Novel & Cerita Gingerbread Stories

Her voice when she talked was low and gentle loosing the signature edge that she usually pushed out her vowels in. “As kids, the older ones would sit us by the fire. We would have meat and beer and listen to stories. I had a grandmother, she was the go to storyteller then. Every time she talked, it felt like the moon was whispering in your ears. You believed every word that came out her lips. And then you didn’t.” “Mia once told us a story. A horror story. One day, when we were bad and she thought we needed a punishment.” Lady Walters lips curled. Somehow Kihara couldn’t picture the woman as a rebellious kid, even if her rebellion was short-lived.

At least it kept them from listening to those who insisted that there was no hope in finding any answers this soon. Sandra drew a deep breath as she wiped the moisture from her forehead. She had decided to keep herself busy and baked two apple pies, along with nearly a hundred sugar cookies. She lined the island counter with wax paper, then mixed the food coloring into several bowls with frosting. She helped Brandon and Grace decorate them with sprinkles, jellybeans, candy eyes and gumdrops.

"Most people don't." "Oh, she definitely did." "Why?" "Because she'd light candles everywhere and tell me it was an adventure." She laughed quietly at the memory. "We'd make hot chocolate." "We'd tell stories until the electricity came back." Lucien listened without interrupting. "What kind of stories?" "Bookshop ghosts." He blinked. "Ghosts?" "The friendly kind." She grinned. "They supposedly rearranged books during the night because they got bored." "And you believed that?" "I was seven." "...Fair enough."

He pulled back just enough for me to drag in air. I gulped, my tongue numb, still trying to recover when he came at me again. This time, a piece of soft gingerbread passed from his mouth to mine. There was no room to breathe. His tongue worked around the gingerbread, wrestling with mine. Cinnamon flooded both our mouths, cloying sweet and scorching hot. "Mmph..." I swallowed one piece in a rush, and another followed. This went on for what felt like forever—the living room filling with the sounds of heavy breathing and sweet things being shared.

Grandma Grace explained they were running late because Ty had to finish some end-of-year work. Inside, the house smelled like Christmas: pumpkin pie, apple pie, chocolate chip cookies, and spiced cider. The dining room table was set up buffet-style with snacks, desserts, and appetizers. I loaded a plate with cheese, salami, turkey, and ham—skipping bread to save room for dessert—and poured myself a glass of hot cider. Uncle Frank, who rarely spoke to me, surprised me by asking, "How’s school?" "Uh, it’s good. You know, classes, homework..."

When she stirred and opened her eyes, the reality of the situation hit us both. We got up quietly. I rebuilt the fire while she made coffee. Neither of us spoke much at first. I found the small chocolate cake we’d bought on the way to the cabin—meant to celebrate the “family weekend” that never happened—and set it on the table with two plates. We sat across from each other in the soft morning light, both in little clothing. The normalcy of slicing cake felt surreal after the filth of last night. Millie took a bite and hummed in pleasure. I cleared my throat, staring at my plate.

Coughing, he went to the washing area and washed how mouth full of chocolate bits. "Berry gold creamer," Grandma laughed so evil like in the movies. "Grandma," I called, still shocked. Waiting for her to continue the story. "Oh, where were we again? Uhh. . . Yeah your mom, your dad and your cousins." She sighs heavily. "But let's just talk about your mom and dad first. Oh this story will take forever!" she continued, and took another bite of fruit berries I don't know the name of. "I dare you to tell her the stories in one week," Grandpa says finishing to drink his coffee.

She tossed her coat on the back of a chair at the dining room table as she passed through to the kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. “Anson thinks dad should be the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Kirsten laughed as Anson tossed another handful of flour in Bryce’s direction. “Why do you even have flour out for gingerbread houses? You weren’t making your own gingerbread were you?” Like everyone else in their family, Bryce was no cook. He shrugged. “No, but I was thinking I might be able to use it to make snow—or my hair even grayer.” The girls giggled, and Anson joined in, not sure what he was laughing at but having the time of his life, playing in the flour and chewing on gumdrops.

These types of things only happen in movies! Like with Hannah, Henry also told Gabriella stories in German when she couldn't sleep, but Gabriella felt like a joke.

Sam, in turn, felt fiercely protective of the boy. She didn’t let any of the guards talk to him or touch him because of his brother’s influence. Nate was also shy so he found solace in Sam’s protection. One of Sam's favorite pastimes was telling Nate stories. She'd weave tales of fantastical creatures and daring adventures, but lately, her stories had centered on a particular treat: the hot buns sold at the village market. She described their steamy warmth, the sweet aroma that filled the air, and the delicious, gooey center. Nate, completely captivated, was now consumed by a desire to taste these legendary buns.