In "Ghost Stories For The Festive Season," writer Glenn Riley has has masterfully written and curated a collection of ghost stories that evoke the spirit of the festive season in the most spine-tingling way. This compendium isn't your ordinary gathe...
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Rain pattered lightly against the fogged tavern windows as I sat waiting in my usual dark corner booth. The chatter from the other patrons and the crackling fire should have made for a cozy night, but a lingering unease gnawed at my nerves.
When an unknown messenger had approached me with a proposal earlier this evening, I suspected a trap. Thieves must be cautious of strangers bearing gifts, after all. Yet my informant had sworn up and down it was legitimate and the payday was too tempting to pass up without at least hearing the details.
The heavy oak door creaked open, ushering in a gust of chilled autumn air. A tall, well-dressed gentleman entered, raindrops glistening on his wool coat. His graying beard and regal bearing marked him as someone accustomed to wealth. What need did a man like him have for the services of a lowly thief?
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He glanced around the dimly-lit room until his gaze settled on me waiting in the corner. I met his eyes steadily as he approached.
“John Bell, I presume?” he asked, voice smooth as aged whiskey. I inclined my head warily. He took this as confirmation and slid into the booth across from me.
“Garrett Thorne,” he introduced himself before signaling to a barmaid for drinks. So he had old money then, belonging to one of the elite Thorne lineage. I shifted uncomfortably. Just what had he and his coin gotten me into?
Thorne took a swallow of brandy before getting down to business. “Tell me, Bell - do you believe in ghosts?”
I blinked, taken aback by the odd question. “Can’t say I’ve given them much thought one way or t’other. Why?”
Thorne smirked. “Because Ravenwood Manor is rumored to be filled with them. Which is why for nearly sixty years, it has sat abandoned and untouched since the last tragic owners met their ends inside.”
He spent the next hour recounting the history of the decrepit old estate and why he believed priceless heirlooms might yet remain hidden within, protected by superstitious fear. My skepticism must have shown on my face.
“Oh the tales are true enough,” Thorne said quietly. “Old Lord Dalrymple was my grandfather’s cousin. Only met him once before his untimely death but I’ll never forget that cold, unearthly aura...”
