Page 3 of Adored by the Grumpy Ghost (Mapletown Monster Mates #1)

Winston

I t’s the last day of August when the Irritating One with the long legs returns, and this time, she isn’t alone.

My jaw tics as I watch the two women chatter excitedly as they enter my home, tracking dirt and god knows what else over Penelope’s rug.

She would have a fit if she were still alive to see this.

I hate looking at the fringed corners of that rug, with its heinous gray and brown paisley design.

Always have. Now that she’s gone, though, I feel the rug needs a defender.

Her family has already gone through her personal belongings, only taking a select few framed photos and pieces of jewelry before deeming the rest of her things too old or ugly to keep.

Hearing them insult her most cherished items twisted my gut.

I’m grateful she wasn’t around to hear it for herself.

“There are fans in every room, and don’t worry, I had an air conditioner installed in your bedroom,” the Irritating One says to her friend as she tosses her leather handbag at the couch.

Don’t bother hanging it on one of the many available coat hooks, I want to say. This is clearly a barnyard. Piss all over the floor while you’re at it.

“Nonna Penny’s room is on the left at the top of the stairs,” she says.

“Yours is across the hall. There’s an en suite in both bedrooms, and a half bath next to the kitchen.

There’s a study next to Nonna’s room with a bunch of old books.

The other two bedrooms on the third floor are filled with all the crap she never got rid of. ”

Lindsay. Yes, that’s her name. She’s one of Penelope’s grandchildren.

She’s been here many times, but I’d usually abscond to the attic whenever Penelope was having family over, so I never paid attention to who was who.

I don’t understand why my late friend left the home I built with my bare hands to the grandchild who hates it the most. It seems so wasteful.

The first day Lindsay arrived, she walked around with her hands on her hips and her face in a constant sneer as she surveyed the space.

I heard, “Ugh,” uttered many times. She also had the nerve to lay a towel down across the couch cushions before sitting, as if it were a piece of furniture she found on the side of the road, covered in the bodily fluids of woodland creatures.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but I did, and still do.

“The heat works,” Lindsay continues to her friend, “for when the temperatures start to drop.”

“Wow,” the friend says, dropping her many bags at her feet as they enter the living room.

“Linds, you really undersold this place.” She runs her fingers along the wooden archway that separates this room from the hall.

Her wonder is abundant. There’s even a smile tugging at the corners of her pink lips.

“With a little tidying, this place could be gorgeous. Like a goth girl’s wet dream.

And that placard next to the doorbell that says ‘Caraway Manor?’ How cool is that? ”

This newcomer…I don’t want her here, but she’s decidedly less irritating than Lindsay. Thus far, at least. I’m sure I’ll find other reasons to loathe her presence soon enough.

“Oh, yeah. The original owners put that up. It’s been there forever.

” Lindsay quickly changes the subject as she looks down at her phone.

“I can’t seem to get the stove or the dishwasher to work, so I bought a microwave and a dish rack until we can get new ones installed.

” She rubs her hand across her forehead in frustration.

I don’t believe for a second that both appliances are broken.

They’re older models, purchased by Penelope decades ago, but my late friend and I were able to use them.

When you want to use the stove, you have to wait a few minutes before you see a flicker of flame, and sure, it also makes a strange buzzing sound when it’s on, but it works.

The dishwasher needs to be turned off and then back on before you hear the water start to run.

These quirks give the machines character, but clearly Her Royal Highness doesn’t see it that way.

I reckon Lindsay is used to modern conveniences.

If it doesn’t work perfectly and immediately with the press of a few sleek-looking buttons, she deems it irreparable.

What a sad lens through which to see the world.

I’m tempted to say this aloud, but since she doesn’t know I live here, it’s better if I remain quiet.

My goal is not to terrify these women, and if I let them see me, they’d likely start screaming.

“Oh, that’s fine,” the friend says in a soft voice. “I’ve been eating instant ramen and cereal, so my needs in the kitchen are very minimal.”

She tucks a loose blonde curl behind her ear, and for some reason…I’m mesmerized by the movement. So subtle, so insignificant––yet it plays over in my head. Is her hair as soft as it looks? My fingers twitch at my side, eager to feel it for myself.

But why? I flinch in irritation at my body’s reaction to her.

I don’t know this woman, this stranger, who’s currently making herself comfortable in my house.

In fact, the more I look at her, the less interested I become in learning anything about her.

The clothes she wears are strange and impractical.

A sleeveless bright red dress that hugs her chest and hips with a heart-shaped hole just above her bosom?

Did she cut the hole herself? For what purpose?

The hem brushes the tops of her knees, flowing out around her like an angry cloud, and it’s sure to get caught on the many rough edges this house contains.

And she wears strappy sandals with a sole no thicker than a slice of cheese.

What kind of lunatic would wear these in the middle of a forest?

Lindsay pads over to the refrigerator and purses her lips as she surveys its contents.

“There’s still a ton of stuff here from my last trip to the grocery store.

It’s yours if you want it. Just keep an eye on that metal bowl on the top shelf.

It fills with water. There’s a leak somewhere.

Make sure to empty it every few days.” She straightens to her full height and opens the freezer.

“Don’t put too much up here. If it’s full, not everything will freeze. ”

“No problem.”

Lindsay flings the freezer door shut. The pots stacked atop the refrigerator shake from the force. “This thing is clearly on its last leg, too. I’m pretty sure it was here before I was born.”

The refrigerator is about to die. She’s correct about that. There’s no saving it. I’ve tried.

The friend notices a piece of paper sitting on the kitchen island and grabs it. “What’s this?”

“Directions to the grocery store. There’s a coffee shop right next to it, and a bookstore. There’s also a nail salon on the edge of town, but they don’t work with acrylics, so beware.”

“Oh, I haven’t gotten my nails done in ages.”

Lindsay looks horrified.

“Are you serious? Honey, I didn’t know things were that bad.” She grabs her friend’s hands and examines the unpainted tips of her fingers. “Why didn’t you come to me? I could’ve helped you out.”

The friend carefully pulls her hands from Lindsay’s grasp. “It’s fine, really. I’m not interested in borrowing money. Not now, not ever. You’re giving me a place to live. That’s all I need.”

This seems to calm Lindsay down. Her eyes dart over to the cabinets. “Take-out menus are in the top right drawer next to the silverware, but there are only, like, two restaurants in town and the food is mediocre at best, so don’t get your hopes up.”

A chuckle escapes the friend’s plump lips.

Stop staring at her lips.

“I’m guessing your Bostonian palate is much more sophisticated than mine,” the friend says. “Whatever the locals in Mapletown are serving up, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

After Lindsay shows her friend the second and third floors, and provides a quick tutorial on how the shower works, she tosses a few clothing items in a flashy duffel bag and tells the friend to call her if she has any problems. Then I hear her car speed out of the drive.

What now? This foolishly dressed woman is my new roommate?

I’ve had several since my death in 1901, and Penelope is the only one whose company I enjoyed.

Most have been families. They move into my home, make it their own, and at some point, they leave.

Penelope bought the house with her husband, Victor, in 1998, and within three months, Victor was dead.

Heart attack in the driveway. She was devastated.

I was certain she would leave soon after, since her children were grown––and having children of their own––and she was just one person in a house built for a large family. She didn’t.

I made myself known the day after Victor’s funeral.

Up until that point, I floated around undetected, watching and listening, but mostly keeping to myself in the attic.

The hidden room in the back of the attic is where my personal effects are stored.

None of the residents of the home have ever discovered my secret room.

None until Penelope, anyway, but that’s only because I intentionally led her there on a snowy afternoon when she seemed particularly despondent after Victor’s death.

She was never afraid of me, not even at first sight. I told her I was the person who built the house, the original owner, and she accepted my spectral presence without complaint. We became friends. She seemed grateful to no longer be alone, and I was grateful to finally have someone to talk to.

Penelope was a gift to this world. I had hoped her spirit would return after her death, just as mine did, but that hasn’t happened. With each day that passes, I lose hope that it will.

Now the house belongs to Lindsay, and I have a feeling I’ll be very displeased with whatever she plans to do with it. The odds are good that she’ll knock it down and sell off the land.

What will become of me then? I’ve always assumed my spirit was tethered to the house, but if it’s demolished, will I vaporize into thin air? Will my soul leave this realm and move onto…whatever comes next?

Until that happens, though, it seems I must share the place with this other woman.

This friend of Lindsay’s, with her baffling wardrobe and dark, thick eyebrows that seem far too severe for her small square-shaped face and yellow hair.

If I were to make myself known to her, would she throw things at me?

Call the police? I can’t have the townspeople thinking the house is haunted.

That would attract the wrong kind of attention, from people who wish to taunt me, exploit my past, or worst of all, camp out in my home in an attempt to catch me on camera for some silly ghost show.

I watch as my new roommate carries her bags upstairs to the second floor and begins unpacking her belongings in the bedroom Lindsay assigned her.

She spends most of the evening dusting the shelves and organizing her personal items. At one point, her handbag falls off the dresser, and several cards scatter onto the floor.

She groans as she kneels to pick them up, and I take the opportunity to hunt for a name.

Though her small hands are quick as she gathers them into a neat stack, I spot a library card next to the dresser that she hasn’t noticed yet. “Natalie Lambert,” it says.

Her name is Natalie.

I’m eager to say it aloud. Turn the name over on my tongue to see what it feels like. See how it tastes. It’s likely she would hear me, however, and I can’t have that.

Eventually, she lets out a deep exhale and flops onto the bed.

After a moment of staring at the ceiling, she turns onto her side and gazes at the navy-blue vase she placed on her nightstand not twenty minutes prior, then at the framed photograph next to it.

In the photo, a much younger Natalie sits on the beach, sand covering her arms and legs, even her left cheek.

Her wide smile exposes a few missing teeth, and her hand gently rests on the side of a sand sculpture she made.

The sculpture is messy and concave, but you’d never know it by the pride emanating from her expression.

A woman sits next to Natalie, wearing an equally proud grin. I assume this woman is her mother.

Natalie’s eyes fill with tears, and she curls in on herself as she begins to weep. Her cries take on the erratic timbre of someone with a broken heart, and I would bet my hat that this loss is recent.

It’s difficult to watch her in this state, though I’m not sure why. A moment of privacy is what she needs, but I can’t seem to make myself leave the room. What do I care that she’s grieving? I’ve certainly done my fair share of it. Loss is universal. No one is immune.

Perhaps this is her first experience with death.

If that’s the case, she should count herself lucky.

Some of us have been grieving our loved ones since before we hit puberty.

When that happens, the sky is never as bright as it once was.

You learn that pain is inevitable, and those deep cuts will keep coming until it’s your heart that stops beating.

When I finally float upstairs to the attic, I can still hear Natalie’s faint cries, but they’ve softened. She’ll be asleep soon.

It’s then that I realize what a colossal problem I have on my hands.

Living with Penelope was as easy as breathing.

It was simple, devoid of complications. She stuck to her part of the house, I stuck to mine, and when we wanted company, we’d meet in the living room to play cards or watch the news.

There was no pressure to be anything other than what we were: an elderly woman who wanted to gossip about her friends from Bingo club, and a thirty-seven-year-old man whose lonely spirit is trapped on the grounds of which he perished.

Natalie…she confuses me. She is mostly vexatious, much like Lindsay but in a different sense.

She seems too sweet, in a way that can’t be real.

Something about her draws me in, though, and I don’t know why.

It’s not as if she’s some great beauty. Her features are rather plain.

With dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks, it’s clear she hasn’t been taking care of herself, but even if she had been, would I find her attractive?

Yes.

Shit.

Yes, I would. Without a doubt. She’s the opposite of plain. I can’t take my eyes off her enchanting smile, her ample curves, or those sultry pink lips. Who am I kidding? She’s easily the most captivating woman I’ve ever seen.

A house with five bedrooms, three floors, and two acres of land, and for the first time in over a hundred years, it feels cramped in here.