ask if you were.”
I stopped.
She smiled wider.
I pointed at her.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I went behind the desk and set his business card beside the keyboard.
Mina looked down.
“He gave you his number?”
“It’s his business card.”
“Sure.”
“For business purposes.”
“Obviously.”
“Because his customers were disturbing our guests.”
“Right.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Then we both laughed.
“You’re impossible,” I told her.
“That’s why you keep me around.”
Actually, I kept Mina around because she was brilliant at her job.
The fact that she’d somehow become one of my closest friends was an unexpected bonus.
When I’d purchased Briar House, she’d already been working here for three years under the previous owner. She knew the building, the regular guests, the local vendors, and every strange little habit of the aging reservation system.
She also knew when I was pretending not to be stressed.
Which was inconvenient.
“How’s Mrs. Pritchard?” I asked.
“Back in her room. I called to make sure everything was quiet.”
“Good.”
“She asked whether we could provide extra towels.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“And whether we have holy water.”
I stared at her.
Mina nodded solemnly.
“Told her we’re currently out.”
I laughed so hard I had to lean against the counter.
It felt good.
Really good.
The day had been long, and the last few weeks hadn’t exactly been relaxing. Between the maintenance problems, staffing schedules, and endless little surprises that came with operating an old building, I’d spent most evenings wondering whether I’d made the smartest decision of my life or the most expensive mistake.
But moments like this reminded me why I’d left corporate hospitality.
I loved the actual work.
The guests. The problem-solving. The little details that made people feel welcome.
I loved having the freedom to make Briar House something special.
Even when it came with imaginary ghosts and very real financial headaches.
The front door opened.
A middle-aged couple stepped inside, both wearing matching flannel shirts.
“Good evening!” I greeted them.
“Hi, we’re checking in. Martin?”
I smiled and pulled up their reservation.
“Of course. Welcome to Briar House.”
Mrs. Martin glanced around the lobby.
“Oh, this is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I love the decorations.”
“October’s my favorite month.”
Her husband looked toward the staircase.
“Is it true this place is haunted?”
I took a slow breath.
Mina suddenly became very interested in rearranging the brochures.
“Well,” I said, keeping my most professional expression, “Briar House certainly has a lot of history.”
He nodded eagerly.
“We heard about that woman who disappeared.”
“Violet Ash,” his wife supplied. “The Lady in Blue.”
“That’s the one.”
I smiled.
“We do have some information about the inn’s history in our library, if you’re interested.”
“Do people really see her?”
“People have reported unusual things over the years.”
That was technically true.
People also reported that the earth was flat and that gluten-free bread tasted exactly like regular bread.
I wasn’t responsible for either claim.
Mrs. Martin leaned closer.
“Have you ever seen anything?”
“Personally? No.”
“Not even once?”
“Not once.”
Her husband looked disappointed.
I handed him the room keys.
“But I can promise an excellent breakfast.”
That seemed to improve his mood.
“Well, that’s something.”
I gave them directions to their room, explained the breakfast hours, and offered to help with their bags.
They declined and headed upstairs, whispering excitedly about Violet.
The moment they disappeared around the corner, Mina looked at me.
“An excellent breakfast?”
“What?”
“That’s your defense against a ghost?”
“I make fantastic French toast.”
“Fair point.”
I glanced at the clock.
10:18.
Finally.
We were approaching the magical hour when I could finish my paperwork, go upstairs to my apartment, remove my bra, and pretend I wasn’t responsible for an entire building full of people.
The thought was almost enough to make me emotional.
“Go home,” I told Mina.
“I still have the closing report.”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Eden—”
“You’ve been here since seven. Go.”
She hesitated.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Get out before I make you organize the storage closet.”
She grabbed her purse.
“Threats. Lovely management style.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Good night, boss.”
“Night, Mina.”
She disappeared through the employee entrance.
A few moments later, I heard her car start outside.
The lobby settled into silence.
Real silence.
The kind I’d spent the entire evening trying to provide my guests.
I breathed it in.
Then the phone rang.
Naturally.
“Briar House Inn, this is Eden. How may I help you?”
A woman answered, sounding breathless.
“Hi! I was wondering if you have any rooms available for Halloween weekend?”
I glanced at the reservation calendar.
“We do have limited availability. Are you looking for one night or the full weekend?”
“Probably two nights. But I wanted to ask something first.”
I already knew I wasn’t going to like it.
“Of course.”
“Is Room Thirteen available?”
There it was.
The universe officially had a sense of humor.
“Let me check.”
I pulled up the room inventory.
Available.
Of course.
“It is.”
“Oh my gosh, perfect! I just saw the video.”
My fingers paused over the keyboard.
“What video?”
“The ghost video. The one from your hotel.”
I looked toward the stairs.
“I’m sorry?”
“Someone posted it like twenty minutes ago. There’s a woman standing in the window. It’s so creepy!”
I sat straighter.
“On which platform?”
“TikTok. It’s getting a ton of views.”
“Ah.”
“Do you think it’s real?”
I closed my eyes.
Count to three.
Be professional.
Don’t tell a potential paying guest that you’ve reached the emotional equivalent of setting your own hair on fire.
“I haven’t seen the video, ma’am, but I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“Well, either way, we’d love to stay!”
“Wonderful.”
I completed the reservation, confirmed her email address, and gave her the standard cancellation policy.
She was thrilled.
I was less thrilled.
The moment we hung up, I grabbed my phone.
It took less than thirty seconds to find the video.
A shaky clip of Briar House appeared on my screen.
The front porch.
The glowing windows.
The old maple tree.
Then the camera tilted toward the second floor.
There, behind one of the windows, was a pale figure.
Tall.
Motionless.
Barely visible through the curtain.
The person filming gasped.
The shape seemed to shift.
Then vanished.
Text flashed across the screen.
THE LADY IN BLUE IS REAL?!
Below it, the caption read:
Went on a ghost tour in Briar Glen and caught THIS outside Briar House Inn. Tell me I’m not crazy.
I replayed it.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
The footage was grainy, but the upstairs window was unmistakable.
Room Thirteen.
Mrs. Pritchard’s room.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
There were several reasonable explanations.
A reflection.
A moving curtain.
A woman in a bathrobe who had decided to investigate the strangers shouting beneath her window.
In fact, considering the timing, that last explanation seemed extremely likely.
Unfortunately, the internet had already reached a different conclusion.
I scrolled through the comments.
NOPE. Absolutely not.
Wait, wasn’t that house on some haunted places list?
I would actually pay to sleep there.
The way it just DISAPPEARED.
Imagine waking up and seeing that standing at the end of your bed.
Lovely.
Someone had even posted a screenshot of the inn’s website.
My stomach tightened.
Not because of the ghost.
Because I’d spent nearly a year rebuilding Briar House’s reputation, creating a new website, and convincing travelers that we were worth the drive from New York City.
I’d worked with local businesses, updated the guest rooms, developed seasonal packages, and spent far more money than I cared to admit on marketing.
Now thousands of strangers were discussing my inn because someone thought they’d filmed a dead woman through an occupied guest-room window.
I checked the view count.
Twenty-three thousand.
I refreshed.
Twenty-six thousand.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I locked my phone and headed upstairs.
The hallway was quiet.
Soft amber lights illuminated the antique wallpaper, and a familiar creak sounded beneath the third floorboard as I approached Room Thirteen.
I stopped outside the door.
The brass numbers caught the light.
13
I’d debated changing the numbering when I renovated.
Most modern hotels skipped thirteen altogether.
But Briar House had been built long before anyone cared about modern hotel conventions, and removing one little number had felt like erasing part of its personality.
So I’d kept it.
Apparently, that decision had come back to bite me.
I listened.
Nothing.
No whispering.
No footsteps.
Not even a mysterious draft.
I didn’t knock. Mrs. Pritchard deserved an uninterrupted night, and there was no reason to disturb her over an internet video.
Instead, I checked the window at the end of the hallway, making sure the latch was secure.
Then I turned toward the stairs.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint tapping.
I froze.
It came again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
From somewhere behind me.
My gaze shifted toward Room Thirteen.
For one ridiculous second, my heart thumped harder.
Then I noticed the loose brass plate on the radiator cover.
A gust of warm air rattled it against the wall.
I stared at the offending piece of metal.
“Seriously?”
I pushed the plate back into place.
The tapping stopped.
“You’re welcome, Violet.”
I made a note to ask maintenance to tighten the screws in the morning.
Because that was what responsible inn owners did.
They fixed things.
They didn’t stand around talking to ghosts.
I was halfway down the staircase when my phone vibrated.
Another notification.
Someone had tagged Briar House in the video.
Then another.
Then a third.
I opened the app again.
Thirty-four thousand views.
I sighed and continued downstairs, already composing a polite response about guest privacy and respecting private property.
The lobby looked exactly as I’d left it.
Quiet.
Beautiful.
Completely unaware that a significant portion of the internet had decided it was haunted.
I walked behind the front desk and set my phone beside the computer.
The reservation system chimed.
A new booking.
I opened it.
Two nights.
Halloween weekend.
Room Thirteen.
Under special requests, the guest had written:
Hoping to meet the Lady in Blue!
I sat back in my chair.
For a long moment, I just looked at the screen.
Then I reached for the coffee I’d abandoned earlier.
Cold.
Naturally.
I drank it anyway.
Outside, the wind picked up, sending a handful of leaves skittering across the porch.
The antique clock in the lobby struck eleven.
And somewhere beyond the front windows, I heard laughter drifting down the street.
I glanced at the business card still sitting beside my keyboard.
Christopher Wilder.
Lantern & Lore.
I turned the card facedown.
Then I picked up my phone and started answering reservation inquiries.
Because ghost or no ghost, someone still had to pay the electric bill.
And apparently, Violet Ash was finally doing her part.