Rose Cottage Christmas

By Natasha Neuzerling

It's Christmas at home in Hallowcastle this year, and Kastle, Ciarán and Brigid are hoping it will be a quiet one. Well, to be truthful, Kastle doesn't want things too quiet. His wish is granted when his old friend Aidan Lockwood-Scott visits him during Hallowcastle's Christmas Market.
One of the many members of the Lockwood family, infamous for their psychic powers and the invention of the spirit camera, Aidan has news: his great aunt recently passed away, and she left him her house in Hallowcastle. But there's more. Kastle only met Cassandra Lockwood once, but he is astonished to learn she bequeathed him an antique camera with an unusual past.
There's just one problem. No one has seen the Camera Lucida in forty years.
What secrets hide in 90 Gramercy Park? What has become of the Camera Lucida? Why did Cassandra leave this camera to a near-stranger, rather than one of her numerous - and disgruntled - relatives? Some members of the Lockwood family aren't about to give up on what they think is theirs without a fight, and before long, Kastle finds himself facing a ghost from his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natasha Neuzerling
• Release date: Dec 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005764753

Natasha Neuzerling

Hey, I’m Natasha Neuzerling, though I’ve also written under Cinnibar Rose, Rose Irons and Rose Lane (choosing a pen name is hard). I was born and grew up in a relatively normal family and relatively normal suburb – which is lucky, because there is little that is normal about myself. I would describe myself as a cat in human form: I prefer to watch rather than participate, I’m quiet, on the independent side, curious, rather vain, and if I let my body have its way, I’d sleep 12 hours a day. Luckily for my ambitions, I don’t let it do that.I’ve been writing short stories and planning longer projects for as long as I can remember. Though my childhood was primarily focused on fantasy, my current interests lie in mysteries and the paranormal.I hold a Bachelor of Arts, majoring and minoring in writing and children’s literature, respectively, and as of 2019 I’m working towards a Masters in Information Management. When I’m not writing or studying, I’m probably reading Agatha Christie or dealing with the antics of my two cats.Come along on my writing journey with me!

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Rose Cottage Christmas

Copyright 2021 Natasha Neuzerling

Published by Natasha Neuzerling at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

An Unexpected Inheritance

90 Gramercy Park

An Unwelcome Visit

Secrets in the Homestead

Whispers from the Grave

The Lady with the Camera

Decorating a Haunting

Darkroom Developments

A Heart to Heart

The Camera Lucida

Christmas Day

About the Author

Other Works by Natasha Neuzerling

An Unexpected Inheritance

Kastle

Summer wasn’t my favourite season at the best of times, but it was so much worse when the heatwave hit.

Even Hallowcastle hadn’t escaped the brunt of the weather - famous though it was for its inexplicably lower temperatures than everywhere else in the state. For the last two days, the thermometer had stubbornly refused to budge from a daytime temperature of 38 degrees, and a glance at the forecast gave no hope of a reprieve. A permanent heat haze had settled over the town square, streets usually bustling with people were dead save for the most determined shoppers and tourists, and the air buzzed with the sound of dozens of air conditioning units. I didn’t want to see our next electricity bill.

It was fortunate then that the Christmas Market was held after five p.m.

The temperature hadn’t dropped as much as everyone would like - certainly not enough to soothe Ciarán’s temper - but it was bearable enough to bring back the crowds. From my station on the edge of our stall, I watched people squeezing their way around the tents and tables that had sprung up around St Matthew’s Church like glittering mushrooms. A mixture of floodlights and fairy lights lit the grass and gardens. The string of white lights that Brigid had forced me to hang around our tent twinkled over our heads. The other stalls were a mix this time - everything from artisan goods to food to handmade clothing, and of course, no shortage of Christmas decorations. ‘Tis the season.

One hell of a turnout, Ness said. My best friend since childhood leaned against the table as she observed the crowd. You can always tell it’s the last market before Christmas. Everyone suddenly realises they don’t have any presents and rushes out to get them.

I thought the weather might dampen it, I said, rubbing sweat from the back of my neck. My powers didn’t care how hot it was. I still had to wear gloves everywhere I went, unless I wanted to have visions of the past every time I touched something. Why couldn’t we have gone to England this year?

Nothing dampens Christmas! You should know this by now. Ness smirked.

Ciarán sighed heavily. He was starting to sound distinctly exhausted. With Brigid occupied packing a witch’s bottle into a neat paper bag, I turned to check on him. You doing OK?

His face was set in a neutral mask that had a million cracks if you knew where to look, a few strands of silvery-white fringe sticking to his forehead. Peppermint oil and geranium, he muttered, rubbing his temples. His fingers came away with smears of white; he pulled a face and went for his pressed powder. As if the heat was not enough to give me a migraine. Is my make up running?

No, it’s fine, I said. Before I met Ciarán, I never in a million years would have thought that Christmas cheer was an emotion empathy could detect. It wasn’t just the glitter and colour and crowds that made him dislike Christmas - it was the smell too.

Good, he fussily touched up his foundation regardless. I have an image to maintain, as much as I can sitting here, anyway.

Books mostly covered with images of decaying mansions sat on the table in front of him. It had been Brigid’s idea for him to sell signed copies, of course. He’d done well - his most recent release, Spin a Dark Web, was down to six copies out of twenty-five - but the number of people around was starting to wear on him.

Ness snorted. You sound like a Veilkeeper. Most of them, anyway. Last I saw them, the First was trying to convince Fionn that the Patriarch is not supposed to flirt with attractive people who stop by their tent.

How was that working out? I craned my neck to see the mostly white hoods and robes of the Order around the rose garden. They spent the market collecting donations for Christmas relief, giving out information on their services over Christmas, and the usual advice on what to do about paranormal matters. The purple robes of the Patriarch stood out even more in the middle of it all.

They were trying to look mysterious, and failing. No one can look aloof and detached from the world in the face of Fionn’s antics.

That sounded like my father.

Persephone meowed at Ciarán from her perch at the edge of the table. Since she hadn’t wanted to stay under the table, we attached a sign to her bed: ‘Hello! My name is Persephone! I’m not for sale, but you can pet me!’ Unsurprisingly, she had received many pets over the night, and was in a good mood. Ciarán scratched her ears, looking nowhere near as happy.

There’s ice water in the cooler if you need it, Ciarán, Brigid piped up, bent under her main table as she dug through the boxes.

Her brother turned to the esky. Ness watched him for a moment, and pushed away from the stall. I feel like an iced coffee. Anyone else want anything?

I’ll take one if you’re paying, I said with a smirk. Ness snorted and punched my shoulder. Ciarán?

He paused. The same, please.

Brig?

She waved absentmindedly. Iced chocolate. I’d like to sleep tonight.

As if you wouldn’t with all this work, Ness said. Be back in a sec. She disappeared into the crowds in search of a coffee van, humming ‘Feliz Navidad’ as she went.

Brigid didn’t notice, too busy searching under the table. Where did the dried thyme go?

On your left, Brigie, Ciarán said.

Who put it there?

You did.

You didn’t let us touch your ‘perfect arrangement,’ remember? I added.

Brigid narrowed her eyes. I pasted my most innocent smile onto my face. She looked like she was considering flipping me off, but in the face of customers, just waggling a finger accusingly. I don’t need any lip from you. Finding the herbs she needed, she turned back to her customer with the not at all subtle whisper of, Brothers in law.

The woman obligingly laughed, gaze running over me curiously. I’d been getting those looks all night. This wasn’t the first time Brigid had come to the market with her ‘pop-up apothecary’, as she called it, nor the first time Ciarán had done book signings, but it was the first time I had set up with them.

It was the first time I had set up at a market, period, and so far, it was proving to be a mixed experience. I’d sold more prints in the last hour than I usually would in a month, and most people who stopped by picked up my card as well. Someone had even made a tentative booking for me to photograph a family gathering in March!

The downside…

Brigid’s customer took her package of herbs and spells, and drifted closer to my table. Her gaze flickered over the photo book, the trays of neatly mounted prints and the camera bag sitting on the stool just behind me. Then it landed on the other card, next to Brigid’s, and her eyebrows went up to her hairline.

Chronicler? You’re a ghost hunter?

Sort of. Not at all. I have been asked to talk to ghosts to put an end to hauntings, but they usually come to me.

And then?

And then I either interview them or record their memories directly into spirit stones. When she started looking around again, I added, Those go directly to the Archive; I’m not allowed to sell them.

But selling their photographs is fine? She must have noticed the box labeled ‘spirit photography.’

If they say yes to it. It’s just like with living people. Mostly, anyway. It was difficult to ask permission from an insentient shade.

She flicked through the dozen or so prints I had left, and held one up. This one?

I looked at the back. The Old Chapel at Hallowcastle Cemetery, May of 2020. That’ll be the Church Grim; a spirit rather than a ghost. Turning the photo around revealed that was exactly what it was: a misty white shape in the shadow of a ruined church.

How much do you make doing this?

A decent amount…

Enough to be worth the photoshop?

The woman gave a smug ‘gotcha’ smile. Oh. That’s how this is going to be, huh?

Just photographing a spirit would be less effort, I said, forced politely. Out the corner of my eye, Ciarán slowly twisted around in his chair, face like a storm-cloud. I needed to head this off quick, before he or Brigid went ballistic…

Come on now. You might be doing well for the moment, but you should quit before you’re caught out. I hear the fines are astronomical.

Lucky I don’t fake my photos, then, I said, but she ignored me.

I won’t tell anyone now, since you’re still young, but if see you at future markets, I’ll be forced to report you.

Brigid slammed her purchase book shut. Lady, if I see you near my stall at future markets, I’ll sic the cat on you! How dare you buy from me and then accuse the man working with me of being a fraud! On no evidence, too!

Persephone gave a noise halfway between a growl and a meow. The woman spluttered and opened her mouth again, but Ciarán cut her off.

"If you are about to proclaim that you’re never coming back, then do not bother. We don’t want your business. Put that print back, stop insulting my husband and fuck off."

Malakas.

She turned purple, and grabbed one of my cards, sending the whole lot scattering across the table and grass. Well! I tried to be nice, but that’s it! I’ll go to the Centre for Metaphysics and show them this garbage! Anyone who knows anything about spirits will know how fake these are…

A voice suddenly said, So not you, then?

A tall, lanky boy with blond hair and ripped jeans sidled up to the stall. A beaten up backpack was slung over one shoulder, notebook and pens sticking out of the pockets. His mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile that I knew very well.

Aidan?

He winked, turned to the irate woman and plucked the print from her hand. Taking one glance at it, he rolled his eyes. Church Grims are spirits, not ghosts, and they don’t look like them. Furthermore, the one protecting that ruined chapel is probably very weak, and unable to manifest itself fully into human form. Lots of entities, of human origin and not, behave like that. Anyone who knows anything about the paranormal knows that.

And I suppose you know all about the paranormal? The woman snapped.

I would hope so. My family runs the Centre for Metaphysics, after all.

Excuse me?

Aidan pulled a card from his pocket and held it up. The woman squinted at it, and turned white.

Aidan Lockwood-Scott, he introduced himself, beaming.

The woman gaped like a fish. Aidan just kept talking.

"Besides, my family couldn’t help you with a minor case of falsification. All freelance Chroniclers