Page 14 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)

S eamus O’Malley, our tour guide into the afterlife, leads us through narrow cobblestone streets where Christmas lights reflect in puddles like fallen stars.

His lantern sways and casts dramatic shadows against the ancient stone buildings that have witnessed more Christmases than all of us combined. The scent of spiced cider and French fries wafts from nearby pubs, and combined with the crisp winter air it creates a perfectly festive atmosphere.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Seamus calls out with his rich Irish voice echoing off the walls, “Dublin at Christmas has always been a magical time—but also a time when the veil between worlds grows thin. The spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future aren’t just characters in a Dickens’ novel here.”

“Do any of these ghosts know where the nearest bathroom is?” Nettie whispers a touch too loud. “All these ghostly encounters are about to result in a very unghostly accident.”

Bess rolls her eyes. “We’ve been walking for exactly seven minutes.”

“Well, my bladder keeps its own schedule,” Nettie shoots back. “It’s like having an unruly toddler—demanding attention at the most inconvenient times.”

“Tell me about it.” I sigh in commiseration.

There’s a reason I bring along my special panties when I know I’ll be far away from indoor plumbing for any length of time. And yes, those special panties happen to be highly absorbent and disposable—both of those features have come in handy more often than I’m willing to admit.

Bess frowns at her bestie. “If you hadn’t insisted on sampling every hot beverage in Dublin, your bladder might be more cooperative.”

“When in Ireland.” Nettie shrugs. “It would be rude not to hydrate with whiskey.”

Seamus, mercifully oblivious to the bladder discourse, continues his narrative as we stop before Trinity College’s imposing facade.

The historic building is outlined in tasteful white lights that highlight its architectural grandeur, while a massive Christmas tree stands by the entrance, decorated with what looks like vintage academic regalia in miniature form.

“Trinity College at Christmas was once the site of elaborate scholarly feasts,” Seamus explains. “But in 1764, a professor of astronomy disappeared during the celebrations. Legend says he still roams these halls at Christmastime, searching for his missing telescope.”

“ Pfft .” Joy materializes beside me all at once and startles me so badly I nearly trip over my own feet. “Absolute nonsense. He didn’t disappear. He ran off with the Master’s wife and lived happily ever after in France.”

“How would you know that?” I whisper, trying not to look like I’m talking to thin air. Although let’s face it, at my age, would anyone really question it?

“The afterlife gossip network is surprisingly robust.” Dash appears on my other side, his ghostly form giving off a soft blue glow that thankfully only I can see.

However, people have paid big bucks for this tour.

Seeing Joy and Dash in all their poltergeist glory would really give them their money’s worth.

“Plus, we met him at an orientation mixer,” Dash goes on. “Nice chap, terrible sense of direction even in death.”

I stifle a laugh, which earns me a curious glance from Ransom.

“Something funny?” he asks.

“Just thinking about how academics never change,” I whisper.

“Still losing their equipment centuries later.” I’d fill him in on our ghostly guests, but whispering either of their names in this quasi-haunted hall feels crass considering their old spouses and dozens of old friends have their eyes and ears peeled just to hear a pin drop.

And even breathing the word ghost here is akin to shouting fire in a movie theater.

It will not only garner attention, but it will cause a riot within seconds.

“Speaking of lost,” Wes chimes in as he steps our way, “I got turned around in Trinity’s library once. Ended up in some restricted section with books chained to the shelves.”

“That wasn’t an accident,” Ransom teases. “You were trying to impress that exchange student—what was her name? Marguerite?”

“Magdalena,” Wes corrects. “And I’ll have you know, she found my academic curiosity charming.”

“Is that what they called it back then?” Ransom raises a brow because, face it, he knows all the tricks in the book.

Our group moves on toward St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

It’s still a good distance away, but we can see its spires reaching skyward like hands in prayer.

The Gothic structure is bathed in green and red lights that make it look both festive and slightly eerie.

Christmas wreaths adorn the massive doors, and the sound of choir practice filters out into the cold night air.

As Seamus launches into a tale about ghostly carolers who appear only on Christmas Eve, I notice we’re not the only spirits on this tour.

Besides Joy and Dash, at least half a dozen other ghosts float among our group—a Victorian gentleman tips his hat to me, a young woman in medieval dress dances through Seamus’ lantern light, and what appears to be a spectral cat weaves between ankles that obviously can’t feel its presence.

Dublin, it seems, is a popular spot for the afterlife crowd.

“The choral traditions here date back centuries,” Seamus explains, his voice taking on a hushed reverence. “It’s said that sometimes, during midnight services, extra voices join the choir—singers no one can see.”

“Because they call in sick and pipe the music in through the speakers,” Bess mutters skeptically—which is ironic, seeing that she’s fully aware of the ghosts that haunt the ship and by proxy, me.

“Actually”—Dash whispers in my ear—“that one is true. Joy and I crashed a Christmas Eve service here last year. The acoustics are fantastic for those of us who no longer need to breathe between verses.”

“You’re kidding,” I whisper back.

“Dead serious.” Joy winks. “Pun absolutely intended.”

I notice Holly and Alec standing closer together than they were at the beginning of the tour.

Their shoulders touch, and they whisper to each other with the intimacy of old friends who might be something more.

Every now and then, Holly laughs softly at something Alec says and the sound acts as a gentle backdrop against Seamus’ more theatrical storytelling.

Joy notices, too, nudging Dash with a hopeful expression. “Would you look at that? Progress is being made!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Dash cautions. “She laughed the same way when he told her she had spinach in her teeth at junior prom.”

As we make our way toward the next stop, the cold nips at my nose and cheeks, but the warmth of Ransom’s hand in mine keeps the worst of the chill at bay.

Christmas decorations transform every building we pass—garlands drape across doorways, nutcrackers stand guard in shop windows, and the occasional mechanical Santa waves at passersby with clockwork precision.

“Dublin embraced Christmas traditions relatively late,” Seamus tells us as we pause in a particularly picturesque square where a towering Christmas tree sparkles with thousands of white lights. “Many of our holiday customs came from Victorian England, including the ghost stories.”

“Ghost stories at Christmas?” a woman in our group asks.

“Oh yes.” Seamus gives an enthusiastic nod. “Before Christmas became all about joy and merriment, it was a time for ghost stories told around the fire. The longest night of the year was perfect for tales of the supernatural.”

“The Victorians really knew how to party,” Nettie says with a nod. “Nothing says Merry Christmas like a good haunting. Every last one of my mothers-in-law could attest to that.”

“It would explain Dickens to an extent, too,” Bess adds. “There’s just nothing jolly about being terrorized by three spirits in one night.”

“I don’t know,” Ransom muses. “Some perspective from beyond might do us all a little good.”

“Says the man who doesn’t have to file incident reports for ghost sightings,” Wes quips.

We stop at a historic pub with windows glowing amber from within and a wreath of holly and ivy adorning its ancient wooden door.

The sign swinging above reads The Christmas Spirit with a painted image of what could either be a ghost or spilled milk, depending on one’s interpretation—or how thirsty they are.

Seamus clears his throat with dramatic fervor. “This establishment has been serving patrons since 1542. It’s said that if you visit on Christmas Eve, you might catch a glimpse of its original owner still tending bar.”

“Does the ghost charge less for drinks?” Nettie asks with a touch too much hope and wrangles a decent laugh from the crowd in the effort.

“I’d recommend against trying to find out,” Seamus replies with a wink. “The last patron who failed to pay his spectral tab was found the next morning with his shoes filled with coal.”

“The ghostly barkeep in question would be Gerald.” Joy points to a grumpy-looking ghost hovering near the pub’s entrance. “He’s quite reasonable as long as you don’t order anything complicated. He still hasn’t mastered making an Irish coffee, which he finds deeply embarrassing.”

“ Ooh , Irish coffee does sound good right about now,” I mutter.

Ransom nods. “I agree.”

Gerald the ghost bartender seems to sense he’s being discussed and glances our way with a suspicious expression before floating right through the pub wall.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Seamus calls out, “we’ll take a brief intermission. Feel free to grab a hot beverage or use the facilities. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes to explore the haunted Christmas traditions of Dublin Castle!”

As our group disperses, I notice Quinn Riddle approaching with her black hair pulled back into a severe bun that makes her look like the Ghost of Christmas Buzzkill.

She zeroes in on Ransom and Wes with the single-mindedness of a chocolate lab finding an unattended picnic basket, pulling them aside with not so much as a nod in my direction.

Normally, I’d be burning with curiosity about what emergency could possibly require both the captain and head of vessel security to be pulled away in the middle of a ghost tour in Dublin.

But across the square, I spot Ginger Garland standing alone near a holiday market stall, examining a display of hand-blown glass ornaments.

Her curly red hair catches the light from the nearby Christmas tree, making it look as if she’s wearing a halo of fire. And she’s alone —no Theo, no Alec, no Holly—just Ginger, and it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.

I glance back at Ransom, who’s engrossed in whatever Quinn is showing him on her phone, then at Bess and Nettie, who have cornered poor Seamus with questions about the likelihood of encountering a ghost in the ladies’ room.

This is my chance.

Joy and Dash appear on either side of me, seemingly reading my thoughts.

“Go for it,” Joy encourages. “We’ll keep an eye on the others.”

“Just be careful,” Dash warns. “Remember, in the game of Clue, it’s never who you think it is.”

I take a deep breath and a cloud forms in the icy air as I move across the square toward my next suspect.

The Christmas lights reflect like tiny stars in the puddles beneath my feet, and it only makes this haunted castle feel all that much more surreal.

Something tells me I’m about to get more than ghost stories on this tour.

Dublin’s ghosts might haunt these streets, but it’s the living who keep the deadliest secrets—and here’s hoping I’m about to unearth them all.