"Where's she from? I'll check her out on the web."
Cynthia shook her head. "Spying on our guests is a no-no, Fred." but then added, "Pinkville, Virginia." Dean started to protest but his wife began carrying the packed ornaments from the room and asked in her sweetest tone if he could remove the now-dried Christmas tree and finish a short list of Bird Song chores she'd drawn up earlier. Fred followed Cynthia, asking more questions about the new guest as Dean shook his head in mild frustration.
Dean had unscrewed the base and laid the tree on a drop cloth, in a shower of dry needles, when he looked up to see a thin boy standing by the archway that separated the hall from the living room. It startled him, as the lad had made no sound descending the stairs.
"Hi," Dean said, but received no response. "What's your name?" Still silence. The boy seemed attentive in spite of his muteness so Dean resumed sweeping up needles with his hand and continued to chatter. "A real tree is the only way to go but they sure are a mess, especially out here in the dry air. We try to keep water in the base but the tree drinks it as fast as a sailor on a twelve hour leave." He looked up to see the boy standing above him, holding out a small spiral notebook. On it, written in block letters, was Donnie Ryland. "That's your name?" Dean asked. The boy nodded. Dean stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Donnie Ryland. I'm David Dean."
Just as Donnie was limply shaking Dean's hand, Cynthia returned, smiled at the boy, and offered her hand as well. He accepted it with equal caution. There was a sound on the stairs and they all turned as the boy's mother paused just inside the room. Donnie turned and ran up to her, gave her a hug and then scampered from the parlor as she entered.
Dean was reminded of his prior night's dream. He hadn't seen the face of his specter, and this woman's hair was dark, not blonde, but nevertheless, there was a chilling feeling of similarity between his vision and this woman standing before him.
Edith Shipton appeared, as Cynthia had described, to be more nervous than a fifth-grader on speech day. She was not pretty, but it was obvious, even to Dean's untrained eye, that her attire, hair do, makeup and whole mien did not evolve from the poor side of the tracks. She wore white slacks, an emerald-green silk blouse and high-heeled shoes. Her long auburn hair, while looking like a magazine ad, was not enough to elevate her that step above ordinary.