Free The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella] by Marley Gibson

before me. A satiny, black robe-ish garment hangs from broad shoulders. The head is covered with a hood, masking the spirit’s face, eyes, and other features.
    A booming voice sounds forthlike the mighty wind. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Future. Of Christmas Yet to Come.”
    I literally feel my body shake from my cheeks all the way down to my toes. A pain in my chest threatens to undo me with its firm clutch of dread. I think I’ve handled tonight pretty well… up until this point. Now, I just want to get home, crawl back into my bed, and sleep until the dawn awakens.
    “Hey, there,” I manage to eke out. “What’s in store for me?”
    The ghost stretches out a large hand which points away from the cemetery. Well, good for that. I’m creeped out enough as it is without being in the frickin’ graveyard with this spook. When he doesn’t move to join me, I summon my courage and face him with my best ghost huntress attitude and spunk.
    I pop my hip out to the side and cross my hands in front of me. “Let me guess. You’re gonna show me all sorts of eerie and terrifying things that haven’t happened to me yet. Right?”
    The hooded head bobs up and down, no feature revealed.
    An unclear and ambiguous horror skitters through me as I stand before this ghost. Underneath his veil, I can sense his eyes penetrating through me, judging and waiting.
    Powering up my nerve, I say, “Look, dude, I’m sort of like a professional ghost huntress. I work with spirits and ghosts all the time. Usually not as much as I have tonight, but I’ve been pushed, shoved, teased, tortured, tormented, frightened, spooked, threatened, and provoked by plenty of paranormal entities. You don’t scare me. You’re actually annoying me.”
    The ghost cocks his head, as if studying me.
    “Oh, for God’s sake! Talk to me, dammit!”
    “Fine!” the spirit says and jerks the hood off of his face.
    I nearly choke on my laughter. “Patrick! Are you kidding me? You’re the Ghost of Christmas Future?”
    He scowls at me and pushes the hood off of his neck. “Whatever. I was trying to get into the role and you ruined it.”
    Part of me wants to run and hug him, kiss the mess out of him, but he’s not really here. It’s not my Patrick, rather a dream Patrick here to walk me through the final stage of whatever it is I’m experiencing.
    He slices his eyes up and tries to be somber. “This is really important, Kendall. I’m not supposed to do the talking. You’re supposed to figure things out on your own.”
    I gesture with my hand for him to lead the way.
    The silky fabric of Patrick’s robe drags the ground, making a dusty path that I follow. We weave our way through the Radisson streets with ease—why couldn’t we fly like the other ghosts?—to Fogarty Street. We pass the drugstore, the library, and then come to stop in front of a white building I haven’t visited since Farah’s death.
    “Why are we at Bryant-Jennings Funeral home?”
    Two women I don’t recognize push past me, hurrying up the front steps. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was just a little thing,” the woman in a black pantsuit says.
    Her companion sniffles. “His mother and grandmother are devastated. You know his father hasn’t been to see him in the three years since the accident?”
    “Shameful,” the first woman says.
    Facing Patrick, I ask, “Who are they talking about? Is it someone we know?”
    He points up into the funeral home, so I head on in.
    “When did he pass away?” the pantsuit woman asks in a whisper once we’re inside.
    “Late last night,” another mourner says.
    Deeper into the room, I push past unseen faces to get to the open coffin. I’m used to seeing the dead, so why should this be any different?
    Oh, but this one is vastly unlike any before.
    When I gaze into the cherry wood coffin, my hands lift to cover my horror at what I see. Max Pilfer, about age twelve, slumbers silently and unmoving in his satin bedding.
    “No!” I cry