The Spirits of Christmas

The Spirits of Christmas
is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 Wendy Sharp

All rights reserved.

Cover photograph: www.shutterstock.com

Cover design: Wendy Sharp

Visit me on the web at
http://sarahwynde.blogspot.com/

To Carol and Judy: thanks for being sparks of light on some
gray days

 “It’s so bizarre,” Akira said thoughtfully, staring up at
the motionless ceiling fan.

“Is the baby moving?” Zane asked, sliding a hand along the
slight curve of her belly. He hadn’t been able to feel a kick yet, but that
didn’t stop him from trying.

“No, not that.” Akira tilted her head sideways, letting it
come to rest against his shoulder, feeling content with her position despite her
mild exasperation at her body’s demands.

“Bizarre,” Zane repeated. “Would that be the miracle of life
growing inside you?”

“A natural process that women have been managing for
thousands of years.” Her voice was dry. Of course, it was a little strange that
she knew she’d met her baby’s previous incarnation—she imagined that not too
many women throughout history could claim the same. But no, that wasn’t what
she’d been thinking about.

“What then?” Zane stroked up, long fingers reaching the
underside of her breast and lightly tracing a pattern along her skin.

“How much I want red meat.” Not just red meat. Steak.
Gorgeous steak. Red in the middle, seared dark on the outside. Mmm, with salt.
Luscious salt, bursting with flavor on her tongue. Or maybe a hamburger, juicy
and rich, dripping with . . . ick. Fat and blood. That’s what hamburgers
dripped with. But even knowing that didn’t change the way her mouth watered at
the thought.

Zane chuckled.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Akira protested.

“Sure it does. The baby needs some protein.”

“I ate a pound of edamame last night. A whole pound. That’s
about five times the amount of protein the average person needs.”

Zane’s hand stilled. “I read something . . .” He pulled
away, Akira’s head dropping to the pillow as he got out of the bed and crossed
to the dresser on the other side of the room.

“Hey!” she complained. She’d been comfortable. And his
clever hands had been starting to stir up something a little more interesting
than hunger for steak.

He looked back over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Coming
right back,” he promised. He grabbed his smartphone and started tapping. 
“Soy,” he reported, “contains phytic acid.”

Akira raised her eyebrows. “And?” She’d never even heard of
phytic acid. Why had Zane?

“It blocks the absorption of minerals.” He joined her on the
bed again, lying down and putting a proprietary arm over her body.

“Minerals such as?”

“Calcium, magnesium, and iron,” he said cheerfully. “Also
zinc and mercury, if they matter.”

“Let me see that.” Akira held out a hand for his phone and
he passed it to her, a small smile playing around his lips.

She read the information on the website he’d found,
scowling. “Damn it. All right, maybe I’m craving meat because I need iron.
Fine, I’ll eat broccoli.” She couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought.
Broccoli. She loved broccoli. But not for the past few months. Just the thought
of it brought a nasty taste into her mouth.

Zane leaned down. “Good job, Henry,” he whispered to her
abdomen. “You and me, bud? We’re gonna be friends.”

Akira groaned. What was a semi-vegetarian doing getting
involved with a confirmed meat-and-potatoes man? Worse, having his baby?

Zane grinned. “How about I pick up a couple filets? Fire up
the grill? We can have steak and baked potatoes for dinner tonight.”

“Steak and salad,” she answered grumpily.

“Baked potatoes. With butter. Maybe some sour cream.”

Akira closed her eyes. Why did that sound so good? What was
Henry doing to her? Having her body taken over by a sentient creature with his
own tastes and desires was not what she had expected from pregnancy. Was it
like this for every new mother?

“Knock, knock!” The cheery voice from the other side of the
bedroom door stopped Akira’s response to Zane before she could make it. She
called out, “What is it, Rose?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .” Rose paused and Akira’s
eyes narrowed. Was that nerves she heard in the ghost girl’s tone? Rose wasn’t
the nervous type. “I need your help.”

*****

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“I’m sure it’ll be okay. She acts real mean, but she wasn’t
like that when I knew her.”

“When you knew her? When she was alive, you mean?” Akira
didn’t bother to look toward the ghost seated in the passenger seat next to
her. Florida drivers were insane. She needed to keep her eyes on the road.

“Uh-huh,” Rose responded eagerly. “She was a few years
younger than me in school, so I didn’t know her well, but she was nice enough.”

“Nice enough. Huh.” Akira thought back to the mean old woman
ghost she’d met briefly on her first day in Tassamara. Meredith, her realtor,
had been showing Akira houses supposedly available to rent. Akira hadn’t even
been willing to go into the little lakefront cottage. The angry ghost grumbling
on the porch had made it clear that she wasn’t welcome. “Is that what they call
damning with faint praise?”

“No, really,” Rose answered. “I’ve visited her a few times
recently. As long as you’re not planning on moving into her house, she’ll be
perfectly friendly.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” This time Akira dared a
glance at her passenger. To Akira, the ghost looked almost like a typical
teenage girl, with only her full skirt and blonde curls showing that she was
out of her own time.

“Yes.” A little frown between her eyes revealed Rose’s
worry. “She’s determined to get rid of the new tenant.”

Akira turned her gaze back to the road. Determined. She
didn’t like determined ghosts. She didn’t like angry ghosts, either. She
sighed. “I was supposed to be writing Christmas cards and wedding invitations
today.”

“Zane said he’d take care of them,” Rose said.

Akira didn’t roll her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner
of her mouth, as she tried to imagine Zane’s version of a formal invitation. It
wouldn’t be neat calligraphy, that was for sure. If she had to guess, he was
picking up the phone and calling most of the people on their list. And then
he’d tell her they were all set.

She dropped a hand to her belly. Rose had promised there’d
be no danger from this ghost, but Akira still didn’t like the thought of taking
any chances with the baby. But she’d be careful. The slightest sign of
dangerous energy from the old woman’s ghost and she’d be back in the car and
headed away, she thought, as she pulled the car over and looked at the small
house.

No ghost stood on the porch, but she couldn’t see any
sparkling energy either.

She got out of the car and closed the door. Turning away
from the house, so that no one would be able to see her lips move, she said to
Rose, “You just want me to talk to the tenant?”

“Yes,” Rose said quickly. “That’s all. Find out if she’s
willing to move.”

“What am I supposed to tell her?”

“I don’t know. But I’m worried that Hannah will start trying
to drive her out. She’s only held off because – well, you’ll see.”

Akira nibbled on her lower lip before turning toward the
house. As she walked up the short path to the front door, she tried to think of
what she could say. Should she tell the truth? Or come up with a plausible lie?

Maybe she could claim that something was wrong with the
house. Mold, maybe. Or some undetectable poison in the air, like radon gas. Oh,
or she could say that it was a former meth lab. No one would want to live in it
if they thought they were being exposed to poisonous chemicals.

Perfect.

Of course, the owners of the house might be angry about
losing their tenant to a lie. Would they sue her? Could they?

She reached the porch, still trying to decide what to say.
Behind a closed screen, the front door stood wide open. A small boy crouched on
the foyer floor, a wooden train in each hand, earnestly talking to himself. “I
am spendid, so I should not have to do dat job, Thomas. But James, you must
take da fate to da dock. It is a Vewy Impohtant deyivey.”

Akira paused, wondering whether to interrupt him or find the
doorbell.

The boy looked up at her. He had big, solemn brown eyes
framed with dark lashes, short close-cropped dark hair, and cheeks so round and
chubby they belonged on a chipmunk. She smiled at him. It was impossible not
to. 

He smiled back, exuberant joy radiating from him. “Mama, da
pwetty yady is back. And she bought a fend,” he called out, scrambling to his
feet. “Mean yady, mean yady, ya fend is heah.” He dashed away.

Akira’s brows raised in surprise. She glanced at Rose. Rose
shrugged and stepped through the screen door. “Hannah?” she called out as she
followed the boy into the house. “I brought Akira to meet you.”

Akira tucked her hands under her arms nervously. The boy
could see ghosts. Would that be a problem? Oh dear, she wished she was at home,
enjoying her Saturday and planning her wedding. Or getting ready for Christmas.
She and Zane had bought a tree and decorated it the previous weekend, but she
wanted to bake Christmas cookies and the holiday was only a couple short weeks
away.

“Toby, please stop that. How many times have I had to say
it? There is no mean lady living here. It’s just us, sweetheart.” The female voice
that answered him from the back of the house sounded tired, but kind. And not
at all southern.

Akira’s unease deepened. Although some Tassamara natives had
strong southern accents, plenty of people in central Florida didn’t and she’d
never felt like her own Californian tones stood out. But this woman clipped the
‘t’ on ‘it’ and pronounced the ‘r’ in ‘here’ in a decidedly northern, maybe
even British style. What could she be doing in Tassamara?

She looked for the button to ring the bell. The porch paint
was fresh and glossy, but the button was old-fashioned, set deep in the door
frame and lower than Akira expected it to be. She pushed it firmly, hearing a
rattle and buzz echo through the house.

“Yes?” The woman was a shadowed figure in the back of the
hallway, but sounded wary, edging toward hostile.

Akira forced a smile, trying to make it bright and friendly
and inwardly cursing Rose. “Hi. I’m not selling anything. Or looking for a
donation.”

The woman came no closer.

“Or, you know, trying to convert you. I’m not religious. Not
that religious is bad. No offense, I hope. I actually think it’s sort of nice
of the Jehovah’s Witnesses to care enough about other people’s souls to spend their
free time getting doors slammed in their faces.” Akira paused and swallowed and
took a deep breath. This was ridiculous.

“Quit dithering,” Rose said from behind the woman. “Good
heavens, you’d think you’d never introduced yourself to a neighbor before.”

Akira tried to think if she ever had introduced herself to a
neighbor. She was more the keep-to-herself type, really.

The woman took a few steps toward the door. She was wiping
her hands on a dishtowel, which she slung over her shoulder with casual ease,
but Akira barely noticed. The woman was tall, probably six feet or maybe even a
little more, mostly thin, with long slender arms and legs, and gorgeous, with
an exotic look that matched that of her son, minus the chipmunk cheeks.