A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

I'd wanted to update earlier in the week, but as some of you might know, there was a scare at my daughter's school earlier this week, and things have been uneasy since. Then yesterday afternoon, there was that warning about some crazy Tik-Tok threat. Needless to say, I've been a bit of a nervous wreck this week.

Anyway, let's try for holiday cheer (with a hint of a ghost?), shall we? :)

CHAPTER 3 – Home Alone (in Forks)

If I could say one thing about the neighboring residents who lived in Forks, Washington, it was this: they had the holiday spirit.

I would know; my money was in the process of buying it for them.

With just a few short weeks 'til Christmas, whether that money appeared in the form of cash or credit, these Forks-ters didn't seem to care. It had been a whirlwind ride since I'd bargain-basement-price purchased a decrepit Victorian that had reportedly once belonged to a little-known, Prohibition-era bootlegger. Then I'd gone and blown any savings on the purchase by spending a small fortune on emergency fixes – those that had to happen before I spent a single night in that broken-down house.

See, a glamper I was not.

I'd replaced windows and the main roof, hired electricians, plumbers, and professional cleaners, had an HVAC system installed, wi-fi, etc., etc., all while paying a premium for both "holiday" and "rush" work. Which was why, every night, as I laid my head down to sleep at the Forks Motel – where I was staying until the house was inhabitable – I could almost hear the metaphorical cash registers cha-ching-ing. Those Whos of Whoville had nothing on the Christmas spirit of the Forks-ters of Forks, who were likely gathering around their Christmas trees every night, welcoming Christmas and good cheer and Louboutins galore.

So it was that on a chilly morning ten days and a nice chunk of Aunt Gigi's inheritance later, I arrived back at the Victorian. I eased the car up the driveway, through overnight snow mixing with gravel, and cut the engine. Then, leaning forward, I gazed through the windshield up at my new home.

Questionable real-estate manners aside, Alice Brandon had been correct about the integrity of the home's bones. I'd made sure of that before I signed on the dotted line. The independent carpenter slash electrician sounded the structure and assured me the house wouldn't collapse on me. Post-signing, the power washer came and scrubbed the thickest layers of grime off the house's outer façade, revealing siding and shutters closer to an original gray and white color scheme as opposed to the black and gray the house had been sporting for decades. Eventually, I'd re-paint and replace the elevation as needed. But for now, the house's faded exterior was at least clean.

Either way, as I gazed upward and smiled, it was the windows that made the most significant difference. Brand new and lacking cracks or streaks of dirt, they gleamed in the morning's haze. No longer boarded up, the house didn't look haunted anymore, not really; more like…forlorn. Forgotten. Lonely.

"Don't worry," I murmured playfully to myself, "I'm here."

An abrupt stir led my gaze toward the main window, the one in the middle of the second story, where I observed the curtains…billowing.

My breath hitched. The new windows should've ended any drafts and ensuing billowing.

Images flashed through my mind of haunting, unfulfilled spirits brooding from second-story windows, of a pair of fiery green eyes keeping guard over a secreted stash of cash, warning away anyone who dared too close to it.

In the next moment, I laughed at myself.

Because the large window's glassy sheen reflected the falling snow as it cascaded in billowing patterns – making it look like the curtains were moving.

"Bella, you'd better channel that imagination into the bestseller you're about to write!"

OOOOO

A few minutes later, as I pulled out red-bowed holiday wreath after red-bowed holiday wreath from the car trunk, I called my new Forks neighbors every name in the book. See, around these parts, pine branches littered the ground. Yet, it seemed that, along with selling decaying houses, these Forks-ters also had a talent for picking up the abundant pine branches, shaping them into a circular form, affixing pinecones and holly berries to them, and selling these repurposed branches with a new, innovative name – Christmas Wreaths. It was a none too shabby business with a handsome profit.

"They're making a killing off of me!" I chuckled wryly.

Winding a few of these pricey wreaths up my forearms in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of Aunt Gigi's elephant-tusk ivory bracelets, I trudged up the driveway. When I reached the porch steps and spotted both the carpenter slash electrician's truck and the HVAC truck parked to the side of the house, I sucked my teeth.

"Are they still not done?"

Stomping in frustration now, the porch steps creaked and groaned in protest. When I met the landing, their protests melded with a strange sound.

"Get out!"

"What the hell?" I spun around and dropped the wreaths. With one foot on the top step and one on the landing, I wildly searched my surroundings, scowling at the pale and skinny guy who chose that moment to rush out of the house. He wore a tan boilersuit with the words 'Mike's HVAC' printed on it and monogrammed on the top left with the name 'Mike.' It was pretty redundant, but that was beside the point right then.

"Excuse you, but this is my house," I retorted heatedly, hands on hips. "Why would I do that?"

The jerk jerked back, blinking profusely. "Do what?"

"Get out!"

"Uhm…" he scratched his head, "okay, but I was just here to finish up a couple of odds and ends with the new HVAC system."

We stared at one another, mutually puzzled.

"Miss Swan, I assume?"

"Yeah?" I confirmed.

"I'm Mike, the HVAC guy." He pointed at his twice-personalized clothing, his tone indicating this should've explained all, which maybe it should've. "Like I said, I was just finishing up a couple of odds and ends on your new system."

"Oh." My brow furrowed. I looked behind me, then faced forward again. "Mike, the HVAC guy, did you just…?"

"Did I just what?" he prompted while the mountain breeze blew and whistled at my back.

"Never mind. These porch steps creak like a mo-fo, and along with the blowing wind…anyway, I've got a great imagination lately."

When I chuckled, he frowned, betraying a disappointing lack of humor but revealing a pointed widow's peak. When he turned his head sideways to look back at the house, his profile further revealed an equally sharp nose.

"Either way, ma'am," he said impatiently now, "I'm gonna have to charge you a premium for coming out this morning."

I bent down to pick up my wreaths. He made no attempt to assist me. Not that I needed his help. But still.

"Mike, the HVAC guy, didn't you send me a text telling me you were done? I didn't even know you were coming out this morning."

"Yeah, well, I just told you, there were odds and ends, and it being a weekend during the holidays…"

Pausing, I looked up. "But you're already charging me a holiday premium."

"Then there's the snow."

"The snow? You're charging me holiday premium rates, rush rates, and now snow rates?"

He shrugged and dug his hands in his pockets. "I gotta."

"You gotta?" I questioned. "And by the way, Mike, the HVAC guy, if you're here to finish up odds and ends, where exactly are your tools?"

Unfortunately – for him, at least – before he could reply, a gust of wind blew a heavy, snowball-like blob of frozen precipitation off of the porch roof's rim and smacked Mike, the HVAC guy's face.

"Ow!" he cried out.

"Ooh!" I winced and shivered.

Another snow-blob landed, with impressive bull's eye precision, squarely over his right eye.

"Fuck!" he swore, clamping a hand over his eye.

"Ouch," I cringed.

Then his left eye. "Damn!"

"Eek!"

This activity continued, with alternating exclamations, while the snow mounds atop my porch attacked Mike the HVAC guy, where 'attacked' is used here in place of a more accurate term I couldn't come up with at the moment because snow itself is inanimate and therefore can't attack.

Eventually, Mike seemed to rally, though his retaliating jab served to confound me all the more.

"Go to hell, Masen!" he howled, his hands in fists before him, pointy chin jutted in defiance. "What do you need it for?"

Another gust of wind, this the strongest one yet, threw me off balance. I reached for the handrail to steady myself, concurrently squeezing my eyes shut for a couple of seconds against the millions of frozen snowflakes. When I reopened my eyes, it took a moment to figure out that the oversized snowman suddenly before me was, in actuality, a buried HVAC guy.

I laughed. "Holy crap!"

However, as I've already said, Mike, the HVAC guy, didn't seem to possess much of a sense of humor. Neither did he appear inclined toward more snow games. Instead, he growled, and just like a buried polar bear, clawed his way out of the snow mounds cocooning him. Then, shaking himself off, he sprinted down the porch steps, slipping on the last one and landing on his ass – just to complete the picture of hilarity.

I wrapped my hands around myself to try to keep my lungs from expelling at the force of my laughter.

"Just not your morning, is it, Mike the HVAC guy?" I said when I could again speak.

He ignored me as he jumped to his feet and staggered toward his truck.

"I'll keep an eye out for that bill!" I called out as he sped away, tires zig-zagging in the snow. "I'd pay any sort of premium for a repeat of that. Fucker."

With a sigh, I stood and shook the light layer of second-hand snow off of me, sidestepping the destroyed snowman as I stepped into the house. Another burst of mountain wind followed me in, rustling my hair and sending a cold chill up my spine. Behind me, the door slammed shut, icy air hissing in my ear once again.

"Get out!"

"Jesus!" I jumped.

"It's Emmett, not Jesus, though Momma does always tell me I'm a gift from God himself."

And here, yet another guy strutted toward me, this one no lanky blond and slightly more familiar. He was the carpenter slash electrician I'd met right before I bought the house, though, from his build, I would've guessed he was more of a ripped bodybuilder in ripped jeans and a white tee-shirt. Emmett meandered forward with a smile and a proper tool belt slung around his hips – and minus any unnecessary monogrammed clothing. He reached out a hand.

"Bella, how's it going?"

"Hey, Emmett. It's going good, though pretty strangely this morning," I said, shaking his hand.

He chuckled. "Yeah, I thought I heard some commotion out here."

Nodding, I looked over my shoulder. "Yeah. Mike, the HVAC guy, was here and had a…peculiar run-in with some wind and snow."

"Wind and snow?" Emmett echoed. When I turned to him, I found him wearing a confused yet amused expression. "Wait, Mike was here?"

"Uh-huh."

Now, Emmett's expression morphed into a suspicion-infused smirk. "I didn't see him or hear him come in. And you're saying he had a peculiar run-in with wind and snow?"

"Yep. If I didn't know better, I'd say the snow attacked him. He barely got away with both beady eyes, though I can't say I feel sorry for him; the asshole was trying to invent the trifecta of premiums for-"

I cut myself off when I realized Emmett appeared more lost in thought than attentive. "A snow attack," he murmured more to himself before snorting, "That's creative, dude." He then appeared to recall my presence. "I'd bet my favorite drill that overcharging you isn't all that sneaky bastard was here trying to do. Probably thought cuz the house was bought now, it wouldn't be…"

I quirked a brow. "Emmett McCarty, hugely muscular carpenter slash mysterious electrician, what are you tripping over?"

"Caught my hesitation, huh?" he snickered.

"It wasn't very subtle. Are you trying to bring up the supposed ghost without scaring me? 'Cause I'll warn you, I watched my spiteful, hard-hearted, and plain-old-miserable great-aunt keel over into a bowl of sweet potatoes. I don't scare easily."

"Ahh," he grinned, his broad shoulders seeming to relax. "So, you've heard about the ghost. I wasn't entirely sure my fellow townsfolk had shared our local Christmas folklore."

"They didn't. They were too busy ringing up my expenses and likely didn't want to frighten away my wallet."

Emmett guffawed loudly. "Well then, I'm even more surprised that Alice disclosed that bit."

"Oh, she performed an impressive song and dance first."

"While balanced on Red Bottoms?"

"Yes! You know your shoes!"

"More like I know Alice," he scoffed, crossing huge arms against a massive chest. "She's been trying to sell this house for…a long time." Emmett's brow furrowed. "Hey, if you know about the ghost, why'd you still buy the house?"

"Mr. McCarty, knowing about the ghost and believing in it are two entirely different matters."

"I see, Miss Swan," Emmett responded with exaggerated formality, his gray eyes once again gleaming with amusement. "You're right. Knowing and believing are two different matters."

"Emmett, I'll let you in on a little secret," I mock-whispered. "I bought the place because of the ghost story you and your fellow Forksters have kept alive throughout the years. You see, I'm a writer," I revealed proudly, "and this house definitely has a story to tell."

"Bella," he smiled, "you might find it's not the house, per se, with the story to tell. And you may additionally find it doesn't want its story told."

"Well, as it's just a house, it doesn't have much of a choice," I chuckled. "Hey, are you trying to make me believe in ghosts?"

His smile didn't waver, even as he sidestepped my question and instead clapped his hands together, palms so huge the sound reverberated throughout the sparsely furnished room.

"So, should I fill you in on what's going on here electricity-wise?"

I raised both brows. "Depends on whether you're planning on charging me a tri-premium for a visit I wasn't expecting."

He chuckled. "Unlike Mike and some of my fellow townsfolk, I'm not a snake."

"No? Then what are you?"

"Just…" he sighed, "a dude who's kinda glad to see someone taking a chance on this place."

With a pensive nod, I repeated back his words. "Emmett, if that's true, you're the first person with the true Christmas spirit who I've met around here."

"I hope I'm not the last," he smirked.

"Me too." I then flourished a hand in invitation. "And now, please fill me in."

Emmett's spiel could be summed up by saying that he'd worked his electrical magic in the places where I'd immediately need it, but I'd have to snap the credit card some more for a total electrical overhaul. In all fairness, the final price tag estimate didn't contain as many digits as I'd feared. So, maybe he was the only person with the true holiday spirit around here.

He concluded by saying that he did, in fact, have a couple more odds and ends to work on before he was done, and more believing than just hoping he was being truthful and that this wouldn't end in my witnessing another wind-powered snowball attack, we parted ways; he to do his stuff, and me to take care of mine. The first on my list was to reclaim my pricey Christmas wreaths from the porch floor and hang them on my brand-new windows.

Except when I stepped out onto the porch again…

…the wreaths were nowhere in sight.

For a long moment, I simply stood there, using a hand as a makeshift visor and inspecting the snowy landscape for as far as the eye could see.

Nothing.

"Well, shit. What the hell happened to my expensive-ass wreaths?"

OOOOO

I'd had the house professionally cleaned – well, as much as it could be cleaned. Now, I walked around inspecting everything with the eye of an owner. A hazy light, brightened by the falling snow, filtered through every window and highlighted the dark wood paneling. The movers had been by yesterday with the few bits of my furniture and possessions I'd kept. Sheets still covered much of the dated and antique furniture in the house, relics to be inspected at leisure. The sheets lent the place a continuing ghostly air. I was pleased, though, to note that the various holes around the house, which I'd noticed the first time Alice showed me the place, had been patched up and spackled over.

The original carpentry work also showed up better now. As I made my way up the staircase, I admired the banister's craftmanship, the hand-carved posts, the intricate designs. I'd spoken to a professional restorer, Rose Hale, who'd be stopping by in a couple of days to help me figure out what in the house was worth restoring and what would eventually need replacing.

In the master bedroom, I gazed at the beauty now revealed by both streaming light and the deep cleaning. There were only two pieces of furniture in here – one was a large, antique, and faded gentlemen's chest with a column of drawers on the left side. Carefully, I pulled open each drawer, finding them long since empty. Then I opened the full-length cabinet door on the chest's right side—also empty, of course. For a moment, I imagined the Roaring-Twenties-style clothing I'd seen worn by men in movies throughout the years – three-piece suits with wide lapeled vests and striped trousers; long overcoats; Fedora hats and Newsboy caps; neck-ties and bow-ties; pocket-watches and wristwatches; Oxford shoes and lace-up boots.

"What kind of dresser were you, Mr. Masen?" I wondered aloud. "Well, you were a gangster," I snorted, "so I imagine you wore-"

Something crashed just outside of the bedroom.

I sprinted to the door, calling out down the staircase, "Emmett?" When I received no reply, I yelled out louder, "EMMETT!"

I heard him rushing forward. "Yeah, Bella?" he called up the staircase.

"What was that?"

"What was what? Oh, wait; it looks like the front door's open down here. Wind knocked down some of your knick-knacks!"

"Ahh! Okay!"

With a deeply exhaled breath, I returned to the bedroom, where I now wandered to the fireplace and its breathtaking molding and brickwork. I roamed from corner to corner, inspecting every nook and cranny before making my way to the other piece of furniture in the room – the four-poster bed. My fingers traced the pattern spiraling up each post, then lightly grazed the etched vines and roses along the walnut wood headboard. It was a masterpiece.

"Mr. Masen," I murmured with a smile, "there's still a hell of a lot I don't know about you, but I know this." I paused, and it was almost as if the house held its breath along with me, waiting. "You were a fine craftsman."

My gaze suddenly landed on a lone frame resting atop the gentlemen's chest. I frowned.

"Now that wasn't there a minute ago…was it?"

I shuffled somewhat warily back to the chest, my heart racing in my own chest as I picked up the frame with a slightly shaky grip. It was oval-shaped and gold-plated with an attached stand to keep it upright, and all of it rusty with age. Time had faded the picture within, curled its edges, the natural sepia tone seeping into gray. Yet, the image of the individual at the picture's center was still clear.

The picture was taken in this house, downstairs in the original parlor room. He stood leaning slightly against a table, hands in his pockets and feet crossed casually at the ankles. The background served as a measure for his height, and he was tall, even resting against the table. He wore one of those three-piece suits I'd just imagined, with a Fedora hat that concealed most of his hair, though thick strands peeked out just over his ears, hinting at a copperish hue. He had angular features that were undeniably, classically, and timelessly handsome, as well as light eyes that contrasted with the darker background. But it was his smile, slightly uneven yet infused with pride and possessing a note of impishness – the smirk of a man who knew he had it good, that he was the crème of the crop, the alpha at the top of the food chain…it was that which held my rapt attention.

"Well, well, Mr. Masen," I breathed into the room's silence, "you weren't none too shabby there."

A draft blew through the room. It whipped up my hair, rustled its ends, and lifted them. When it brushed my nape, the puff of wind was surprisingly warm, almost like…a breath of approval.

After a prolonged moment, I set the frame back down and sighed.

"Looks like Emmett forgot to shut the front door."

And with that, I left the room.

A/N: Thoughts?

I'll try for another post this weekend. ;)

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