“Nonsense, Benjamin,” I said. “I do not believe in ghosts. I do not care how many ignorant people claim to have seen one.”
“I would hardly call Adam Carroll ignorant, Charles,” Benjamin said. He leaned against the mantel as he warmed a glass of brandy in his right hand. If I were a polite guest, I would have asked who Adam Carroll was. Instead, I stretched my legs until my feet nearly touched the fire.
Outside, another Pacific storm was beating against Seattle’s shores. I could almost hear the ships moaning in Puget Sound as the wind lashed their sides and pulled at the moorings. As far as I was concerned, this was not a proper way for a civilized person to spend Christmas Eve. Although I had spent thirty Christmases on this earth in a variety of places, this particular place seemed the most loathsome. I had tolerated too much rain, too much greenery, and too much secret laughter between my sister and her childhood friend, Benjamin Jerome’s wife. I longed for a true New England Christmas, away from this western wasteland. We had taken the buggy out the day before for a Christmas ride and had to turn back minutes later in order to keep from drowning in this foul weather.
