Rest Inn Peace

By Bonnie Bernard

Rest Inn Peace is a charming bed and breakfast nestled in a magical grove on the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park, next to an old cemetery packed with brain-starved zombies. The inn is home to dragons, fairies, talking animals and ghosts. The welcome-wagon committee is a creepy statue and a crazy manager. For Cobra and his 12 year old daughter Zoe, inheriting the inn is anything but a delightful family rest stop and it brings out the worst in them both; after all, fairies and dragons aren’t even real – are they? Cobra wants to take his kid and run, but where will they go? The outside world is crumbling, people are hungry and desperate. When Cobra takes over running the Inn, murders begin to plague the small town of Broken Spur Valley with a frightening regularity. Is there a connection between their arrival and those mysterious murders?
Meet a few Rest Inn Peace residents...
Zoe – Inherited the ability to see fairies and other magic from her dad...who was just voted the town serial killer. Twelve years old and stuck in Podunk, Zoe’s problems don’t end with her dastardly-daddy. She also has one best friend who’s afraid of bacon, another that loves peanut butter and sardine sandwiches, and a third who’s in love with a dandelion seed. Why can’t anything ever be normal?
Cobra – Has trouble staying out of jail and away from the lady in red. He hates that Zoe got her crazy streak from him, and wishes his drug-addicted ex-wife would come along and take the kid off his hands. He’s hooked on beer...and it appears he’s killing people in his sleep.
Reggie – The girl next door. She talks with gargoyles and trolls the way normal people talk with the mailman. Rest Inn Peace is her dream-come-true, but the inn’s new, disbelieving ex-con owner is a nightmare. Can Reggie save her beloved bed-and-breakfast from the wrecking ball, or will the man with the shady past destroy the whole planet with his obstinate stupidity?
Foxy – Frequent Rest Inn Peace guest and once-famous disco-feverin’ disc jockey from the 1970s. He loves the night life and wants to boogie, so if you’re up for a hot night with a cold corpse, Foxy’s your ladies’ man!
Sheriff Million – Under his vigilant watch, cow tippers are sent packing and the zombies only snack on geezerly church ladies. As far as the sheriff is concerned, everything in Broken Spur would be plumb-perfect, if not for that mysterious serial killer. Still, Million is a humdinger of a law and order man, keeping his remote rural town locked and loaded...and the goats well-fed.
Faest – Can’t fly straight or see clearly, plus he’s easily sidetracked by organic broccoli and pink flamingoes. But don’t let that worry you. Faest is a fierce fire-dragon from the royal lineage of Mythical Protectors. No matter the odds, if you’re under his wing he will keep you safe...or burn down your house trying.
Blanche and Henry – They would gladly snack on your brain if not for Sheriff Million, whose zombie-bribery tactics will always keep you safe. Well, unless you sneak out of church during the sermon, in which case Blanche will probably snap your neck. Piousness is next to godliness, after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Bernard
• Release date: Aug 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301665495

Bonnie Bernard

I'm the proud birth-giver to The Midnight Hunter Trilogy - a paranormal, suspense-thriller that features a dash of romance, a sprinkle of mystery, an occasional murder, and a full, fun cast of Underworld characters. Some of them are kind, others are wicked - but all of them will tug at your heartstrings. The Midnight Hunter Trilogy is published by Fin-S Press and is available in softcover and most ereader-device forms.

Book preview

Chapter One - Rest Inn Peace

From her vantage point on the porch, Reggie knew she already hated this guy on the bike; it was how he glared at Rest Inn Peace like he was expecting it to strike out and bite him. If the jackass was worthy, his initial reaction would be wide-eyed wonder and joy. After the glare, he pushed down the motorcycle’s kickstand, pulled off his helmet, and lit a cigarette. Disgusting, Reggie thought. And why did he bring a damned kid? To make matters worse, the pair had come with Selma’s little white dog that would not shut the hell up. Just peachy. Reggie had to do her job anyway. Selma had made her promise. Gritting her teeth and uncrossing her arms, Reggie breathed deep and pulled up one her professional fake smiles.

I’m Reggie, the manager here. Welcome to Rest Inn -

- Rest Inn Peace is a terrible name, the red-haired kid interrupted from her seat on the motorcycle’s back.

Your grandmother picked it out, Reggie defended, stepping off the porch to approach the pair.

"Selma’s my great-grandmother," the kid argued while pulling off her helmet.

Fine, then your great-grandmother picked it out. Reggie’s lips twitched as she worked double-time to keep that smile looking sincere.

So anyway, do people come here to die?

They come here to relax, Reggie replied, her friendly tone starting to crack under the pressure of the annoying kid.

Then the name is wrong.

How do you figure that, little girl?

I’m not a little girl. I’m twelve, almost thirteen, and -

- And the name is wrong, her jackass father butt in, because it implies lying down to die.

Hardly, Reggie chuckled, triumphant. The name implies resting peacefully at our inn, which is precisely what guests come here to do. It’s perfect. It’s also catchy.

Herpes is catchy too, the kid retorted.

My kid’s got a point there, the guy said before coughing gruffly. Probably lung cancer.

Reggie clenched her fists and wrenched up the fake smile a notch. Would that stupid little dog ever stop yapping?

Rest Inn Peace is like warm apple pie, she said graciously, or at least it sounded that way to her. Homey.

Or maybe it’s like steaming cow pie, he countered. Stinky.

The kid giggled.

Reggie, having had enough of them, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Corbin Carpenter, I assume?

The sandy-haired guy arched an irritated eyebrow at her. The name’s Cobra. And my kid is Zoe.

The kid popped a gum bubble. This motel sucks, she exclaimed, unstrapping the yapping dog from its crate on the motorcycle’s back end. If Reggie recalled it right, the little monster’s name was Snuggles or Tuggles or maybe Snuffles. Selma had named it but then Selma died, leaving the annoying mutt to these two.

Rest Inn Peace is an inn, Reggie emphasized inn. Not a motel.

Whatever. The kid shrugged. Shut up, Snuggles. You are so annoying.

Reggie tried to hide her ironic smirk. There’s a difference between a motel and an inn, she began. Motels are -

- What kind of name is Broken Spur for a town? The kid popped another gum bubble.

Small town quirkiness, Reggie defended.

I don’t like quirkiness, the kid scowled.

You’ll get used to it. Small towns just take some fitting into.

Size twenty butt cheeks will fit in a size two bikini before we’ll fit in this Podunk town, the snake guy grumbled, that cancer stick clenched between his teeth as he pulled off a pair of leather riding gloves.

If you don’t fit in this Podunk town, Reggie replied while panning the picturesque Broken Spur valley, then find a graveyard to fit in, because your soul is already dead.

A graveyard would be a step up, the kid grumbled.

Reggie took a deep breath. She had promised Selma she would be good to everybody who ended up on RIP’s doorstep, no matter how wretched. This pair and their horrid dog were certainly testing that promise. Reggie examined the dusty bike and its rag-tag menagerie from Brooklyn. The kid popped yet another gum bubble. God, how she disliked kids. And stupid little dogs. Not to mention good-looking, well-muscled smokers named after venomous reptiles. Even worse, all three living next door to her and being responsible for her paycheck. Pasting on another saccharin smile, Reggie finished her standard welcome.

Again, she said cheerily, welcome to Rest Inn Peace. We’re ten miles from Yellowstone National Park, one mile from town and a hundred miles from the nearest mall. The sun rises early, stretches wide, sets late, and the locals are usually quiet. Reggie pointed to the dilapidated cemetery across the dead end road.

I need a beer, the snake man rumbled, rolling his eyes.

You promised the judge no beer, the kid said. You promised me too.

I’m not going to fall off the wagon way out here, Z, he assured her. God knows there’s probably no bar for a hundred miles.

Actually, Reggie pointed toward town, B and L Bar is a few blocks south on Main Street.

Ignoring her, he exhaled smoke through his nose. It reminded Reggie of Faest. Got a key to this old shithole? the snake man said.

Here. She threw him a skeleton key. Bastard doesn’t deserve this place.

He caught the key and eyeballed it critically. Seriously? You Hicksville types still use this kind of security system?

We Hicksville types also use city folks for target practice, so watch your back.

His eyes narrowed. Is that a threat?

It’s a general warning about the locals not taking kindly to newcomers with arrogant attitudes. Reggie hated that he’d made her snap, but this situation was wrong and wholly unfair. Without another word, she spun around and stormed across Rest Inn Peace’s front lawn, to her old farmhouse next door. Safely inside where no big city assholes could judge her, Reggie shouted a few curse words and drew apart the living room curtains to stare fiercely at the inn’s new owner. Since learning of Rest Inn Peace’s fate, Reggie had flip-flopped between looking forward to, and resenting the day she met Corbin Carpenter. With a sagging feeling in her gut, she admitted resentment won. Reggie’s gaze swept across RIP; the adorable bed and breakfast was tucked neatly in the center of the secluded Broken Spur valley, nestled in the high altitude hills of the majestic western Rocky Mountains. The south entrance of Yellowstone National Park was so close that a person could almost pucker up and kiss it from here. This whole area was ripe with rich soil, verdant fields, endless sky, restless seasonal changes…and now, a stupid snake man with his annoying brat and yapping dog.

Rest Inn Peace deserved the best. It had always been a special place, even before Selma rescued it, restored it, named it, and then set out platefuls of honey and goblets brimming with mead, to bribe the fairies. Reggie felt happy and lucky that RIP was in Selma’s capable hands. Now, reflecting on the new owner - an arrogant ass who had damn near squashed a dozen sprites and pixies with his careless motorcycle ride up the driveway - Reggie wanted to drag Selma from the grave and demand she explain why she had handed over the inn’s deed to a tattooed piece of garbage like him. Just because Corbin - Cobra…whatever…was her grandson didn’t make him worthy of RIP. God how she missed Selma. Reggie’s heart had practically burst with joy that somebody saw the beauty of the old farmhouse next door to her own, and the magic living in and around it. Selma was pleased as punch to find the quirky farm girl living right next door. The day Selma first saw the property, a realtor brought her. Without even stepping inside the house, Selma had smiled at the agent and said, I’ll take it. She declared the place named Rest Inn Peace, hired the quirky girl to manage it, set out the honey and mead then went back to Brooklyn to find my next adventure, as she put it.

Rest Inn Peace isn’t about me, she’d assured Reggie. It’s about the magic that lives here. A fairy back home told me about this place. The fairy also said that if I liked what I saw, I should buy it and let the pieces fall into place. She smiled. That’s exactly what has happened, because as you know dear, fairies don’t lie.

Reggie nodded. She knew fairies didn’t lie. Lying was best left to humans.

You grew up here and have been watching over the land for years, Selma said. I’m asking that you continue doing it, but now I’d like you to quit your current job and watch over this land for payment. When word gets around that we have opened a magical inn on this enchanted land, many guests will show up on its doorstep. Special, unique guests. I have full faith in your abilities to make them feel at home on this glorious piece of earth. All you need to do is accept them, regardless of who or what they are.

Reggie nodded feverishly, feeling like she’d died and gone to heaven.

Rest Inn Peace saw no ordinary human travelers but they did get bison and bears. Even a wolf or two took refuge here, and Reggie never refused any of them. They also got paying guests…and for two years Reggie was the sole caretaker, manager, housekeeping staff, yard care specialist, farmer and rancher of Rest Inn Peace. Sure enough, the fairies (well-bribed by mead and honey), bestowed fortune and blessings upon the domicile and its surrounding landscape. Then Selma died of a heart attack and along came this poisonous snake and his feisty brat. The father-daughter team had never been here before today, and to make matters worse, the snake had only recently been released from prison.

Reggie angrily snapped the curtains shut. I hope Billy doesn’t kill him, she mumbled.

Higgins fell into a dreadful coughing fit before offering his thoughts. Billy will kill him if he needs killed, he said after the fit passed.

He smokes, Reggie added.

Then he’s a dead man either way, Higgins replied, rolling into another coughing fit which ended with the evacuation of a large hairball.

Chapter Two - Zombies and Herpes.

Cobra’s first prison cellmate, a guy named Willie with an eagle tattoo on his chest, took offense to the snake tattoo on Cobra’s left bicep. During their third night as cellmates, the offended Willie smashed Cobra’s noggin against the cell room floor like a watermelon. The injury resulted in a concussion and occasional blackouts that Cobra didn’t tell anybody about. His next cellmate was Joker, an old guy who had a crucified Jesus tattooed across his back, and nothing against snakes.

Cobra would have liked to blame the fairy-man vision on a hallucination brought on by that head trauma. He’d like to, but he couldn’t. Cobra’s hallucinations had started long before the head injury; he’d seen things that weren’t there since childhood. Though he had forced away most of the visions by age ten, every so often one crawled over his carefully-constructed wall of sanity. So that’s what the Indian fairy-man was; a delusion crawling over the wall. If the hallucination came back, Cobra would simply squash it like a bug.

One thing wasn’t a hallucination though; the inn’s manager. Cobra had a weakness for brunettes with big brown eyes and soft curves. In fact, the inn-keeper was the second curvy brunette he’d seen in this crap-splat town of Broken Spur. The other one had worn a red dress and sashayed down Main Street like a Monarch butterfly in a rat trap. Ugly town, pretty women. Cobra could handle that. But one thing he couldn’t handle: the inn manager’s attitude. All the soft curves on earth couldn’t make up for bossy boldness…and let there be no mistake - he was the boss here. Not her.

Noting the bike’s dusty gas tank, Cobra curled his lip. These damned country roads kicked up more dirt than an internet porn search. Dirt roads, old trucks, haystacks, and country songs. The thought of all that made his skin crawl. Still, rolling west on the interstate, where robust corn seedlings should be sprouting from the ground, sickly yellow buds broke though instead, bearing the burden of dry dirt and mineral-starved soil. It was getting to be commonplace; too little water, too much heat. So now here he and Zoe were, in this incredible green valley; one of only a dozen Cobra had counted on the ride out. An emerald oasis in a barren desert.

One thing about being in prison for a year…a person doesn’t get to tackle the open road and feed his gypsy spirit. Cobra had felt his shaky sanity ebbing away every time he gazed over the barbed wire fence separating him from his freedom. But it wasn’t just him; he knew Zoe was going stir crazy too. Like her father, the girl needed freedom and space. Brooklyn didn’t have much of either. And talk of moving Z in with her aunt Katrina had made the poor girl cry. Good thing for them both that Cobra got an early release. They said it was for good behavior but the fact is the county just didn’t want to pay for his food and rent anymore. All sorts of criminals were getting early release for that lately: rapists, murderers, thieves, cheats, and Cobra. So here they were. The three day ride from New York to Idaho had set him and Z free – really free. Too bad it also brought them to the end of the road, where life definitely didn’t begin.

Dad, Zoe said, poking him in the ribs.

What? he snapped back.

Do you think Granny Selma left a shotgun here?

Why would we need a shotgun? He took a final draw on the cigarette then threw the butt on the ground and squashed it with his riding boot. He’d gotten out of the smoking habit in prison, but it was coming back to him now with a vengeance.

We need a shotgun, Zoe explained, because you gotta shoot zombies in the head to make them stay dead. She shushed Snuggles, who was whining to get set down so he could run off and piss on things. Then she pulled out her phone.

What are you talking about, Z?

The cemetery, Zoe pointed across the dirt road that separated Rest Inn Peace’s pristine landscape from a scraggly graveyard surrounded by a ten foot tall wrought iron fence. It looked eerie even under the bright afternoon sunlight.

We don’t need a shotgun, Cobra assured. Cemeteries are junkyards for dead people.

They’re also motels for zombie people.

Cobra rubbed his temples, wishing for just one pull on an ice cold beer. It had been 392 days. Zombies aren’t real, he said.

Either are apocalypses. But we’re living in one.

It’s neither, not either. Cobra corrected her. And we’re not in an apocalypse.

That’s not what the guy on TV said. Zoe adjusted her phone and snapped a picture of the cemetery.

Guys on TV will say anything to boost ratings.

Nnnneeeeither way, she said sarcastically while snapping another picture, I don't want zombies to eat my brains. I need them to do math.

Nobody is going to eat your brains. And stop being pigheaded about using the wrong words. You don’t want to grow up sounding like an idiot, do you?

I won’t grow up at all if the zombies -

- Stop it now, Cobra snapped. The thing about Zoe was, if he didn’t push down her talk about zombies today, one might be seated next to her at the breakfast table tomorrow. And anyway, why did she remember words like ‘apocalypse’ but not ones like ‘preposterous’? Sure, the world was going tits up right before their eyes, but that didn’t mean an apocalypse. It only meant Darwin was right: survival of the fittest. And survive he and Zoe would, because on the day of his prison release a little more than a month ago, Gran up and died, leaving her fertile, rural 200 acre farm to Cobra. Talk about a lucky break.

Zoe sent the cemetery pictures to her best friend, Chelsea, back in Brooklyn. Then she let out an exaggerated huff. I really, really hate it here.

Suck it up, Buttercup.

Don’t call me that, Z groaned. It sounds so lame. She popped a gum bubble and set Snuggles on the ground. He bolted for the house, barking and whining. And I reeeeally hate it here.

All I can tell you is, Cobra replied, get over it, at least for now. He needed to take his own advice, because he reeeeally hated it here, too.

Chapter Three - Welcome to the End of My Life

Zoe wanted to turn around and run home to Brooklyn. Looking over at that creepy old cemetery, it was all she wanted. She had never been madder at her dad than she was right now, and that included the time he showed up at her school drunk and in nothing but his Dill Pickle boxers. She knew he was worried about running out of food and money because nobody has a job right out of prison, and that’s why he dragged her out here to the middle of nowhere. But still. She wished he’d had let her move in with Chelsea, whose dad was an ER doctor, and her mom a Brooklyn cop. They had plenty of bandages and bullets to keep her safe. But Dad said no. He figured Chelsea’s parents could take care of Chelsea and he could take care of Zoe. Zoe examined the stupid motorcycle outside the stupid house in the stupid middle of nowhere across the street from the stupid, creepy zombie factory. If this was taking care of her, then Dad might as well have dumped her off at the gates of Hell. Sure, the thought of driving to new places had seemed nice, but now that they had stopped…Zoe just wanted to go home.

She sent two pictures of the cemetery and texted Chelsea.

Z - I think we have zombies.

Chelsea immediately texted back.

C – Stop being dramatic! There is no such thing as zombies. But beware of rabies. It is all over dirty old farms.

Chelsea was a hypochondriac kleptomaniac, which Dad said was ironic because of what her mom and dad did for work. Whatever. Dad was just jealous because Chelsea’s parents could pay their bills without moving to some awful sucky zombie factory place. Following Dad up the sidewalk and to the front porch, Zoe’s eyes narrowed at the gray farmhouse next door where the lady in white and her cat had just run off to. She texted Chelsea again.

Z - There’s a million miles of nothing out here, except a mean lady next door. I hate it.

C - Is it better than here?

Zoe thought about that one for a moment. Clear water ran in the ditch by the driveway and the grass was green, not brown. Also, there weren’t homeless people everywhere begging for money. But there also wasn’t anything to do or anybody to do it with.

Z - I don’t know.

C – Well, I hate it here too, especially now that u r gone. So we’re even!

Of course Chelsea hated it there. She was afraid of sick people, and Brooklyn had lots of them. They coughed on you, breathed on you, and sometimes even tried to take your money. They also stole from stores. Chelsea probably hated the competition.

Snuggles wagged his cauliflower tail and ran in circles around the barn, barking and growling at a weird orange streak that zinged by. Dad didn’t see it, so Zoe pretended not to either.

Let’s check out our new place, Dad said in a happy way that Zoe knew was fake. He’d been acting fake-happy ever since he got out of prison. Zoe was sick of it and sometimes wished he’d go back to getting drunk and skipping work. She hated him drunk but at least she knew how to deal with it by hiding in her room. This new and improved Dad tried to pretend everything was okay, and he tried to make Zoe pretend it was, too. As Granny Selma used to say: Stop feeding me bullshit and calling it applesauce. Another annoying thing about this new version of Dad; he stared off into space a lot, like he wasn’t even on planet earth. That was even creepier than the fake-happy stuff.

Calling Snuggles back over and scooping him up, Zoe rolled her eyes in disgust as she followed Dad toward the front door of their new old stupid house. Zoe had never lived in a real house before, only apartments, and while she’d always dreamed of a big house with long stretches of green grass, she’d never imagined this. It was creepy, old, looked haunted, and the grass stretched out to meet up with farm fields and trees. No other kids and no other houses, except that one next door where the snotty lady lived.

That thing is ugly. Zoe pointed up to the porch roof where a gigantic cement gargoyle was hunched over the edge, teeth bared and claws extended like a ravenous beast preparing to pounce. Its stone-cold eyes glared in judgment, just like that lady from next door, and Snuggles wouldn’t stop growling at it.

It’s just a statue, Dad growled back. And a loose shingle, he pointed to a lopsided piece next to the gargoyle.

Zoe tucked Snuggles under her arm. Then she glowered at the ugly gargoyle again, staring right in the eyes. Oh my god! she shrieked.

What now? Dad grumbled.

It winked!

Don’t be ridiculous, Dad barked, but he didn’t push her away when she ran up the porch stairs and burrowed against him for protection.

It seriously did, Dad.

Stop it, Z, he said firmly.

But -

- Now. Dad used his don’t-test-me tone as he moved across the porch and unlocked the creaky old front door, Zoe still wrapped around him.

I want to go home.

We are home, he answered coolly.

This will never feel like home to me, Zoe declared. It’s spooky and lonely and there are zombies across the road.

No more zombie talk. I mean it.

Rolling her eyes, Z huffed. Fine. Whatever, Dad. The only thing that could possibly make this awful place even worse is if there’s a monster or a stupid troll living in the basement. Trolls like to boil kids in a cauldron over the fire, because they’re evil. The trolls, I mean. Not the kids. Zoe set Snuggles on the hardwood floor. He scampered down the hall, barking and whining. He’s been here once before with Granny Selma, so I guess he knows his way around, she said. She pretended not to see her dog chasing after that weird orange light. Sniffing the air, she frowned. It doesn’t smell like an old lady’s house.

You’re right about that, Dad said. It smells like an Aqua Velva factory.

Zoe scrunched up her nose. A what?

He shook his head. Just some old-school cologne.

But these don’t smell like old-school cologne. Zoe pointed at a table by the front door, where flowery purple spires poked out from a vase full of water. Sniffing them, she smiled. They smell pretty.

I think Gran calls - I mean, called them - lilacs.

Snuggles darted back down the hall and made a mad dash up the stairs, barking happily. No doubt about it; he was chasing that orange light. Zoe kept her mouth shut about it and followed Dad down the hall. He hollered Hello.

Hey there, dynamite daisies! A voice from upstairs hollered back. You’re saucy like groovy gravy.

Zoe gasped and pointed toward the stairs. Did you hear that?

Hear what?

Somebody just called us daisies. Scrunching her nose, she added, He also said something about dynamite and groovy gravy.

He? Dad’s eyebrows furrowed.

It was definitely a guy’s voice.

Hello? Dad looked up the stairs, yelled again and waited for an answer. Then he said it again, this time even louder, so that it bounced against the walls. Maybe you just heard an echo, he finally decided.

What about the groovy gravy part? You didn’t say anything like that.

You heard an echo, Z.

God, why did Dad have to argue with her about everything? Echoes don’t usually make up new stuff to say.

Dad cupped her chin. Honey, there are rational explanations for everything. We just need to find them. Remember? We’ve discussed this before.

She could tell by his look that he didn’t know what else to tell her, but he wished she’d just shut up about it. The look also said, I’m not up for raising a kid on my own, especially a weird one. And that was annoying because Dad wasn’t exactly normal either. At least when Mom said, I don’t see a purple unicorn, Zoe believed her. With Dad, Zoe never knew.

Snuggles darted back down the stairs and zoomed through the house again, yipping excitedly. Zoe and Dad followed the dog’s trail to the right, down the dark hallway that led to a formal dining room and then to an enormous, bright kitchen with huge windows and a back door that opened to a wide porch, just like the one on the front of the house. At Zoe’s insistence, Dad checked the roof for ugly gargoyles and assured her there weren’t any back there, so she decided that would be the door she’d use from now on. Back inside, another door off to the opposite side led to a tiny bathroom/laundry room, and next to that, a room that Dad said probably used to be a pantry but was now an itty-bitty office. A broken down old dresser and a rollaway fold-up bed were in the middle of it, taking up most of the space. Just as Zoe opened her mouth to ask why there was a bed in the office-pantry, that orange light streaked through the kitchen again, this time toppling over a kitchen chair and the salt shaker on the table. Snuggles followed the streak, barking.

Did you see that? Zoe’s eyes widened hopefully.

Nope, Dad said a little too quickly.

It just knocked things over. She pointed at the fallen salt shaker. How could you not see it?

It’s an old house, honey. Maybe it’s just settling.

If the house is so old, shouldn’t it be settled by now? And besides, Snuggles obviously saw whatever it was too because he ran after it.

It was a trick of the light.

She groaned. This was exactly why Dad was so annoying. So you lied before. You did see it.

I don’t know what I saw, he admitted.

Zoe crossed her arms and leaned against the opposite side of the chunky wood kitchen table. But you did see something.

No. I didn’t. And neither did you. We’ve been through this a hundred times before and I thought we’d gotten the matter settled.

It was settled back home, but here there are winking gargoyles and orange lights that knock things over, so it’s not settled at all.

You really need to stop this, Dad shook his head and sounded like he was begging her. I can’t help you if you’re going to fight me on it.

"Mom says it’s just my