Page 8 of The Ghost of Ellwood
“I came from Cali.”
“Wow. Long way from home.”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “This is home now. There’s not anywhere else like Ivy Grove.”
“What made you move all the way across the country?”
“Got sick of Cali,” he answered. An end-of-summer breeze swept around us. “My granny lived here her whole life, and I’ve visited a few times over the years. Thought it’d be a cool place to start over, you know?”
“Starting over,” I repeated, nodding. “Must be a theme around here.”
Carter grinned, and his nose crinkled with the action. “I take it you came here for the same reason?”
“Something like that.”
He looked past me into the house and stepped back a little. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime? I’d like to get to know my new neighbor.”
“Likewise.”
After he left, I returned to my soon-to-be office. The house wasn’t fully unpacked yet, but I needed to try and get some writing done. One box was filled with notebooks that I used to jot down story notes for each book, and many of them had loose pages jutting out. I placed them on a shelf in the corner before sitting in my desk chair.
That’s when I remembered the journal and shot back up like my ass was on fire. My curiosity was piqued. I’d only read a few paragraphs of the first entry, and I was already sucked in.
Who was Theo? Who was the Harvey kid he’d mentioned?
However, when I approached the antique table I’d placed it on, the journal was gone.
Chapter Three
Ivy Grove could best be described as a quaint town in semi-rural Connecticut with a lot of charm. Rolling hills on the outskirts provided a beautiful landscape, and the town had a history that ran deep. There were plenty of stores, bars, parks, and places for teens to hang out and cause trouble—much like me back in the day.
Mostly everyone I met greeted me with a smile, even though they were complete strangers. The barista at the local coffee shop knew me by name and people I had only met once or twice chatted with me like we were old pals. It was the kind of hospitality I’d really only heard about in the south, but maybe all small towns were like that.
I’d only been here for five days, but I already loved it.
I strolled down the sidewalk on Main Street. The leaves in the trees hadn’t started changing yet, though it was only a matter of time. Pumpkins were placed in store windows, scarecrows sat on small hay bales, and advertisements for pumpkin spice flavored everything were pinned to doors and written on chalkboard signs where people traveling on foot would be sure to see.
Fall had definitely arrived.
The charming atmosphere had begun to spark inspiration in me again, but I was still unable to write anything I was happy with. Every time I sat down to work, that infuriating block would be there. I had taken a walk that morning to clear my head.
“Good morning,” an elderly woman said as she passed me on the sidewalk.
“Morning,” I echoed.
Taking a drink of my coffee, I savored the taste of hazelnut. It was my favorite flavoring for this time of year. I wasn’t much of a pumpkin person at all. A bell jingled above the door as a man pushed it open, carrying an arm full of books.
A bookstore?
I hadn’t explored this far yet and so the bookstore was a nice surprise. I grabbed the door and held it open for him before entering the shop. The smell of countless books and paper reached my nose, and I found it comforting. Some might’ve called it musty, but the smell was nostalgic for me.
I used to sit in my dad’s study as he worked, and he’d let me flip through his volumes of classic stories to keep me occupied. It was where my love for reading—and eventually writing—came from.
“Mornin’,” a woman’s voice rang out. She looked up at from her seat at the counter. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
“No, I’m just looking.”
She nodded and picked up her large steaming mug before taking a drink. After opening the folded newspaper, she skimmed over the front page. Then, her gaze shot back up to me.
