The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

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Belinda slipped off the wet coat and handed it to her employer. She turned to the two
girls, her expression grave. Then, she smiled a crooked smile, like a marionette whose
mouth had been outfitted with only half its strings.
“So,” Belinda said. “If you’re Annie...” Her eyes flicked left to right. “Then you must
be Abbie.”
“Right!” Abbie said, thrilled to be addressed directly, insulated from her sister’s
reproach. “We have a new movie to watch, just so you know. It came from Amazon this
morning. It’s called Moana, and my friend, Tara, said it’s really good, and—”
“Alright, Abbie,” their mother said, laughing. “I’m sure Belinda will watch a movie
with you, if you ask nicely.” She turned and called up the stairs. “Come on, Paul! We’re
going to be late!”
Annie lagged as her mother led Belinda into the kitchen. She stared at the sleeve of
the black rain slicker just visible through a crack in the closet. She thought she’d seen
something red when her mother had taken the babysitter’s coat, a flash of liner, perhaps,
or her eyes playing tricks with the blood-red hue of Belinda’s boots.
“The girls’ dinner is ready,” her mother was saying as Annie entered the kitchen. “Just
throw it in the microwave whenever. There’s popcorn in the cupboard for the movie,
and you can help yourself to whatever you’d like.”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed girl nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Townsend.”
Abigail was staring at Belinda with the unabashed interest of a six year old, her eyes
coming to rest on the front of her black smock.
“Your dress has pockets!” she exclaimed. “Neat!”
“Lots of dresses have pockets,” Annie pointed out.
Abigail ignored her and began to twirl around the kitchen, spinning in wild, lurching
circles on the polished tile. “If I had a dress with pockets, I would put my ponies
inside!” One arm flailed too wide and she sent a stack of mail spinning over the surface
of the desk.
“Do you like ponies?” Belinda asked. Her long-fingered hands skittered over the
pockets of her dress like spiders.
Abigail stopped twirling and regarded Belinda solemnly. “You bet. Why, do you have
any?”
“Maybe,” Belinda said. Her hands ceased their search of the dark folds. “Or maybe I
have something better than ponies.”
Annie rolled her eyes. Before Abigail could pry into Belinda’s cryptic comment any
further, the door to the kitchen swung forward and Paul Townsend entered, more
dressed up than Annie could ever remember seeing her father look.
“Daddy!” Abbie shouted. “The babysitter has something for us to play with that’s
better than ponies!”
“You don’t say?!” He lifted Abigail and planted a kiss on her freckled cheek before
setting her down and twirling her like a ballroom dancer. He winked at Annie and
checked his watch, then glanced in the direction of his impatient wife. “Are you ready,