A (Not so Scary) Ghost Story
Bethany Riddle
She settles in, the fleece blanket covering her toes, a warm cup of tea warming her hands. Hands weary from hours of essays in desperate need of grading. A small fire crackles and pops, the three elements essential to fire – oxygen, fuel, and heat – rising in coordinated dance, yellow and orange embers licking at the logs carefully and strategically placed. Masonry fireplaces are few and far between these days. Or so it seems. Which is one of the many reasons why she loves this house so much. Authenticity. Character. Something real and unmanufactured.
Teaching abroad was her father’s idea. Especially after the accident. She takes out the picture of her mother, which she keeps tucked away in her favorite book of poems. In the picture her mother is laughing, head thrown back in reckless abandonment, not caring if she is too loud or who is watching, her long black hair pulled back into a carefully constructed braid.
“I wonder what she was laughing about,” Karina murmurs, though her mother was known to find delight in so many things. The antithesis to her father, a serious man who was gentle and kind, but often wore a strained expression on his face and whose laugh manifested in only a slight twitch from the corner of his mouth.
They could not have been more different, but you know what they say about opposites attracting…Her parents met in college, where they were both associate professors continuing their academic journey together, even after she and her sister were born. And now here she was, following in their footsteps.
Karina sighs, tucking the picture back into place. She wishes she resembled her mother more, instead of her father. Which isn’t to say her father wasn’t handsome, or she herself ugly. Moderate beauty at best for them both she surmised. But damn, if she’d had that maternal genetic code, she’d probably be modeling in Paris, as opposed to teaching in England.
Never mind all that. Karina shakes her head, clearing the fantasy. And the pain. When one loses a mother and sister, all in the same breath…she and her father have been coping as best they can. He has his books, she, her essays. And this cottage. Well, not technically hers, but hers for the moment. That’s all we really have though isn’t it. Moments in time that make up a life, however short or long that life may be.
The water starts boiling on the stove. She sighs, reluctantly uncrossing her legs, rising from an armchair as ancient as the house if the upholstery is any indication. Or maybe they just make them like that here. There’s a knock at the door. The pasta will have to wait. Karina crosses the cold hard floor, peeking out the tiny circular one-way mirror before placing her hand on the spherical doorknob, and twists.
“Hello my dear,” the older woman says, whisps of gray hair framing the face of her next door neighbor, and landlord.
“Good evening Mrs. Ashby, how are you?”
“Fine, simply fine. Spent the afternoon baking and thought you might enjoy a home-made scone or two. A family recipe they are, passed down from my great-great grandmother.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Asby, they smell delicious.”
“Of course, of course,” she dismisses, as if the compliment is unnecessary. Her family wouldn’t keep making inadequate scones after all these years, now would they? She changes course, her tone dropping just a few degrees south, not quite a whisper, but almost a hush.
“You settling in alright? No drafty windows or…anything you can’t explain?”
“Can’t explain…” I start –
“Oh, you know,” she passes the basket of scones to my outstretched hand. “It is an old house after all. Lots of creaks and rusty pipes in these places. Previous tenants have mentioned concerns, minor concerns in the past.”
I give a slight laugh, hoping to sound light-heartened, “Oh, sure, creaks here and there but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Good, good,” she murmurs, her eyes blinking as if clearing a thought she’s decided to keep to herself. “Well, I’m here if you need anything. I’ve been here for many, many years. Seen many a tenant come and go.”
“I remember you saying that.” I smile politely, eager to get back to my spiral noodles which have yet to be made.
“I’ll see you in the morning then,” Mrs. Ashby says, which is probably true. She seems to make it a point to establish contact a few times a day. Which is fine. It’s not like I’ve met a lot of other people here yet, Karina thinks. It brings her dad some comfort too, that there’s someone else here looking after her. He said this very thing when she spoke to him last Sunday.
“See you then.” Karina returns a polite smile in her direction softly closing the wooden door, latching the mortise lock with a satisfying click. She walks into the kitchen, placing the basket of scones on the kitchen counter, eyeing them hungrily. “Dessert first,” Karina mutters, unscrewing the lid of the home-made jam and trying to remember where she saw the knives…she hears another knock.
“Oh Mrs. Ashby, what did you forget this time?”
But wait. It sounds like it’s coming from the back of the house. That’s odd. Karina puts down the jam and walks over to the back of the house, where the study/library resides. She hears it again. A light knock, almost a tap really, and it’s getting louder. Mrs. Ashby’s words come back to her, “No drafty windows…or anything you can’t explain?” She’d dismissed the old woman’s words but now the hairs on the back of her neck start to prickle and she feels her heart skip a beat as she takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.
“Crash!” A book falls off the windowsill, landing to the left of the oak top desk. Karina jumps, a sound of surprise escaping from her throat. Then, she notices the open window, a tree branch hitting the single plane glass. She breathes in through her nose, and out through her mouth. “It’s just the wind, Karina, “she scolds herself. “You’re fine. You’re just fine.”
Karina walks over and shuts the window, making sure she’s properly secured the latch…just in case. But in case of what? This isn’t a dangerous neighborhood. It’s just a little wind. Though…Karina pauses as she starts to exit the room, when did she open that window?
It must have been this morning before she left for work to air out the house a bit. Older homes do carry a bit of a musky smell…that must have been it. She opened the window to air out the cottage while she was gone, she convinces herself. “Maybe I should get a dog,” she mumbles as she makes her way back to the kitchen to finally fix her dinner.
A little while later, she sits again by the fire, reading Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, another cup of tea by her side. She could really get into this tea habit, Karina thinks as she sips the warm liquid with just a slight splash of milk. “You know what goes well with tea though…” She never did eat that scone.
Karina gets up and walks back to the kitchen. “I think I left it on the counter, next to the unopened jam,” she laughs to herself, scolding her skittishness earlier because of an open window. Karina pauses, wondering if there might indeed be a dog in the house who is particularly fond of scones. Because the scone she left on the counter…is gone.
***
A trail of crumbs, barely visible to the naked eye can be seen leaving the kitchen counter, continuing to the floor, and making its way to the study, stopping right outside the door. Mrs. Ashby always made a good scone, the young girl reminisces. Which is about the only good thing about having a tenant here. She really wishes Mrs. Ashby would stop renting out her home.
She’ll just have to be more careful. Fortunately, the new tenant couldn’t see her behind the bookcase when she stupidly forgot to close the window after a lovely afternoon breeze that she just couldn’t resist as she hovered among the books in the library.
Some people might tell you ghosts can’t touch things like scones and books. Maybe that’s true, for some. But for whatever reason, even though she is a bit translucent, her fingers are still able to grab and enjoy certain things…like scones. Another rookie mistake. She shakes her head. “I should have grabbed one from the basket, not the one she put on the counter.”
She’ll be more careful next time. “Though these little mishaps could be useful,” she surmises…” If I want to get this new tenant out of my house.”
To be honest, she wouldn’t mind finding a way to co-exist, she isn’t malicious or unreasonable…she knows she can’t pay the rent and really doesn’t blame Mrs. Ashby for needing to find someone who does. But most humans, the alive ones anyway, seem to have a problem with sharing a house with a ghost. She’s tried a few times, a few promising tenants, at least so she thought. But they all end the same way, with packed bags and a nervous breakdown, not on her part mind you.
She needs to study this new tenant a bit more, to see if co-existing is even a possibility. It would be nice to feel settled for once. To not continually feel as if something is missing. But what it is, she can’t quite figure out. She’ll start small. See if this new tenant might be open to the possibility…and she knows just how to start.
***
“This is silly,” Karina thinks to herself as she stares at the spot where she swore she put the delicious treat. Scones just don’t disappear. She must have put it back in the basket without realizing it. Yes, that must be it. She’s probably tired and should just call it a night and head to bed. But there’s still those essays to grade…
Karina grabs a scone from the basket, quickly slathering it with raspberry jam and makes her way back to the armchair and the warm fire. She takes a bite, then sets the delicious scone on a small plate. “Time to grade a few essays,” she mutters as she picks up the first paper in the pile. Already she can tell her pen will be making quite a few marks.
Before she begins, she hears something fluttering by the fireplace. What now? A book? No, it looks like the pages of a journal which softly land to an opened position. Something pulls her from the couch, something she can’t explain. A feeling perhaps, and it is strong, telling her to walk over and look at the open pages. She slowly kneels, gathering the leather-bound journal in her hands. Her senses are heightened, but she doesn’t feel…alarmed.
There’s a drawing, the image spreading from one page to the next. A tree. With a rope swing, next to…this very house. Though the drawing is in black and white she can tell the sun is shining on the girl who is sitting on the swing. Oddly, it brings comfort. Warmth spreads from her hands to her arms, to her chest. What a strange sensation this is, Karina thinks. It lasts for but a moment, and as the warmth slowly fades she wonders about the girl in the photo. Maybe she will talk with Mrs. Ashby tomorrow, to see if she knows anything about previous tenants.
But for now, she’s ready to call it a night. Those essays will just have to wait. Her body is ready for the warmth and comfort of her bed, so she settles the journal between the crook of her elbow, grabbing the rest of the scone to finish in her room. She looks around once more and turns off the light.
Bethany Riddle
Bethany J. Riddle is a writer, poet, and educator living in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals including Amethyst Review, Four Tulips, Sublimation and is upcoming at The Prose Poem where two of her poems were shortlisted for the 2025 Spring Short Competition. She has an educational background in Journalism and Teaching, spending 10+ years in the classroom as an English and History teacher. You can find her at substack.com/@bethanyjriddle and Instagram @bethanyjriddle