whom were already settled in for the night here at the bed-and-breakfastâused it. The moon was aided in its quest to brighten the night by softly glowing streetlights, which had miraculously escaped the mischief night BB guns that had taken out many of those downtown.
She watched the kids dart from puddle to puddle of light, pausing beneath the lamps to grab one more bit of candy, to toss out the odd apple or exchange a lollipop for a jawbreaker. Probably all of them were jamming chocolates into their mouths in spite of their parentsâ dire warnings to let them check their candy before they ate it. In a town like Derryville, who could blame the kids? The only slightly scary thing about this peaceful Illinois place was the house in which she stood. Her home.
Shutting the door, she sagged against it and sighed, both relieved the evening was over, and also slightly sad to see it come to an end. Her first Halloween in the spookiest haunted house in town. Her home, which she adoredâdark corners, scary turrets, strange creaky noises and all. And it had been a resounding success.
Of course, they probably wouldnât have a single guest for the rest of the year. But she knew when they opened last month that Halloween would be a sellout, given the houseâs reputation. Theyâd come close to meeting her prediction. Only two of their thirteen rooms remained vacant. That had proved fortunate. A broken pipe had caused a flood in her room, forcing her out. Sheâd have to stay upstairs for a few days.
âAww, dangit, theyâre gone. Think thatâs it for the night?â
Glancing up, she hid a smile. Her great-aunt Hildy was peering out the window, looking mad enough to spit.
âI think so.â
âRats. I didnât make it outside in time to sing to that last group.â The old woman shook her head. âKnew I shouldnâta had that second frankfurter for dinner. I been in the bathroom half the night and missed mosta the fun.â
Not particularly caring to hear about the bathroom habits of an old lady, Gwen turned to lock the front door.
âI still think I shoulda got that psycho killer mask and a chainsaw and chased the little devils down the hill.â
âYou would have fallen and broken your hip.â
Her great-aunt shot her a look that demanded an apology. Gwen refused to give her one. Spry and in physically perfect condition or not, Hildy was eighty-five years old.
âYou coulda done it,â Hildy finally said. âThe old Gwennie would have.â
The old Gwennie. Hmmâ¦Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person whoâd been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Whoâd loved hack-em-up thriller movies, and had once dreamed of being in the FBI so she could outwit her own Hannibal Lechter.
Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing a bra.
But that was okay. Everyone had to grow up sometime.
âI like this costume better on you, anyway,â Gwen replied, not responding to Hildyâs remark. She gave her great-aunt a visual once-over, studying the spiked, shocking-pink wig, and the thigh-high white patent leather boots sticking to the skinniest pair of old lady legs this side of a refugee camp. Combined with the glitter makeup on the womanâs eyes, the red leather skirt, white spandex top and pink feather boa, Hildy made quite a picture. Seeing Aunt Hildy as a punk rocker had probably been more effective at giving kids nightmares than any chainsaw wielding maniac could ever have.
âSam seemed to like it,â Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.
Sam Winchester was Hildyâs eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been âstepping outâ together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children sheâd never had, but she certainly wasnât too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadnât had much of either one in her life.
âToldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.â Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwenâs pink dress and the long ringlets sheâd curled into her hair.
âBut everybodyâs seen The Wizard of Oz.â
âBo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. Youâre a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.â
She ignored the lecture on not playing it safeâlord knew, sheâd been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parentsâ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her âtuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,â as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.
She didnât mean to play it safe. In fact, recently sheâd begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day. With a bra.
She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment sheâd laid eyes on it.
âYou shouldâve dressed up as that singer Madonna,â Hildy added. âMoe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in oneâa her bustiers.â
Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didnât want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-auntâs best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.
She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to see her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.
Hildyâs family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildyâs own parents had done nothing to help her when sheâd been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after sheâd served her three-year prison sentence.
Aunt Hildyâs life hadnât gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget sheâd disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. Sheâd spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.
She put her arm around her elderly auntâs frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.
âHow would Moe know about Madonna?â she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection
