And call it maternal instinct or just plain old paranoia, but I have a sinking feeling that Ella’s arrival hasn’t broken the inn’s deadly streak. If anything, it’s probably just given whatever cosmic force controls these things time to plan something extra special just in time for Halloween.
Here’s hoping the next body at least has the courtesy to wait until I’ve figured out how to change a diaper without having a nervous breakdown—or until I’ve gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep.
A girl’s got to have priorities.
CHAPTER 3
Present day…
October
If anyone asks, I’m NOT with the woman in bat wings and the tiny hooman accessory,Fish mentally projects as she weaves between my legs, her sleek black and white fur partially hidden beneath a pair of red devil horns that are tilting precariously to one side.I’m an independent feline who just happens to be passing through on my way to somewhere infinitely more dignified.
“No one is buying it, Fish,” I whisper, adjusting Ella’s tiny bat costume while trying not to wake her. My one-month-old daughter snoozes blissfully against my chest, oblivious to the chaos around us—which, honestly, is probably a survival mechanism she inherited from me.
It’s two weeks before the big haunted day and the Country Cottage Inn is playing host to the spookiest fall festival inSpiderCove—as in a giant fall celebration is taking place right here on the grounds every day until Halloween night. It’s sort of an annual tradition at this point.
The night air is crisp, the sound of laughter and creepier sounds from the haunted house we’ve erected echo next to us, the twinkle lights are doing their thing and making the grounds look perfectly magical, and the scent of deep-fried apple fritters has me fantasizingabout gobbling down a dozen of them in a single sitting. I’ve done it before.
I adjust Ella’s tiny bat wings, and I can’t help but think about the other bombshell that dropped right before her birth. Five months ago, Emmie’s wild baby shower wasn’t just memorable for the mountain of gifts and that slightly disturbing and very lifelike sleeping baby cake—it was because of the happenings that day that I discovered I have another sister floating around in the universe somewhere.
It turns out, Leo’s mother’s idea of party games included ancestry testing kits, because apparently, nothing sayscelebrate the upcoming babylike potentially devastating family revelations. While everyone else got predictable results—distant cousins in Ireland, a great-grandfather who was probably a pirate—mine came with an unexpected plot twist—a half-sister I never knew existed.
Jasper and I tried to contact her right away, but she didn’t respond to any of my messages through the website. And the website refused to give us any more information on the woman. All I know about this mystery sibling is her username—Lovemydoodle—which suggests either a serious obsession with labradoodles or a questionable taste in online aliases.
Either way, between midnight feedings and diaper changes that require the organizational skills of a NASA mission, I’ve barely had time to process having another Baker girl out there, let alone track her down.
Emmie had her baby right after and well, I finally had Ella and we’ve been too busy comparing sleep-deprivation levels to think of anything else ever since. But I’ll admit, I am super curious about this new sister of mine and why in the world she won’t give me the time of day.
I’m secretly afraid something terrible happened to her, and maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded. Suffice it to say, this surge of hormones has made me an expert in catastrophizing—I can turn a missing sock into a full-scale tragedy in under thirty seconds.
I glance up at the massive banner stretching across the front of the Country Cottage Inn, with the wordsFRIGHT NIGHT SPOOKTACULAR ANNUAL HALLOWEEN FESTIVALemblazoned indripping blood-red letters against a backdrop of cartoon ghosts and bats. Whoever designed it clearly graduated from themore is moreschool of graphic design. There isn’t a square inch without some kind of spooky clip art.
The inn looms against the inky October sky like something out of a horror movie—and I would know. I’ve watched enough of them during my late-night feedings with Ella. Blue lights pulse from every window, casting an eerie glow across the wraparound porch where mechanized ghosts swing from the rafters. A bolt of fake lightning flashes across the facade, followed by a thunderous boom that seems to shake the very foundation of the place.
The air is a bizarre sensory overload—equal parts sugar, grease, and artificial fog. The smell of corn dogs and funnel cakes hangs heavy, mingling with caramel apples and that unmistakable scent of pumpkin that retailers have convinced us is the official fragrance of fall. My stomach growls in appreciation, a reminder that nursing mothers are essentially always starving. True as gospel.
Clusters of children dart through the crowd like schools of colorful fish, their costumes ranging from store-bought superheroes to impressively crafted homemade monsters. Most clutch plastic pumpkins already overflowing with candy, their sugar-fueled excitement reaching levels that will have parents questioning their decision-making skills around bedtime.
Jack-o’-lanterns line every walkway, their flickering faces casting spooky shadows that make the inn’s grounds look as if they’re breathing—or possibly having a mild anxiety attack.
What was once our serene acreage has been transformed into a carnival that Walt Disney himself might describe as a bit much. The midway stretches to the left, dotted with game booths where teenagers try to impress their dates while failing to knock over milk bottles.
A much more elaborate haunted house than our own stands at the far end, its facade plastered with warnings about heart conditions and age restrictions that basically translate toenter at your own risk, and please don’t sue us if you have a cardiac event.
Just beyond that, a makeshift graveyard sprouts from the ground, complete with zombie arms reaching from freshly dug graves andfog machines working overtime to create that authenticrecently disturbed burial siteambiance.
And, of course, there’s the obligatory pumpkin patch where kids are currently battling it out over who can find the most perfectly round specimen.
This place is crawling with small hoomans hopped up on sugar,Fish yowls with horror as a group of costumed children race past us, leaving a trail of candy wrappers in their wake.I’ll be hiding under the bed until Christmas if anyone needs me.
But don’t you want candy?Sherlock pants at the sight as his red freckled face beams with excitement beneath a superhero cape that flutters rather dramatically with each bound.I heard someone say dogs can’t have chocolate, but surely that’s fake news.
The only thing fake around here is your intelligence,Fish sniffs.And your superhero physique.That cape makes your behind look like two pumpkins in a pillowcase.
“Play nice, you two,” I warn them, although I can’t help but smile at their ongoing feud. “No chocolate for either of you. And as for the costumes, it’s just for a few nights.”
That’s what you said about the Christmas antlers last year,Fish grumbles.And the Easter bunny ears. And the Fourth of July sparkly collar. I’m developing a complexabout holiday accessories.
