My boots crunched into the fresh snow, leaving a trail of neat footprints along the paved sidewalk. The Maintenance Man must’ve been working overtime to keep them this clear as only an inch or two of snow coated the trail, and it had snowed twice that today alone.

  Well, I assume the maintenance man was working overtime; I’d never seen him, so I couldn’t say what his regular hours were.

  A freshly wrapped deck of cards, courtesy of my last paycheck, sat in my pocket. The rest of that paycheck had gone to the boots I was tromping in.

  I’d tried to resist Rodgers logic and stick with my old pair, but at the end of the day, I couldn’t deny that being able to see my toes through hiking boots was a bad thing.

  I took a deep breath, savoring the smell. The crisp, chill air felt like it was purifying each breath as it stung my lungs and shocked me awake.

  I exhaled, the breath fogging around me, mixing with the fat flakes falling from above.

  It hadn’t stopped snowing all day, and it was the kind of flakes you’d see in a Christmas movie—big and full. They piled up so fast that the entire landscape changed in hours.

  I checked my watch. The old thing barely worked, and its face was cracked and scratched, but it still told me the time. Usually.

  Ronald and Linda would be out of town for the week on their ‘well-earned vacation,’ as they had put it. I’d have the house to myself. I wasn’t opposed to having Christmas in the library again, and I knew Agatha didn’t actually mind, but it made sneaking food in a little difficult.

  I should be able to get home in 30 minutes or so—definitely enough time to start cooking something before Ben can convince the others to make something truly vile.

  Most of the ghosts attending could smell and taste almost effortlessly, but they could also turn off those senses if they wanted to. I would have no such escape if Ben got his way.

  My steps slowed and then stopped as I rounded a bend in the trail.

  At the middle of the bend, tucked in front of a great pine, its branches shading it from snow and sight, was an old wooden bench. Made from thick planks and four posts as big around as both my thighs put together. It looked like it had been there For 80 years to stay for 80 more.

  The bench was nothing new. I passed it countless times on my walk from Barry’s, but there usually wasn’t a ghost sitting on it.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He had died somewhere in his 30s or maybe early 40s, and he looked haggard. White skin made rough by sun and weather, and hair covered by a knitted cap that hid his ears. Just enough of his head was visible that I could see an old, faded scar across his forehead.

  He shifted, brushing a hand through a scraggly red beard that looked too thin against the falling snow. He was bundled in a heavy green coat that fell past his waist, its surface worn and patched in places. His jeans and boots were equally ragged and I couldn’t see his hands tucked tight in his pockets, but I’d guess his gloves were in a similar state.

  I let out another breath into the winter air, then walked over and sat next to him. Even through my underarmor and jeans, the bench was cold, its icy chill seeping up from the wood to steal my warmth.

  The man didn’t acknowledge my presence, his slightly glassy blue eyes staring out at the trees.

  “You know I’m never sure what you’re supposed to eat on Christmas. Thanksgiving is turkey and stuffing and all that, but Christmas feels less defined. I have a friend who’s likely trying to come up with a dish right now, and It’s either going to be offensively bad or out of season. He once made shaved ice for Christmas. I don’t even know how he got the machine, but he managed.“

  The ghost didn’t look at me but I could tell he was aware. His presence didn’t have that vacant quality I’d learned to pick up on. He could hear me; he just wasn’t responding. I didn’t pressure him. I stayed on the bench and stared out at the snow with him.

  Cars rumbled past in the distance, the sound muffled through the blanket of white. A raven cawed and I shifted my weight, causing the bench the creek.

  After nearly five minutes, the ghost spoke, his eyes never leaving the trees. “Stuffing.“

  I glanced at him and arched a brow. “Oh?”

  “My family did stuffing for Christmas, the meat, the main course that shifted. But we always had stuffing and Grandma‘s homemade cranberry sauce.“ His cracked lips switched into a smile, and he snorted. “The old woman reacted like someone was trying to tarnish her good name anytime someone brought the store-bought stuff. But I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right to be so proud of her recipe.”

  His voice was filled with that kind of irritated fondness people often had when talking about relatives. All the little things they did that might annoy you in the moment, but looking back, you realized you’d never see those little ticks again, and you missed them.

  “Was the cranberry sauce your favorite?“

  His lips tugged further, inching their way towards a true smile. “Compared to the store-bought stuff? Yeah, it was my favorite. But the stuffing was what I remember most, what I would look back on and miss. Hell, I still miss it.”

  There was more light in his eyes than before, but his smile faded as he looked back to the quiet forest.

  “Well, I’m not an excellent cook, but I bet with your help, we could try and re-create that cranberry sauce. And Agatha always boasts about her stuffing. It’s pretty good if you ask me. We can see how it holds up.“

  He looked back at me, cocking his head. “You’d invite a stranger to your home on Christmas?“

  I smiled, extending a hand. “I’m Alder, and isn’t welcoming you to my home in the Christmas spirit?” I waggled my eyebrows at the end, grinning with more enthusiasm than the stupid joke deserved.

  It took him a second before he got it, and he laughed, the sound dry and harsh but full of mirth. “That is terrible!“ He shook my hand, his grip cold and rough. “I’m Orin.“

  I rose from the bench, shivering from the cold, and started back down the trail. “Come on, Orin, my ass is freezing.”

  The ghost fell into step beside me, his boots silent beside my own crunching steps. “Do you have any more ghost puns?”

  I laughed, causing fog to puff around me. “Orin, my new friend, I have books worth of ghost puns, and most of them are terrible.“

  My answer made the ghost smile, a real honest smile that stretched his cheeks and warmed his eyes. “I think you just made a deadman believe in Christmas miracles.”

  “That’s the spirit!”