Under The Mistletoe: Mistletoe Mansion / The Mince Pie Mix-Up / Baby It's Cold Outside

I know someone’s there and I’m not frightened, you know, I said in my head, even though, chest heaving, I was rooted to the spot. Racking my brains for phrases from Most Haunted, I concentrated hard. Knock three times if you mean no harm.

‘Kimmy?’ called up Terry, from the Games of Thrones Room (still think of it as that). I paused, mouth dry, eyes wide open. Then bolted towards the staircase, down to the comfort of human company. The music had stopped now, anyway.

I opened the door and there amidst the racing green walls and mahogany panels sat my new neighbour and Jess. My shoulders relaxed. They were at the bar, drinking… some yucky muddy drink. Terry slid a murky cocktail down to the stool next to Jess.

‘What’s in this?’ I asked, making my way around the billiards table. At least it had one of those brollies in that I’d bought.

‘Half orange juice and half… half…’ Jess sneezed. ‘Cola. We were thirsty and Terry suggested this. It’s called a Muddy Water.’

‘I tried to persuade Jess to let me nip home for some champagne,’ said Terry and took out a handkerchief to wipe his perspiring cheeks. Frazzle was curled up at the foot of the stool. Groucho was standing guard, ready to be the first to claim any fallen crisps. I shoved a Pringle in my mouth. They were Adam’s favourite flavour. We used to challenge each other to eat them sideways.

‘How about you, Kimmy? A spot of champers?’

‘Better not, Terry – I’ve still got to sort out the hallway and downstairs loo and maybe give the windows the once over too.’ I looked out of the front window and right at the bottom of the drive spotted two cute copper-coloured dogs trotted past on leads, long hair shimmying from side to side. ‘Borders look good, Jess.’ The sun was setting. Sunday night. Adam would have just got back from the gym, ready to sit next to me on the sofa and watch his favourite detective series.

‘What time are these buyers arriving tomorrow?’ asked Terry.

‘One o’clock,’ said Jess. ‘Deborah, the estate agent, is coming this time too. Just to see how we’ve settled in. Spying for Mr Murphy, I guess.’

‘Great dress sense, that woman,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve seen her several times. Fabulous shoes.’

‘Did you see much of Mr Murphy, Terry?’ I asked. ‘He must have been close to Walter, to get this place. Is he married?’

Terry sipped his cocktail again. ‘No. Single – Walter mentioned a long-term relationship that broke down. I met him a few times, during those last months. It’s a long way to come from Manchester – his mum, Walter’s sister, moved there when she got married. He seemed a decent sort – took Walter out to country pubs and would shout him a round of golf. Walter and Lily didn’t have any other younger relatives – Mike was their only nephew. Not that there was much of a family resemblance. Mike was a bit flash for the old man’s taste – you know, chunky jewellery, dyed hair. But they discussed politics and world news together.’ Terry grinned. ‘Right until the end, Walter was as sharp as they come, despite his series of strokes.’

‘Strokes?’

Terry ran a hand over his bald head. ‘The effects of them were largely physical. No one ever took Walter for a fool. I remember the week before his last funny turn, he gave the postman a hard time for leaving a parcel out in the rain.’ Terry shrugged. ‘Eh, listen to me wittering on… So, I wonder if Jonny will be at this Botox party tomorrow morning, supporting his wife.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Which was such a disappointment. I could have sneaked a photo of him on my phone. Uploading that onto Facebook would have guaranteed me a hundred friend requests… Jonny topless from the shower, Adam furious when the photo got leaked to the press… The headline would read: “Jealous Ex accuses The Eagle of preying upon young housesitter, Kimmy.”

‘I’ve got to be at Melissa’s for half past nine,’ I said and shook myself back to reality. ‘I’ll get up early to give the place the last once-over. It’s your day off tomorrow, Jess, right?’

She nodded.

‘Well, you have a lie-in, I’ll make sure everything looks spotless before I’m off. I should be back before twelve and then I’ll cook you–’

She glared. ‘I’m fine.’

Terry flicked through some CDs behind the bar. He rolled his eyes. ‘One of the few things Walter and I disagreed on was our taste in music. Give me Michael Jackson or The O’Jays any day. Whereas Walter was into classical and what he called cosy “Fireside music”. Terry cocked his head. ‘What was his favourite now…’ He picked up a Christmas Greats CD. ‘That’s it: Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas. Jeez, he used to play that song at all times of the year. It may have been easy-listening for him, but not me!’

I almost dropped my Muddy Water. Oh my God – the music upstairs.

‘He did like Bond music as well, though,’ Terry continued, as he came across a CD with Sean Connery on the front.

Jess bit her thumbnail. ‘Phil, my, um, last boyfriend… He was dead keen on all those Bond soundtracks and films. Plus he loved the old greats like Bing Crosby too.’

‘Have you played that Christmas CD whilst we’ve been here, with the White Christmas track?’ I asked Jess, a shudder running up my spine.

‘You really think I want to remind myself of that married jerk?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry.’ I swallowed hard. That only left one person – or entity – who could have played it, then.

‘Everything okay, Kimmy?’ Terry asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

I nodded and knocked back my drink, on automatic. So, the ghost, spook, astral being, whatever you wanted to call it, was Walter Carmichael. I shivered. How could I have not suspected this before? Walter was haunting his own house.

‘Anyway, here’s to you two girls,’ said Terry and raised his glass. ‘Hope you stay longer than your predecessors.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I, um, hadn’t realised it was so late. Better get going, girlies. Come on Frazzle. It’s time for your sow nuts and then I’ll make us both a nice fruit salad. Good luck tomorrow, girl.’ He gave me a wink.

‘Let me cook you something here, as a thanks for all your hard work,’ I said, still digesting the revelation that Walter hadn’t moved on to the next world. I followed Terry into the hall. Why was he suddenly in such a rush? It was as if he didn’t like being out – or at least near this house – as night-time approached.

‘Much, erm, as I’d like to, Frazzle doesn’t like staying out late. It’s been my pleasure though. Remember, I want all the goss from the Winsfords.’ He took out a small golf pencil and marker book from his back pocket and scribbled down a number. ‘Ring me when you get back.’ Then he tucked Frazzle under his arm and quickly disappeared into the chilly evening air.

I closed the door and glanced towards the kitchen. I could hear Jess pottering about. She’d switched the radio back to classical. I tiptoed halfway up the stairs and stared at the front, locked bedroom. Dare I try to provoke Walter to show himself, just like they sometimes taunted spirits on Most Haunted? Last night’s polite request for three knocks hadn’t worked. Perhaps it was time to get tough. But what if he’d been turned evil and stole my soul or possessed my body? Knuckles white on my clenched fists, I gave it a go.

‘I know who you are now, Walter,’ I said, in a trembling voice, a wave of nausea rising up the back of my throat. ‘Show yourself. What are you afraid of? Stop hiding behind your… your cheesy music and silly smoke screen. Why try to frighten me and Jess? Cos, newsflash! It isn’t working. I’ve felt more startled by children calling at Halloween; more horror-struck by my hair after five minutes in the rain. Come on, Walter… Throw chairs around. Smash crockery. Do your worst! It’s time to man up!’

Chapter 11 (#ulink_2e685a1a-188c-5ca8-ace4-528369022c36)

With an ear-splitting scream, I tumbled down the stairs. My back smacked onto the floor. Metallic-tasting liquid – blood obviously – trickled out of my mouth. Wind whirled around the hallway. Jess charged out of the kitchen and spotted me in a twisted heap, limbs lying at funny angles. White Christmas played loudly and thick smoke filled the air. ‘Have mercy on me,’ I begged, as ominous footsteps descended the stairs…

Nah. Not really. No such excitement. But that was what I imagined might happen, if this spooky Walter had any guts. Instead I was still talking to him in my head, a couple of hours later, stretched out, star-shaped, underneath silk crimson sheets, wishing I was wearing some equally exotic negligee, instead of my tatty old Hello Kitty pyjama bottoms and T-shirt. I didn’t mention my revelation about the ghostly happenings to Jess – or the fact that I’d been locked in my room and nearly burnt to death. I figured she’d already got enough on her mind – a few minutes ago I crept onto the landing, to investigate some loud sniffs. But she must have heard me from her room, because when the floorboard creaked it went quiet. She’d cried again earlier, despite me cooking her favourite tofu and nut stir fry. The Jess I knew rarely did tears.

‘It’ll be okay,’ I’d said, willing my eyes not to water as I brushed back her red fringe. The last time she’d blubbed like that was when her pet rabbit died in Year Five. Even then she’d put on a brave face, her designing a memorial plaque for the coffin (shoe box), me singing word-perfect I Want You Back, by N Sync.

‘How will everything be all right?’ she’d sobbed. ‘There’s no crèche at work. As it is, I barely earn enough to pay rent. Mum and Dad are enjoying retirement in Spain – I can’t ruin everything for them. And Ryan can hardly look after himself, let alone a nephew or niece.’ Then she’d gone all independent again – told me not to worry, and it was her problem, she’d sort it herself. Why, oh why, was she shutting me out?

I yawned and gazed around my – Lily’s – bedroom. Walter, maybe you could ditch the Christmas tune and play something more to Jess’s taste, I said in my head, all fear gone as he was clearly a figment of my imagination or too chicken to answer back. I pictured him as my fantasy Grandpa, seeing as I’d never had one all these years. He’d be smartly dressed, in a golf shirt of course, smell of cigars and perhaps wear a flat cap. He’d want to know all about my cake-making dreams, sit me down and dish out helpful advice.

Arms still aching from all that cleaning, I got up and plaited my hair. What luxurious surroundings, I thought, for the hundredth time, with the fancy carved dressing table and velvet curtains… I gazed at the oil painting of poppies before switching off my bedside light. I still wasn’t used to the complete dark of Badgers Chase and missed the glow of street lamps and take-aways that always crept into Adam’s flat. I’d done well to resist texting him, to resist begging him to take me back. Nor had I ruined my surprise by telling him about KimCakes Ltd finally taking off. No, I’d wait until tomorrow night when I could inform him, in business-like tones, of exactly how much I’d earned at Melissa’s.

I yawned again and closed my eyes, missing the sound of Adam’s heavy breaths. Yet, annoyingly, images of Luke crept into my mind. His floppy hair, those god awful cords, the way they showed off his… okay, he had a nice bum. Mmm, musky-smelling Luke, with his bristly cheeks, in a tight white vest, muscles flexing as he carried me out of a burning Mistletoe Mansion – me as light as a feather ( I had to be dreaming), armed with a first aid kit full of cupcakes…

Wow! I woke with a jolt. That was some freaky dream. I sat up and leant against the luscious pillows and threw off the silk sheets and duvet. Perhaps I’d become too hot… Yeah, that was the only rational explanation for imagining moody Luke as some hero figure. Eyes wide open, fingers gripping the duvet, I strained to listen to every noise – was that an owl? There was a distant bark… I snuggled back down. What had woken me up? In Luton it was usually a low aeroplane or car alarm going off.

It was eerily quiet and despite my bravado about speaking to Walter, the night blackness spooked me a bit. I sniffed. What was that familiar sweet smell? I sat back up, suddenly cold with the December night air. The hairs stood up on my arms at the unexpected sound of rushing wind. According to my phone, it was half past twelve. I grabbed one of the purple embroidered cushions at the foot of the bed and gave it a big hug. Maybe Walter was a little bit ticked off at my earlier comments. Come on, um, Mr Carmichael, I was only joking, play that Christmassy tune again, it’s, um, kind of cool. But that sweet smell only got stronger. I switched on the light. Uh oh – it was the smoke from earlier today, once again billowing under the door.

Every molecule of my being springing into action, I threw the cushion onto the floor and jumped out of bed. My phone fell onto the mattress. Again, like earlier, the door wouldn’t budge. Yelling to wake up Jess, I pulled on the handle, hard. Then I heard banging noises from the adjoining front room as if someone – or something – was moving around. My heart knocked furiously against the inside of my chest.

‘Fire! Jess! Wake up!’ I called in a shrill voice.

‘Kimmy?’ called a distant voice. ‘Is that smoke coming under my door?’

‘Yes! Stop it with a damp towel. Be careful,’ I shouted back. Then, without warning, my bedroom light flicked off. I gasped and stood statue still for a moment before feeling my way back to the switch. On the way I collided with a chest of drawers and tears sprang to my eyes. When I finally found the switch, it didn’t work.

In the pitch black, I climbed over the mattress, searching for my phone. If I could just get to the window and shout for help… But… Oh no… Please tell me this wasn’t happening… My body went into spasm as something or someone curled their fingers around my foot. Instinctively, I kicked to and fro, imagining all kinds of gruesome scenarios and a weird noise escaped my mouth, like a cross between a wail and a sob. Finally, my leg broke free. Gulping, I dived to the floor and dropped my phone. It skidded under the bed. Astral beings were never so bold on Most Haunted. I must have really wound Walter up.

Yet could that really have been the grip of some ghostly elderly man? And according to Terry, Walter was a sound bloke. Plus White Christmas hadn’t played since I’d woken up. I swallowed hard. Only one thing could explain this: there had to be two spirits – gentle Mr Carmichael and some evil demon that got up to mischief and blew smoke.