Page 10 of The Ghost of Christmas Present

Was it her imagination, or did she hear a laugh from somewhere above her?

Another few steps, another note.

My name is Mortimer Ashfield. I lived and worked here for many years. I died here, too, but I didn’t leave. I loved it here too much.

Well. She could relate. Should she say that aloud? “I get it. I wasn’t raised here, but it’s definitely becoming home. It just... It has a feel to it.”

This time, the paper all but smacked her in the face, gusting upward to rest in front of her eyes.

I always thought I was simply waiting to finish all the books I wished to read—futile task.

“Ha! No way, Mortimer,” she murmured.

But now I wonder if I have resisted leaving because I wanted to meet you. My true love.

Louisa swallowed.Creepy. Guys shouldn’t tell you they love you too soon.Another paper, this one gently wafting into her hand.

Don’t doubt my love. Even though you have only just met me, I have seen you almost every day for four years. I love your laugh, your smile, the way you make a grand show of giving a child his or her first library card, the way you organize the monthly crock-pot soup lunch, and the way you keep a novel beside you at all times. I’ve seen you cry, rage against injustice, organize, research, and even sing. Every thing, no matter how small, makes you more dear to me.

“Stalker,” she murmured, but the feeling of rage or fear she expected didn’t manifest. Everything in her was simply... curious.

Selfishly, I love your beauty. Your raven hair, your brown velvet eyes, and the way your skin glimmers in the light, like you have a thousand tiny diamonds just waiting underneath the surface for some lucky man to find and treasure.

The last paper was waiting on the first step of the staircase.

If you relax and trust that there are more things that exist than can be seen, you’ll be able to see me. Hear me. Even feel me, if you’d like.

Feel him?

Was he really there last night in her fevered, orgasmic dream? Was Mortimer whispering those filthy, sweet things? Touching her?

Why did she suddenly want him to touch her so much more?

“It’s Christmas. I believe in a miracle or two,” she whispered.

The candles suddenly flickered and flared brighter, each flame higher than the last, lighting her way to the top of the stairs and then to the attic beyond.

SHE SAT IN THE SOFT, thick cushion of her chair, eyes closed. A little table used during local craft shows had been dragged up and assembled with a chair beside it.

So ghosts can move things.

Or I’m about to be in the worst trouble ever and a real human man is going to spring out of a hiding place and—

Not going to think like that.

“Were you here the other night? In the attic?” she blurted, voice fast but hushed.

Nothing—at first. Then, as she made up her mind that she’d never be able to hear this ghost (or majorly creepy guy with a special effects degree), she heard it, like a breath of air, even slighter than a whisper.

“Yes.”

A light, feathery wisp of something warm crossed the back of her hand. Eyes opened wide, she saw nothing.

“Why can’t I see you?”

Another long pause, and then the words began to come, wavering and soft, hard to catch. “Our brains like what we understand. Ghosts aren’t so hard to understand, not truly. We are the soul’s echo. We are memories distilled, the essence of a person, what they treasured most.”

Louisa let her eyes fall shut and leaned back further as Mortimer’s voice grew stronger and more audible. “And you treasure old books?”

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