Page 12 of The Ghost of Ellwood

It was how I made my living after all.

Once in the kitchen, Carter heated the cider as I grabbed plates for the banana bread and dished out pieces for us. He pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s rye whiskey from the bag, and I grinned. Kid knew his alcohol.

“Do you mind if we, uh, sit on the porch?” Carter asked.

“Have you not been in the house before?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “When Mr. Henderson lived here, I’d come to the door and talk to him. Then he’d come out and yell at me when he wanted something else done.”

“The house doesn’t bite,” I said, amused. “I’ve been here for about a week now and nothing’s happened.”

Technically, not true. But I refused to believe that what I’d experienced was anything more than a wild imagination.

“Okay. We can stay inside, I guess.” Carted flashed a smile. “I’ve never been in a haunted house before.”

I had just taken a drink and nearly spit it out. “Haunted?”

“Well, yeah.” He furrowed his brow. “That’s where all the stories come from. What did you expect?”

“I thought you were just going to tell me about the house’s history.”

“Oh, the history is what’s caused it all,” Carter said, casting a stare around the room. “I believe tragic events leave behind echoes of negative energy. And believe me, Ben, there’s been a lot of tragedy within these walls.”

The part of me that loved ghost stories and all things creepy jumped with excitement as we headed toward the parlor. I might not believe in it, but I enjoyed hearing about folktales, hauntings, and paranormal activity. Probably because of my writer brain. The more twisted the story, the better.

The parlor was located on the other side of the entryway in front of three floor-to-ceiling windows. We sat in the cushioned chairs at the small round table—one left over from a previous owner—and Carter peered outside. He clasped his hands together so tight that his knuckles turned white.

“How old are you?” I asked, thinking it was a good idea to ease his nerves by having him talk about non-spooky things first.

“Twenty-six. You?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Cool. So where did you move from, author man?”

I smirked. “New York.”

“Damn. This is a lot different from the big city, huh?”

“Very. But it’s not a bad thing, I assure you. I much prefer the quiet.”

“Not sure you’ll get much quiet in this house.”

“You ready to tell me about it?”

Carter arched a pale brow. “Depends on if you’re ready to hear it. You might run out the door screaming once you do.”

“Unlikely.”

“Mr. Henderson only lived here for five months,” he said, before drinking some of his cider. “The family before him stayed for a year, and the one before that only lasted twenty days.”

“Why?”

“Because of him.” He focused on me. “The ghost of Ellwood.”

Chapter Four

“The ghost of Ellwood?” I asked, tearing off a piece of the banana bread and popping it into my mouth. “Like named after the road?”