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 adored—dark corners, scary turrets, strange creaky noises and all. And it had been a resounding success.
Of course, they probably wouldn’t 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 house’s reputation. They’d 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. She’d have to stay upstairs for a few days.
“Aww, dangit, they’re gone. Think that’s it for the night?”
Glancing up, she hid a smile. Her great-aunt Hildy was peering out the window, looking mad enough to spit.
“I think so.”
“Rats. I didn’t make it outside in time to sing to that last group.” The old woman shook her head. “Knew I shouldn’ta had that second frankfurter for dinner. I been in the bathroom half the night and missed mosta the fun.”
Not particularly caring to hear about the bathroom habits of an old lady, Gwen turned to lock the front door.
“I still think I shoulda got that psycho killer mask and a chainsaw and chased the little devils down the hill.”
“You would have fallen and broken your hip.”
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.
“You coulda done it,” Hildy finally said. “The old Gwennie would have.”
The old Gwennie. Hmm…Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person who’d been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Who’d 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.
“I like this costume better on you, anyway,” Gwen replied, not responding to Hildy’s 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 woman’s 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.
“Sam seemed to like it,” Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.
Sam Winchester was Hildy’s eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been “stepping out” together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children she’d never had, but she certainly wasn’t too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadn’t had much of either one in her life.
“Toldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.” Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwen’s pink dress and the long ringlets she’d curled into her hair.
“But everybody’s seen The Wizard of Oz.”
“Bo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. You’re a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.”
She ignored the lecture on not playing it safe—lord knew, she’d been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parents’ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her “tuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,” as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.
She didn’t mean to play it safe. In fact, recently she’d 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 she’d laid eyes on it.
“You should’ve dressed up as that singer Madonna,” Hildy added. “Moe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in one’a her bustiers.”
Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-aunt’s 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.
Hildy’s 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, Hildy’s own parents had done nothing to help her when she’d been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after she’d served her three-year prison sentence.
Aunt Hildy’s life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget she’d disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. She’d 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 aunt’s 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.
“How would Moe know about Madonna?” she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.
“TV.”
She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. “Of course. Moe loves TV, I remember.” Personally, when she was in Moe’s position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TV—no reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springer—sounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, “You know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.”
Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. “That dirty old geezer. He always was…”
“Never mind, Aunt Hildy. I’m sure he didn’t mean
