The Ghost

& Tilly Bishop

 

A TILLY BISHOP MYSTERY

Book BOOK 2

 

 

A NOVEL BY LUCKY CABALLERO

First published Black Raven Publishing 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Lucky Caballero

All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

 Lucky Caballero asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

 

First edition The Ghost and Tilly Bishop

A Tilly Bishop Mystery Book 2

Copyright © 2025 by Lucky Caballero

Copyright © 2025 by Lucky Caballero

Cover Art by Canva

ISBN (XXXXXXXXXXXXX)

 

Printed in U.S.A. by BLACK RAVEN PUBLISHING

 

 

 

 

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my readers, fans of the Tilly Bishop Mysteries Series.

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

Chapter One (Revised)

I stood silently on my front porch, watching the cool fall breeze move gently through the autumn leaves of the brilliant maple that shaded the porch during the hot summer months. The air was crisp and earthy, causing a strange excitement to dance lightly across my skin as I shivered. Autumn was my favorite time of year—Halloween to be exact. Christmas followed closely on its heels as my favorite holidays.

I sat at the white wrought iron table, sipping my pumpkin spice coffee. Today would be a good day, I was sure. I was determined to forget I had come to a full standstill with writer's block the night before.

I enjoyed living alone, with just my cat and me. Like many others, my difficult marriage had ended in a difficult divorce, and now in my mid-fifties, I was beginning to enjoy my life as a single woman who had realized her dream of becoming a bestselling paranormal mystery writer. I was currently halfway through finishing my sixth book, and today, I would catch up on my neglected self-care day.

Running my fingers through my shoulder-length reddish blonde hair, I looked down and made a face at the black and yellow cat lying at my slippered feet. Asher opened wide green eyes at the sight of the human sticking his tongue out at me and promptly closed them, pretending to sleep once more. I laughed.

A sudden sound in the quiet hours of the early fall morning startled both of us as the ringing of my cell phone caused me to nearly drop my half-empty cup of coffee. It was a call from my friend Ellen Colby, a real estate agent, inviting me to visit the Stonehaven House, one of the oldest properties in town.

"I'm heading over to the Stonehaven House out on Route 5," Ellen told me. "It has some real wild history that you might be interested in, Tilly. The house is a dilapidated mansion with a dark history."

"I believe I remember hearing something about that house being haunted over the years," I said, aware that Ellen had recently taken on the task of selling one of Jensen Harbor's oldest properties. She continued to elaborate: "I've been trying to sell it for the current owner, Louie Howerton. You remember him, he’s an elderly and extremely eccentric man who claims he will die soon."

"Seriously?" I shook my head at the phone in my hand. "He's actually convinced he will die soon?"

"Something about a ghost." Ellen's voice sounded strange, then she laughed. "Tilly, help me sell it. You're so good talking to difficult and weird people."

I thought about it only for a second before deciding. I realized with a shock that it had been over a year since I had last seen Louie Howerton, as I traveled so much now promoting my books that many of my old acquaintances seemed to fall by the way side before I realized it- that and I was intrigued by the house's history and the rumors of a ghost that haunted it, and I quickly agreed to help. After all, I was currently struggling with writer's block, and maybe this was just what I needed to get writing again.  And I really wanted to see Louie again.

An hour later, I was accompanying Ellen to Stonehaven House. We were immediately struck by the house's dark and foreboding atmosphere. The house stood stark and cold against the bright autumn sky. It was vast and sprawling, with withered trees that stood unmoving in the stiff breeze. A chilling, unsettled aura draped itself over the entire house. I had often wondered how anyone could actually bear living in it.

Ellen and I stood before the heavy wooden door and stared at the ancient iron lion knocker that glared down at us. We exchanged an uneasy look before I finally stepped forward, just as the huge door swung open. We were met by its current occupant, Louie Howerton.

He was a short, round little man with a sweet, round face. His shiny bald head bobbed up and down in pleasure as he waved us into his home.

“Tilly Bishop! I haven’t seen you in ages!” Louie threw his arms around me in a bear hug. I couldn’t help but hug him back. He had always been a very gentle man who wore his heart on his sleeve.

"Come in! Come in!" He closed the door behind us and led us through a large foyer into a surprisingly well-lit living room. His demeanor was one of gentleness and a sweetness of soul. I was immediately taken by the house, intrigued with the gothic haunted vibes, and decided then and there that I must interview him for a future novel that had just jumped into my head.

"Coffee?" Louie asked, sweeping a pudgy hand toward an elaborate silver coffee service on the cherrywood coffee table. I nodded, feeling the chill seeping through my sweater. I took a seat on the dark red velvet couch opposite him before accepting the delicate cup and saucer he handed me.

"Actually, Tilly," Louie said, his face lighting up with unmistakable pride, "I have someone I'd like you to meet. My grandson Jack has come to visit from Massachusetts." He turned toward the hallway with obvious affection. "Jack? Could you join us for a moment?"

A man in his late fifties emerged from what appeared to be a study, carrying a notebook and looking every inch the professional reporter. He was tall, dressed in a dark brown suit that looked hand-tailored and a deep burnt orange vest and tie. He had a neatly trimmed mustache, but his black hair with streaks of silver gave away his age. It was pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a wide leather band, perhaps an attempt to appear younger. Despite his polished appearance, there was something guarded about his expression.

"Jack Winters," he said, extending his hand to me with a firm grip. "I'm combining a family visit with work - writing a feature about small coastal communities for the Tribune's sister paper."

"I know your work," Jack said, and his smile seemed genuine for the first time. "The Murder Pool was excellent. You have a real talent for complex plotting."

I noticed the way Louie's eyes warmed when he looked at Jack, and how Jack's previously guarded expression softened in response. There was an ease between them that spoke of genuine family affection.

"Jack's been fascinating company," Louie said, settling back into his chair with obvious contentment. "It's wonderful having family around again. He asks the most thoughtful questions about the local history, and really listens to the answers."

"Grandfather has incredible stories," Jack said, taking a seat in a nearby wingback chair. "This house alone has enough history for a dozen articles."

Ellen remained standing, her green eyes roaming over the Victorian walls and elaborate paintings that filled them, as she clutched the delicate China in her hands.

 "I want to see the rest of the house, Mr. Howerton," she told him.

He smiled widely. "Of course! Of course! Please do, Ms. Colby."

Ellen set her cup down on the Queen Anne coffee table. She tightened her grip on her purse strap hanging from her shoulder and, with a nervous glance in my direction, she disappeared into the next room.

"Tell me why you want to sell this amazing house," I said to Louie, curiosity getting the better of me.

Louie's expression grew serious. "Well, you see, Ms. Bishop—may I call you Tilly? Tilly, I realize this will sound strange to you, but I know that I am about to die very soon, and I need to sell the house as soon as possible." He paused, glancing briefly at Jack before continuing. "I want to make sure my affairs are in order."

Jack shifted slightly in his chair, and I caught a flicker of something—concern? protectiveness? —cross his features before he resumed his neutral, professional expression.

"I can understand that" I nodded. "Do you have other family to consider?"

Another quick glance passed between Louie and Jack, so subtle I almost missed it.

"Some distant relatives," Louie said carefully. "But Jack here has been helping me research family. Haven't you, my boy?"

"It’s all very fascinating," Jack agreed, but his voice held a note I couldn't quite identify. "You'd be amazed how many family connections you can uncover with the right research."

"Can you tell me a bit about this house?" I asked hopefully.

Louie smiled “Yes! The house was originally built in 1925. The back upstairs was destroyed in the fire, but I had it rebuilt in the ‘40’s.”

 “Wasn't the east wing built after the fire?” Jack asked, thumbing through his notes.

Louie nodded. “Yes! Your right, Jack. Torn down and rebuilt. We added on a huge attic and a spiraling staircase. It’s still beautiful after all these years.”

"I'm dying of curiosity. Do the rumors of this house being haunted have any basis in truth?"

Louie gripped his coffee cup tightly in his pudgy fingers, his wide blue eyes darting around the room as if making sure we were alone. Leaning forward, he spoke barely above a whisper:

"Sadly, yes. The house is haunted by a ghost named Abigail, who was my wife. She died in a fire here in this very house, decades ago. It was very mysterious, very unexpected how that fire started in her bedroom." Louie set his cup down, his hands visibly shaking. "I tried to find out everything I could about that night. You see, her entire family perished in those flames."

I felt the chilling fingers of an unseen hand brush the back of my neck. "I believe you. Tell me, why do you believe that you are going to die soon? You seem very robust to me." I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

Jack had stopped taking notes entirely and was watching Louie with an expression of deep concern. "Grandfather," he said gently, "are you sure you want to discuss this? It seems to upset you."

The protectiveness in Jack's voice was unmistakable, and I could feel his genuine concern.

"I have seen and heard strange things in this house, and I always feel a cold presence watching me." Louie caught his breath, expelling it with a hiss. "There is more than just her. There is something here that is terrifying and evil. It brings an icy chill to these walls, even in the warmth of summer." He revealed, visibly upset. "I think the fire was set on purpose; that my beloved Abigail was murdered, not by her father as people believe, but by someone far more sinister. I have researched for fifty years. I have gathered so much, but I'm still no closer now than I was then to knowing who started that fire—not that anyone would believe me, anyway."

He set his empty cup on the table in front of him. “To answer your question- She told me. Every night I hear my wife’s voice calling to me, telling me to watch for her because she’s coming to take me back with her…” Louie’s voice dropped, his face paling with fear as he stared up into mine. I glanced at Jack as he stood and moved to place a comforting hand on Louie’s shaking shoulder. I reached for his hand, surprised at the strength of his grip as he held mine.

"You are safe here with friends, Louie." I stopped as a thought came to me. “Have you mentioned these dreams or visits to the sheriff?”

 “No, Tilly. I don’t think Eddy would believe this crazy old man."

“Eddy’s been the sheriff of Jensen Harbor for a few years, Louie. I know him personally; he would take everything you tell him seriously.” I assured him.

“I think your story would make a fascinating book," I said carefully. "And I would help you in any way I can. But perhaps you should write down everything and publish it as an article in the Jensen Harbor Tribune first."

"That's an excellent idea," Jack said, leaning forward with sudden intensity. "Getting the story out there, in your own words. That way no one can twist the facts."

Again, I noticed how personally invested Jack seemed in Louie's wellbeing. His concern felt more like family protectiveness than professional interest.

Louie smiled sadly. "To finally clear the air. There will be many who will refuse to believe, but some will. It's time the truth is told, and the rumors laid to rest with the dead.”

He began to tell me about his life, his family, and his regrets as Ellen rejoined us on the couch. Ellen and I sat for hours, listening to the old man's story that spanned decades. Throughout the conversation, I noticed Jack taking notes sporadically, but more often simply listening with rapt attention, as if he was memorizing every word.

When Louie mentioned his son John leaving town after a bitter argument years ago, Jack's pen stopped moving entirely. He sat perfectly still, his jaw tight, while Louie talked about wondering if his boy had ever thought about coming home.

"Family rifts are the hardest to heal," Jack said quietly when Louie finished that part of his story. "Sometimes people want to reconcile but don't know how."

"That's very true," Louie replied, and the look he gave Jack was full of warmth and something that looked like hope.

As Louie continued telling me about John's death, Jack gripped his coffee cup so tightly his knuckles went white. For someone researching local communities, he seemed unusually affected by a stranger's family tragedy.

As Louie went to let the housekeeper, Martha Green, know that he had invited us to stay for dinner, Ellen turned to me with excitement as she looked around the vast living room.

"This is the perfect place to hold the annual community Halloween party!" Ellen exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Louie, just returning from the kitchen, let out a loud gasp of excitement. "What a wonderful idea, Ellen! It's perfect!"

Jack looked up from his notebook with interest. "A Halloween party? That sounds like it would be quite an event."

Jack's notebook fell open, revealing not just interview notes but what looked like genealogy charts. He quickly flipped it closed, but not before I glimpsed the name 'Howerton' circled at the top.

"Oh, it will be," Ellen assured him. "The whole town comes out. It's one of our biggest community gatherings."

"The children will love it, Louie," Ellen told him. "Supporting our town's children is so important. You have such a beautiful heart."

"Giving our kids—and adults—an exciting Halloween is one of the most important things I can do for Jensen Harbor," Louie told us, his voice filled with pride.

"I certainly agree. And it's deeply appreciated, as always," I said, nodding in agreement.

"But how are we going to do this? It's only three days until Halloween, and we need decorations, pumpkins, food." Louie looked around the room at the walls covered with paintings in heavy gold frames, his brow furrowed with concern.

Ellen laughed, a light, musical sound that filled the room. "You leave that to me, Louie. I can get everything we need."

"And the community will be more than happy to pitch in to help get this place ready—and help us decorate!" I assured him, getting excited myself.

"I'd be happy to help as well," Jack offered. "I'm planning to stay in town through Halloween anyway for my research."

Louie's face lit up like sunshine. "That would be wonderful, Jack! The more hands, the better."

Louie clapped his hands in glee, a big smile spreading across his soft, round face as his eyes glimmered in unabashed joy. "This is going to be the best Halloween ever!"

As we prepared to leave, I found myself studying the dynamic between Louie and Jack. There was an undercurrent of affection and familiarity that seemed too deep for the few weeks Jack claimed to have been in town. When Jack helped Louie clear the coffee service, I noticed how naturally he knew where everything belonged.

"Thank you for this afternoon, Louie," I said as Ellen and I gathered our things. "I have a feeling this is the beginning of something very special."

"Thank you for coming, Tilly," Jack said, shaking my hand again. "I hope we'll have more chances to talk. Your insights into storytelling might be helpful for my article."

Louie beamed at us from his doorway, with Jack standing slightly behind him like a protective guardian. "Come back anytime, Tilly. There's always more story to tell."

As Ellen and I drove back toward town, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was indeed much more to the story than I'd been told.

"What do you think of Louie's journalist friend?" I asked Ellen as we reached the main road.

"Jack? He seems nice enough. Very professional. Louie certainly seems to enjoy his company," Ellen replied. "It's good for him to have someone around who's interested in his stories."

I nodded, but I couldn't help wondering about the undercurrents I'd sensed between them. The way Jack had protected Louie from upsetting questions, how Louie's whole demeanor had changed when Jack appeared, the subtle glances they'd exchanged—it all suggested a relationship that ran deeper than journalist and source. And I was feeling the tingling of a mystery to be solved concerning Louie’s ghostly voice summoning him from the grave.

As we pulled into town, I found myself genuinely excited about the Halloween party. It would be a chance to observe Jack and Louie together in a social setting, to see how they interacted with the broader community, and perhaps to understand the real nature of their connection.

Little did I know that by Halloween night, one of them would be dead, and I would find myself questioning everything I thought I understood about the relationship between the lonely old man and the mysterious young journalist who had appeared in his life.