The Ghostwriter of Christmas Past

By Alex Winters

This Christmas, Mia Hampton feels like she’s getting a lump of coal in her stocking! Not only is she on assignment for the holidays, but her hotel room is haunted, her normally prim and proper literary agent keeps drinking and dialing her in the middle of the night, she can’t stay out of the hotel pool and, oh yeah, her sexy country boy client has been flirting with her nonstop since she got into town. Did she mention... he’s nearly a decade younger? If this keeps up, her holiday might get as bloody as the festive holiday slasher she’s being paid big bucks to write about!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781624207839

Alex Winters

Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies and smooth jazz. Visit him at www.awintersromance.com to see what stories are brewing up next!

Book preview

Chapter One

Is it just me, or do I spy a new piece of artwork on that glorious arm of yours, Mia?

Mia Hampton chuckled self-consciously and gently placed her forearm in front of the webcam so it wouldn’t be blurry on the other end of the long-distance video conference. She waited until it came into focus and then heard the appropriate murmurs of encouragement from her longtime literary agent, Jasmine Jazz West Sinclair.

Love. It! Jazz gushed in her vaguely retro Valley Girl slash thoroughly modern socialite tone. It was a languid, almost jarring mix that definitely took some getting used to. Since they only really spoke when Jazz had a new ghostwriting project to discuss, which was never quite often enough for Mia, there was always a vague, awkward lag when they first started catching up after however many months it had been since they’d last spoken.

Jazz squinted behind her dramatically oversized purple glasses. Now, remind me...what is it again?

Mia took her arm out of focus and rolled her eyes, settling back into her hip desk chair surrounded by her hip office supplies and tugging on the hem of her hip peasant blouse with the brocade collar, open just enough to reveal her hip rainbow necklace. I thought...aren’t you supposed to be the hip Manhattan millennial city girl? How...how do you not know who this bad boy is?

Jasmine’s enthusiasm quietly faded into gentle, vaguely impatient confusion as she sat in her midtown office, surrounded by nearly invisible epoxy shelves lined with recent, glossy, colorfully thick bestsellers. One day, eventually, Mia hoped one of her books would make it to her agent’s Wall of Fame. One that was under her own name, that is. Jazz sat back at her cluttered desk after studying Mia’s new tattoo just long enough to be socially acceptable. It’s some type of cartoon character, right?

Mia clucked a vengeful tongue. "It’s Arishi, duh. You know, from My Cat is a Demon Hunter from Space?"

And that would be...a manga anime of some sort?

Manga anime? Mia spluttered as if she’d somehow created the character herself. She spent a lot of time alone, and that fact was never more readily apparent than when she finally got another grown adult on the line and out poured a steady stream of pent-up nonsense. Such was the case at this very moment. Of some sort! Only the highest sort! It’s about this—

Anyway, Jasmine bulldozed, all but glancing at the fancy Apple watch on her plump ebony wrist to signal she would no longer be entertaining this particular line of discussion for one more second, thank you very much. One day I’ll have to try and find you a manga artist to ghostwrite for, but in the meantime...I’ve got a decidedly less ‘animated’ lead.

While Jazz snickered wryly at her word choice, Mia wriggled uncomfortably in her ergonomic desk chair until she sat slightly straighter. The pleasantries never lasted too long when Jasmine requested a conference call, but they’d lasted even shorter today than usual. That could only mean one thing: Jasmine West Sinclair was desperate, and not afraid to show it. Mia struggled to keep her smile bright and her eyes brighter, even though she knew from experience that the higher Jazz’s desperation level, the more unpleasant the writing project. I mean, I figured you didn’t call just to talk about my new tattoo.

As if to prove it, Jasmine was already glancing down at a file folder on her cluttered desk, opening it with peak efficiency, maximum style and utter determination. Forget the weather and the upcoming holiday and Mia’s fresh ink. They were now deep into New Assignment Delivery Mode. Mia braced herself, hiding her apprehension behind a fixed smile and wary eyes.

So, this one may be a bit of a stretch for both of us but...how do you feel about scary movies?

Love them, Mia lied voluminously.

Jasmine glanced up from the open press kit atop her desk with a knowing grin, forcing dimples on her cherubic cheeks as she pointed at her own webcam. Funny, I don’t recall seeing any Jason or Freddy tattoos on those arms of yours.

Mia pretended to stand up and flash her backside. I mean, I have them but...do you really want to see where they are? Like, is your office door closed, because...lemme tell you, NSFW much?!

Jasmine snorted an almost...almost authentic chuckle. Normally brusque and all business, she was only ever this girly when she needed something from Mia. Typically, for her to take an assignment that none of Jazz’s more successful, more high-profile, more local ghostwriters wanted.

No, girl, I trust you. In particular, though, how familiar are you with obscure 80s scary movies that a chick flick lover like myself has never heard of before?

Depends on which one, Mia hedged. After all, the last horror movie she’d seen had been nearly four years earlier when she’d been trying to woo that dreamy goth hunk at the used bookstore she frequented downtown and he’d asked her to go see Vampire Clowns from Mars Part III with him on opening night. It...hadn’t ended well. Neither the movie or the botched attempt at ill-fated romance with a clown who took his shoes off right before the movie began (!), munched popcorn open mouthed and smacked her with a fresh red vine every time she flinched at the blood and gore on the screen.

Jazz gave her an I’m sorry face that was half-wince, half-flinch before answering apologetically. "Camp Christmas?"

Mia blinked and tried to control her breathing. This...that couldn’t be a real thing. Could it? A summer camp? At...Christmas time? What studio greenlit that particularly ill-advised notion? And why, oh why, did Jasmine West Sinclair always call on Mia with the absolutely, utterly, worst, most boring and arcane writing assignments ever?

Seriously. If it wasn’t penning the autobiography of some mild-mannered dentist from Miami who wanted to talk about molars for six hours a day, then it was ghostwriting the memoirs of some retired golfer in Tampa who wanted to talk about putting for six hours a day. Now she was supposed to be excited about some cheesy 80s horror flick she’d never even heard about before?

Mia plastered on her big girl grin just the same and tried not to sound too terribly much like a sixth grader winging a book report for a novel she’d never even bothered to open. Oh, yeah, sure. I love that one.

Jazz was no dummy. Far from it. The eyes behind her Sex & the City glasses might as well have spelled out the word droll. Her tone matched her expression to a T. Mia. Please. Come on now...

Mia had backed herself into a corner and, once there, was forced to lean into the fib with unaccustomed gusto. No. Honestly. Stick with me here. It’s got that one famous actor dude in there, obviously, and then there’s this...this camp, right? Out there in the woods, yeah. And in this camp there’s that one chick with big 80s hair and...and leg warmers. Yes, that’s it! And...and then it’s Christmas time so of course they’re red and green striped leg warmers, naturally, duh, and...

Mia’s ridiculous book report version of a movie she’d never seen before trailed off to the sound of almost literal crickets on the other end of the line. Jazz’s voice resembled that of an all-knowing fourth grade teacher staring her down from the front of the classroom. You’ve never seen it, have you?

Have you?

No, Mia, that’s why I’m saying, you can turn it down if you want, but...

But everyone else on your list already has and you have no one else to go to, hence today’s last-minute request for an afternoon zoom call I’m guessing?

Suddenly, it was Jazz’s turn to look sheepish and avoid eye contact as she fiddled with a random paperweight on her desk. Not everyone on my roster turned it down, Mia, but...

Mia snorted and swiveled back and forth in her expensive desk chair, glancing as she did so at the colorful, hip, boho wall décor behind her. The added touch that hopefully made the right impression on her much hipper, much younger, much more successful and storied literary agent. The rainbow tapestries and retro macrame wall hangings and framed, gold ampersands were more like a staged set than her actual aesthetic, but she found that clients and, in particular, Jasmine West Sinclair expected it of a thirty-something litgirl, bookworm like herself.

Mia glanced back to the glowing screen of her 34-inch monitor to find Jasmine peering back at her expectantly. I’m sorry, did you...were you...

Jasmine chuckled and reached for a recyclable cardboard cup of coffee from somewhere called Rasputins. Probably some hip little sidewalk café on the corner of her hip little downtown street in her perfect snow globe city world. She sipped absently and said, I asked if you were interested. Officially, that is.

Mia reached for her own black and white bossgirl mug and sipped her favorite Diet Jolt Cola as if it was the same Sumatra blend, half-caff, full-whip soy latte macchiato in Jazz’s $12 cup of Joe. I mean, is there anything even remotely less specific and arcane on your wish list at the moment?

Not in Florida, babe.

Mia twisted her chair slightly to look out the picture window in her guest bedroom-slash-home office. The sky outside was blue and peppered with soft white clouds, both nestled above a cluster of whispering palms that bordered the pool area just downstairs.

She knew she was blessed to live in tiny Fiesta Beach, Florida, a quiet little resort town nestled among a coastline full of quiet little resort towns. A hidden gem of pink and blue cottages and funky cafes and wide, lined sidewalks and leisurely beach accesses she’d called home for most of her life. It was casual and chill and beautiful and slow and picturesque, almost to a fault.

But what she wouldn’t give to be in some cramped little loft in downtown Manhattan at that moment, paying ungodly rent and living on lukewarm ramen but working on Jazz’s most scintillating and lauded ghostwriting projects all the while, instead of her crumbs and castoffs that literally no one else wanted.

As if reading her mind, Jazz set down her seasonably appropriate red and white checked paper cup and inched slightly closer to the computer on her own end of the call. Soft brown eyes peered into the webcam and offered a comforting, if sobering, truth telling. You know, Mia, if you moved to New York I could give you projects that would actually literally blow your mind. We both know you’re overqualified, by far, for the projects I send your way.

Can’t you just give them to me anyway? Mia struggled not to sound like a three-year-old whining for another dollar for the claw machine on the way out of Chuck E. Cheese.

Jazz sat back, returning to her former stiff posture and vaguely lecturing tone. You know how these big New York clients are, Mia. They want you sitting at their feet, live and in person, jotting down their pearls of wisdom as you nod and murmur and coo encouragement. And for the amount of money their publishers dish out, I want to give them just that. You just can’t do that remotely, Mia. We...we’ve already talked about this.

Mia ignored the stack of overdue bills piled just out of sight of her fancy monitor and fixed on another practiced smile. Nodding perfunctorily and resigning herself to another three months of talking about camera angles and Christmas stockings and script rewrites on a movie she’d never even heard of, she sat up even higher and sighed. I know, I know, yes, of course I’ll do it. Just...tell me where to be and when to be there and I’ll show up with bells on, notepad in one hand and digital recorder in the other!

Mia felt like she was talking too loudly all of a sudden. Too desperately. The way Jazz had inched back from the monitor and tried, in vain, to hide a discerning frown confirmed that very notion. Still, the news was what her agent wanted to hear and so she beamed back in turn. Lake Eerie, Florida. It’s...not far from you, actually. Three hours at most. Two and a half if traffic is good. Anytime tomorrow. He’ll be expecting you—

Despite her best effort, Mia’s fixed smile faltered somewhat, transforming gently into a discerning grimace. Tomorrow?

Today would be better, actually, but I know your...situation...with your grandmother so I bought you an extra day to get those, uh, matters in order so that you could be thoroughly focused on the book through the holidays.

Thanks, I just... Mia blinked away the news and forced another smile. Despite the anxiety already fluttering in her chest, she never wanted to bite the hand that fed her, literally. She struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice, only mildly succeeding. Thank you, Jasmine, honestly. I...appreciate this. All of this. You know that, right? I always do.

Jasmine West Sinclair nodded curtly, tapping on the glowing white keys of her wireless keyboard before glancing back up. "I just sent you the deets but, in short, the studio that recently bought the rights to Camp Christmas is finally putting out an extended DVD edition next holiday season in honor of the film’s 35th anniversary and wants to have a book out there at the same time. Apparently, they’re going to record a directors commentary with some noted film critic and finally re-release the 80s soundtrack on a special holiday-themed LP, it’s a whole concerted campaign with multi-marketing tiers and curated algorithm markers but, at the core of it all, will be the book you write with... She paused, rifling through the thin dossier on her glass top desk and squinting at the top page. Clay Carpenter."

And he is? Mia was voraciously pretending to write notes on a sticky note just out of sight. In fact, they looked more like stick figures fighting each other over a giant candy cane. She added Santa hats to make it look like she was furiously scribbling, biting down on a wry smile at her sudden burst of method acting.

Jasmine glanced back at the screen, soft brown eyes focused and blunt behind her red-carpet ready glasses. "Dude, this guy wears a lot of hats. Apparently, he has a whole museum of props used in the film, runs a walking tour of the various sets around town, hosts trivia nights and karaoke contests and, in short, is the world’s most noted expert on Camp Christmas."

You mean, a film neither of us has heard about?

Jasmine West Sinclair literally wagged a finger at her monitor. "Oh, trust me, I’ve had to get up to speed on this bad boy all week and it’s got a cult following to die for. Think Rocky Horror Picture Show, but Christmas. In a camp. With a high kill count. Copious amounts of gore. Lots and lots of T & A. What I’m saying is...play nice, okay? Don’t go in there all huffy and superior and act like he’s some monumental dweeb or something."

Mia had a hard time imagining "the world’s foremost expert on Camp Christmas as anything other than a live action version of The Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy. Even if he totally is?"

Jazz finally snorted. In the background, her phone rang and she held up a finger to pause their conversation. Mumbling something to someone about some other thing just out of range, she returned to the screen with an apologetic expression and said, Listen, Mia, I’ve got another call but...I’m really glad you took this assignment. I truly am. I think it’s really going to be...good for you.

Jazz reached to end the call but Mia blurted the question she promised herself, literally, promised herself, she wouldn’t ask this time. Not after Jazz’s crushing answer the last time, and the time before that. Hey, while I’ve got you, before you go, I mean, I know you’re busy and everything but, uhm, how...any feedback on the new novel I sent you last week?

Jazz paused as well, if only to fix on a frozen smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and say, Listen, I appreciate you thinking of us, Mia. Again. But...we’re going to have to pass this time. Again. It’s just...you know how things are here at Lippincott and Wainwright Literary. The emphasis is on ‘literary’ fiction and, well, you’re not quite there yet, you feel me?

Mia’s smile remained fixed despite the audacity, nay, the hypocrisy of Jasmine’s cookie cutter rejection. Oh, yeah, sure. So literary they were representing some comic book dweeb who’d watched some cheesy splatter gore fest 80s horror flick called Camp Christmas a thousand times and now got paid to write a book about it. Correction: got paid enough to have Mia write a book about it for him.

Yeah, Jazz, sure. Real literary.

I know, Mia croaked instead of voicing her internal monologue, struggling to remain upbeat in the face of yet another crushing rejection. Thanks anyway.

Always girl, Jazz brightened, just before the screen went blank and Mia caught her reflection in the black square her agent had recently filled in her monitor, fixed smile still sticking to her teeth under sad, defeated eyes.

Mia sighed and stood and stretched, the tension she always felt after one of these high-stakes video conferences coiled up like a sand burr between her shoulder blades. Just beneath the fringed hem of her faux-hip peasant blouse, where Jasmine West Sinclair couldn’t see, was a pair of pink flamingo jammy pants she wore most days and, come to think of it, most nights as well.

She padded out of the claustrophobically artsy guest room into the hallway and out toward the living room, still preserved in all its mid-1970s retro glory, just the way her grandmother had left it the day Mia moved her into a nursing home almost six years earlier.

Every time she went to update the faded wicker furniture or clown prints on the wall, she paused and changed her mind, hoping against hope that Nana would return someday and Mia could un-press the pause button that had been her life ever since her grandmother fell in the grocery store parking lot and started the long, sad progression to permanent institutionalization.

She sank down onto the Golden Girls era sectional, sighed and picked her laptop up off the coffee table where she’d left it, checking her mail and searching for the file that contained the video download of Camp Christmas Jazz had just sent her. She put her feet up and, when it had loaded all the way, pushed play.

Despite her reservations about the project, and there were more than a few, Mia knew the minute she heard the retro synthesizer and electric guitar soundtrack and saw the cartoon bloody logs spell out Camp Christmas, log by log, during the opening credits scene, that the little movie with the big cult following would soon be her new favorite guilty pleasure.

If only she could wait until after Christmas to write about it, her nerves wouldn’t be so shot about leaving Nana alone in the Sea Pines Assisted Living Facility for the holidays.

Chapter Two

What’s this thing do?

Clay Carpenter scratched the broad, unlined forehead beneath his faded black Camp Christmas ball cap and forced a smile. It was, perhaps, his eight hundredth such gesture of the tour so far. And they were only at the very.

First.

Stop.

Clay tried to keep the mounting impatience he felt out of his reply, but it was a mighty struggle he wasn’t sure he could keep up for the rest of the tour. He wiped his face with the palm of his hand, as if it were a washcloth sweeping his wry grin and ironic expression away. That’s...it’s called a phone booth, kid. You might have heard about them in...history class?

The rest of the tour group snickered, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other as they waited for the spooky, scenic walking tour to begin in earnest. The kid, however, did not snicker. Or chuckle. Or snort or even blush. Nothing. Flat line.

Crickets.

Then again, the kid in question was sixteen if he was a day. Surly. Doubtful. Dubious, even. Clearly maladjusted in some profoundly animated and obnoxious way. Tall and lanky, with spiky blond hair featuring lime green tips and wearing a Hawaiian shirt ironically over his giveaway Camp Christmas t-shirt. So, so very edgy. One pale, wiry arm clung to his battered skateboard like maybe there was a ramp or two on the walking tour.

Beside him, his parents, silent as church mice as they beamed apologetic grimaces Clay’s way, gave the surly teen all the space he needed to wreak havoc on Clay’s carefully curated Terror Tour.

Yeah, but...what’s it do, Bro? The kid’s voice was half-snarl, half-squeak, a mewling sound that fit his punk rock, heavy on the punk, aesthetic.

"Nothing anymore, Bro, Clay explained as patiently as possible, nodding at the dozen or so guests on his daily walking tour through the small but historic—to him, anyway—township of Lake Eerie, Florida. But back when Camp Christmas was being filmed,. this little puppy played an integral part in the movie." He slapped the side of the town’s most infamous, and only, phone booth for emphasis.

The teen, still doubtful, tugged on the double doors to get inside. Harder and harder he tried until the booth itself threatened to topple over onto the little punk. Clay got a supreme jolt of satisfaction when they remained closed tight despite the kid’s valiant, if annoying, efforts. The doors had been welded shut, in fact, by Clay’s own hands, if only to stop just such tour-deflecting thugs like this little tyke from derailing the daily sojourn through his rustic hometown and its various cinematic landmarks.

Clay wasn’t alone in his triumph, noting that most of the other tour goers covered their own satisfied grins with impatient hands. They had paid good money to see the various filming locations of their most favorite, most obscure, most cheesy 80s Christmas scary movie and this kid was already spoiling the pot. Their patience, and their politeness, wouldn’t last much longer.

Clay wasn’t sure how long his could last, either.

Spike, the thug’s mother offered in a rare exception to her son’s poor behavior, stop tugging on that. If we break it, son, we’ll be liable for the damages. The woman’s tone implied this wouldn’t be her first, or last, time in small claims court over one of her child’s many transgressions.

As Spike continued threatening to topple the Superman-worthy phone booth, Clay pointed to a poster sized still from the movie itself for everyone else on the tour who wasn’t currently trying to dismantle it, that is. It was safe behind a plexiglas frame, screwed to the side of the phone booth by, yet again, his very own hands.

Clay spoke slightly louder, eager to regain control of his walking tour before Spike could delay its progress any further. "As you can see here, this scene from the movie depicts the moment that one of the campers finally makes it into town to call the authorities and put a stop to the slaughter going on back at Camp Christmas. Unfortunately, she was crushed by the Santa Mask Killer before she ever got the chance to put a quarter in the slot with her bloody, trembling fingers..."

Several tourgoers, amateurs, obviously, blanched. Others murmured appreciatively and inched closer for a better look as Clay stepped back from the poster sized movie still. Spike tapped the outer glass and announced, to no one in particular but, it certainly felt, to Clay specifically, Cheap CG camera trick, big deal.

Clay grinned menacingly through his fixed, sticky smile. Actually, Spoke...

The kid’s face reddened as he waved his skateboard menacingly. It’s Spike.

Clay gave the kid a private, menacing wink worthy of the fictional Santa Mask Killer himself. Ah, yes, Spike. Well, you’re actually half-right.

Spike literally scratched his forehead. I...am?

His parents gave each other a curious, doubtful glance before asking in unison, He is?

He sure is, Clay bellowed, adopting a vaguely circus ringmaster tone as he explained. "Since Camp Christmas was filmed back in 1986, there were none of the advances in CGI technology that today’s movies enjoy. Or, even, computers to edit them on. Instead, all of the movie’s effects are practical including the famous phone booth scene filmed right where we’re standing..."

He paused to let the tour goers cluster around the movie still before continuing. To achieve the effect of the Santa Mask Killer crushing his victim to smithereens by stomping repeatedly on the roof of the phone booth until it gave way and he slid down on top of her like a fancy French coffee press, the scene was filmed entirely in reverse...

Clay paused again as the murmurs rose and then died down like a wave crashing gently to shore. Glancing Spike’s way, he saw challenge in the young hoodlum’s raw blue eyes and jutted out chin.

Smirking, he explained authoritatively, In fact, the shoot was quite complicated. For starters, the special effects team was forced to make a half-size replica of the Santa mask worn by the killer so that a pint-sized, twelve-year-old extra could wear it. Next, he was hitched to a crane just above with invisible wires and a harness belt under his size extra small Santa suit. The actress, in this case a local bodybuilder dressed to resemble the actress, complete with blonde wig and padded bra, gently pushed up on the roof of the phone booth AND the pint-sized Santa mask killer until he was flush with the top of the booth and...end scene! All they had to do was play it in reverse so that it looked like evil Santa was stomping down instead of being lifted up into the air.

The tour group gently applauded his performance as Clay finally regained consciousness. He blinked himself back to present day as, one by one, their expectant, somewhat impressed faces came back into focus. Something overtook Clay every time he explained this scene, and he lost himself through space and time, imagining himself on the set of that long-forgotten movie, watching the scene being filmed exactly as he explained it. The little Santa hat and matching mask, the bodybuilder in the padded bra, the cameraman scratching his head until he finally got it right. Gradually, as he regained focus in the real world, Clay’s eyes fell upon his toughest audience member.

Spike finally relented, eyes wide as he gushed, Really? Cool!

Clay chuckled and nodded. Right? Now, continuing on with our tour... he grinned as the guests followed along down the Main Street of quiet Lake Eerie, Spike at his heels, as Clay began the tour in earnest.

He had given the tour so many times, spoke his well-rehearsed lines so often, Clay could recite them on auto pilot. He did so now, enjoying the sun on his face and the sidewalk beneath his feet as he guided the dozen or more tour goers to the next stop on his daily Terror Tour.

It was less than a block away, a vintage general store where the main campers had stopped on their way into town to stock up on chips and beer and dirty magazines and, naturally, more beer. Despite the carefully curated rustic feel of the wood and cracker barrel exterior, The Bread Box was a working convenience store and Clay timed the tour to begin just as his guests were ready for a little mid-morning snack between breakfast and lunch.

Like a teacher watching over his pupils as they ransacked the gift shop of the local zoo or planetarium, Clay always enjoyed the few moments of team building and forced camaraderie that occurred as they rushed around the store, snatching up retro snacks and pork rinds and, of course, the Camp Christmas memorabilia that was featured in most stores around town.

Until then he listened to the tour goers chatting amiably as they strolled along behind him, murmuring to each other about the rustic feel of the cursed town and how charming it was despite its deadly history. Clearly, most of them had read the colorfully printed brochures Clay kept handy back in the Terror Tours lobby.

He smiled with the daily twinge of satisfaction he got from being here, doing this, with these people, fans of the movie that had meant so much to him for so very long. His leisurely pace allowed some of the tourgoers to catch up to him and,