Category Archives: ghosts of new england


The final installment to the GHOSTS OF NEW ENGLAND: LAST LIGHT POINT is my tale, A PROMISE FULFILLED which brings the entire story home.

Late October, Present Day

After winning millions in a national lottery, local librarian Daisy Morgan sets out to revitalize the infamous Crowe’s Nest Tavern. After saving the historic inn from the auction block, Daisy begins a major renovation only to discover some hidden secrets – and a few unearthly spirits – tied to the tavern’s history.

Writer Keegan Warren arrives to do a story on the tavern weeks before the grand re-opening. Keegan’s got a few secrets of his own about why he wanted the assignment – secrets that unfold no matter how diligently he tries to keep them hidden. With Daisy’s help, he unearths a centuries old murder tied to his family’s past.

As they investigate, their mutual attraction grows. But will their budding relationship suffer when the truth is discovered?

Daisy slid the phone back into her purse and took a tour around the taproom. Natural light bathed the room through the obscured and etched glass windows covering the front two walls. She’d paid a small fortune to replicate them, forking over extra to temper them in order to protect against the strong bay winds that battered the building every day of the year.

The Crowe’s Nest Tavern stood at the sharpest jut of land on Last Light Point and had weathered several hundred years of New England storms and tempests, dozens of owners, and a history that dated from before the birth of the nation. Daisy wasn’t about to let that history go the way of the dinosaur on her watch.

Her critical eye for detail roamed around the room taking in all the updates done, while keeping the original feel of the old tavern alive.

The establishment had been up for auction for a year, the previous owner dying without ever making provisions for its sale. Daisy, as head of the historical society, had tried valiantly to get it made a protected historical site. The fact the structure had stood for over three hundred years should have qualified it outright, but her attempts fell on deaf legislative ears. The bank, who owned the mortgage, had put it up for sale. When no buyer came forth, they placed it on the auction block. Daisy was terrified it was going to be sold and subsequently knocked down. When an outside developer expressed interest in the property and the rest of the boardwalk to build upscale condos, Daisy had gone into fight mode to block his every attempt.

Just when it looked like her struggle would prove futile, several prayers and one stroke of heaven-sent luck had come her way and she’d been able to purchase the building and, with it, the leases for the remaining shops on the boardwalk.

Unexpectedly flush with disposable cash, Daisy spared no expense to bring the tavern back to its long-ago beauty.

If you could call its twisted history beautiful, she thought. She supposed the sight where pirates and thieves hung out and where they were, subsequently, hung then placed into the dreaded gibbet and left to rot for all the citizenry to gawk over, could be classified as historically significant, if not pretty.

Oh, she wished she could have seen it in its heyday. Filled to the rafters with brigands and soldiers and sailors all stopping for a pint and some grub to fill their bellies. Buxom serving girls bustling about, filling tankards, listening to tall tales of sea monsters and hidden treasure; of mermaids and sirens and Davy Jones’ Locker.

Daisy sighed, her imagination running rampant as it always did when she thought of the tavern’s history. Her gaze traveled to the mirror Cooper’s crew had discovered in the basement when they’d begun shoring up the ancient walls. Covered with a black tarp and decades of dust, they’d uncovered it and immediately called her.

“It’s wicked old,” Cooper said as he accompanied her to the tavern’s underground level. “And worth a fortune, I’m thinking. That frame’s real gold. I’d bet the house on it.”

Daisy stooped to inspect the mirror. Cooper’s eye was good, because the frame was genuine gold and decorated with a filigree pattern on all four sides. About five feet wide and three-quarters of that in width, the glass was murky with age and dust. She could barely make out her reflection.

“I bet it hung on the wall behind the bar,” she mused. “Take it upstairs and put it in my office. I’ll call Mrs. Cashman over at the antiques store to come over and look at it. She should know how to clean it, too, to bring it back to life.”

“What are you planning to do with it?” Cooper asked.

“Put it where I’m sure it used to hang: back up behind the bar.”

Cooper cupped his neck and shook his head. “It weighs a ton, kid. Mounting and securing it’s gonna be a nightmare.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best.” She swiped at the dust collecting on her jeans and stood. A momentary wave of vertigo over took her, making her sway. Cooper’s hand shot out in an instant to clasp her upper arms right before she dropped to the floor.

“Easy,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” She swiped at the sweat suddenly covering her brow. “I missed breakfast,” she lied, shaking her head of the subtle hum ringing through it. She hadn’t felt this sensation in too many years to remember. Not since…she clucked her tongue and shoved the memory down. “I’ll go call the antique shop.”

Now, as she stood in front of the cleaned and polished mirror, the glass just slightly milky from age, she smiled. And, now that she knew what it really was, she could admit a small amount of anxiety about hanging it behind the bar. So far, none of the workmen or staff had commented on anything…strange, about the piece. And thank goodness for that. That it looked perfect hanging there was a minor consolation.


Peggy Jaeger

writes contemporary romances and romcoms about strong women, the families who support them, and the men who can’t live without them.

Family and food play huge roles in Peggy’s stories because she believes there is nothing that holds a family structure together like sharing a meal…or two…or ten. Dotted with humor and characters that are as real as they are loving, Peggy brings all aspects of life into her stories: life, death, sibling rivalry, illness, and the desire for everyone to find their own happily ever after. Growing up the only child of divorced parents she longed for sisters, brothers and a family that vowed to stick together no matter what came their way. Through her books, she has created the families she wanted as that lonely child.

As a lifelong diarist, she caught the blogging bug early on, and you can visit her at where she blogs daily about life, writing, and stuff that makes her go “What??!”




Filed under ghosts of new england


The third tale in the GHOSTS OF NEW ENGLAND: LAST LIGHT POINT is FOR THE LOVE OF GRACE by award winning and best-selling author ( and dear friend!) Nancy Fraser

Fall, 1941
Grace O’Hearn has lived in Last Light Point since long before the ’29 stock market crash took so much from so many. Ten years later, things are looking up. When Grace’s father is murdered, Grace becomes the sole owner of the Crowe’s Nest Tavern–an establishment that dates back centuries, and comes with its own resident ghosts.

FBI agent, Max Stewart, is sent to Last Light Point to investigate racketeering and police corruption. Could it be connected to man’s murder? When he first meets Grace, he’s convinced she’s hiding something. Yet, her keen insight about the town, and everyone in it, may be the best lead he has.

Can they work together to bring down the guilty? Or, will an attraction neither of them wants keep getting in the way?

The Crowe’s Nest Tavern, Last Light Point

Early Autumn, 1941

“Simon, I can see you,” Grace said softly. “There’s no sense hiding in the corner of the mirror behind the cheap whiskey.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” the scrappy pirate ghost explained. “You’ve got enough to deal with without the likes of me pestering you.”

Grace O’Hearn braced her hands against the edge of the bar and sighed deeply, wearily, the emotional release shaking the half dozen glasses drying on the stained pewter countertop.

“You’re never a bother, Simon.” When she looked up, Simon’s visage slid to the middle of the mirror, his slumped shoulders and worn clothes taking up a good portion of the space.

“I see you were mopping the floor again, Miss.”

“This worn linoleum has seen better days,” she confirmed. “My uncle put it down in the early twenties, when he’d turned the tavern into a speakeasy during prohibition.”

“Aye, Miss. I remember it well. Cursed a blue streak he did, putting the floor down.”

“He said it was so his patrons could dance,” she recalled. “Some days, I’m half tempted to rip it up and refinish the old floorboards hidden beneath. Even then, I don’t think it would help with… with…”

Simon’s usually gruff voice softened. “Take it from someone who swabbed his shipmate’s blood from the deck more times than I care to recall, the stain goes away, but the memory remains.”

“That’s it, exactly,” she agreed. “I’ll never be able to look at the tavern floor again without seeing my father’s body.”

“I heard what that no-good policeman said yesterday. He called it a robbery gone wrong. But, I’m guessing, you don’t agree.”

“Nobody robs a tavern at seven o’clock in the morning,” Grace reasoned. “We’d not even opened for business. So, no, I don’t agree. It’s definitely Devon Barkley behind my father’s death, I know it in my very soul.”

“Speaking of souls,” Simon said, “there’s one that’s been knocking on the door between here and the afterlife for a few days now. They just can’t seem to find their way in.”

“As the self-appointed welcoming committee, isn’t it your job to help them?” Grace asked. “Or, have you passed your duties on to one of the others?”

“What others? I know they’re here… at least a few of them. I can feel their energy, but I haven’t actually seen another of my kind since your pa died. Other than her, of course.” Simon shook his head, rattling the bottles of whiskey, gin, and vodka.

“The Lady in White?”

“Aye. She’s goes from one room to the next, floating around like she owns the place.”

Grace chuckled. “Well, she kind of does. After all, she’s been here longer than all of us.”

“Still, she doesn’t—”

Simon’s words were cut short by the opening of the tavern door. Grace swiveled around on the stool, expecting to see either Detective Mitchell, or one of his patrolmen. Instead, she came face-to-face with a stranger. A tall, well-dressed, and somewhat handsome stranger.

PREORDER your copy of this amazing anthology here: THE GHOSTS OF NEW ENGLAND: LAST LIGHT POINT

NANCY FRASER is a bestselling and award-winning author who can’t seem to decide which romance genre suits her best. So, she writes them all.

Her spicy romances have won top awards year after year and received cover quotes from some of the most recognized names in the romance industry. Nancy was named Top Canadian Author for 2021 by N.N. Lights Book Heaven.

When not writing (which is almost never), Nancy dotes on her five wonderful grandchildren and looks forward to traveling and reading when time permits. Nancy lives in Atlantic Canada where she enjoys the relaxed pace and colorful people.

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GHOSTS OF NEW ENGLAND: Last Light Point KATHRYN HILLS, #ghosts #pirates

The second story in the Multi-century ghost anthology GHOSTS OF NEW ENGLAND: LAST LIGHT POINT is SMOKE AND MIRRORS by author ( and friend!) KATHRYN HILLS

Sometimes when you knock on heaven’s door . . .the dead answer back.

Willow Pinch lives life on a razor’s edge. A world of deception and disguise is all she knows. By day she hides in plain sight as Will, a servant boy. Nights are spent as a table knocker, aiding so-called spiritualists in duping townsfolk into believing their loved ones speak from beyond the grave. That is until the ghosts of Last Light Point unmask her before the only man she’s ever loved. Dare she trust Morgan Blackwell with her secrets?

Morgan invests every hard-earned penny in The Crowe’s Nest. Solid as a mountain and pure of heart, he doesn’t trust the strangers. Still, he needs money and agrees to rent them his tavern for their spiritual meetings. The last thing he expects are charlatans hell-bent on destroying his reputation with so-called séances. He can’t afford run-ins with the law or the fine, church-going people of town. Yet can he avoid a collision course when he learns Willow’s terrible truth? Not to mention there are ghosts in his tavern now! Be damned, but he can’t turn his back on the infuriating woman when the urge to protect her—to love her—proves irresistible.

Will the dead of Last Light Point guide Willow and Morgan to lasting love? Or will the dark forces they’ve unleashed lead to ruin? 

You’re a foxy one,” Morgan Blackwell said to his best friend, Peter Clark. “I’m not the gaming sort, but I’ll pour another whiskey for you if you’ll leave me be. I’ve little time to dawdle tonight.” He smiled in his typical good-natured way and poured two fingers for each of them.

Peter slipped his dog-eared playing cards back into the pocket of his coat. Taking a sip, he winced at the strong drink. “I thought you’d at least want to see my latest trick.”

“Augh, tricks again. Christ, man. I know you fancy yourself the world’s greatest magician, but why not try your hand at helping me in some useful manner?” Morgan dried the last of the tankards, and he hung them on pegs behind the bar. Then he worked to make the old pewter-topped bar shine as best he could. Well over a century, and yet this tavern was still a popular watering hole in Last Light Point.

“You sound like my parents, always wanting me to make something of myself. Of course I’ll help you,” Peter said. “Just tell me what to do. Except swing a hammer. Or dig. I’ve delicate hands, you know.” He glanced around the empty taproom. “What’ve you got going on here tonight, anyway? It’s not like you to close early. Sending poor Old Bill out into the streets like a common drunkard when you know he’s yours to keep.”

“I’ve rented the place to make some extra money. I’m hoping to fix her up. Make this old girl more respectable.”

“I’ve always admired how you refer to this tavern as a lady. Kind of like a sea captain with his ship. What have you got in mind for ‘her?’”

“I’m still thinking about it…but renovating the upstairs rooms to be a proper inn, serving more food down here in the taproom. Those are a couple of my ideas.” He thought for a moment before adding, “Perhaps I’ll offer afternoon tea with fancy sandwiches for ladies.”

Peter scrunched up his nose. “Balls. That is a change. Who did you rent to?” he asked, switching subjects.

“A small party wanting a private place to hold their special meeting. Traveling spiritualists or some such nonsense.”

“Spiritualists?” Peter jeered. He blew out a long breath. “You mean table knockers? You should have told me you wanted carnival performers in this new and improved establishment of yours. I’d be happy to put on daily shows.”

“I don’t know about such things, but they paid me handsomely up front. A husband-and-wife team. The man called himself a doctor of something, and she’s Madam So-and-So. Apparently, they’ve established quite a name for themselves. Sold tickets to townsfolk already. I’m cleaning up and then leaving to talk to some men about making the repairs and improvements for me.”

“You’re leaving your beloved Crowe’s Nest in the hands of traveling performers? Are you daft, man?” his friend exclaimed in a skeptical tone.

“Reverend Tuffin and his daughter will be here. As will Mr. Cummings, the banker who holds the mortgage on this place. They’ll keep an eye on her for me.”

“Well, now I know you’re crazy. Missing out on dear, sweet Prudence, batting those long, lovely lashes at you. When are you going to court the girl outright, as in publicly, and stop sneaking around?” Peter laughed when Morgan shot him a dark scowl. “All right, relax, my friend. How about I stay and help look after your livelihood for you? I’m curious, I must admit.”

“Suit yourself. But don’t go drinking the good whiskey.” Morgan spared a quick glance over his shoulder for the antique bottle, sitting in a place of honor, front and center, before the mottled mirror behind his bar. Both the mirror and the bottle were old and ugly. Still, legend said they must remain in place, or else trouble would befall all who entered this establishment. He shook his head, hating the blasted things and the folklore associated with them. Last Light Point was steeped in such superstitious rubbish.

“No one touches that particular bottle,” Peter said, looking uneasy. “Do you think I want the bad luck said to befall anyone who does? No, thank you. You might not believe in pirate curses, but I do.”

“Stay if you want,” Morgan said, giving his beloved tavern one last appraising look. He dried his hands and hung the bar towel in its proper place. “The couple is upstairs getting ready for their meeting. They’ve a servant boy with them. Scrawny lad I’m letting sleep in the storeroom. He doesn’t speak—has a rather feral look about him—so steer clear.”

Peter rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Oh, this is getting good. I’ve a feeling tonight is going to be quite a memorable experience.”

About Kathryn Hills

Hauntingly romantic… Unless she’s writing sweet!

The rich history and many mysteries of New England are the perfect backdrop for many of KATHRYN’s books. Winding roads lined by old stone walls, forgotten cemeteries, grand homes with shadowy pasts…all sparks for her imagination. Whether it’s a quaint seaside town or the vibrant city of Boston, it’s easy for this “hauntingly romantic” author to envision the past mingling with the present. No surprise, some of Kathryn’s favorite stories include ghosts! Sprinkle in some magic, and you’re off on a great adventure.

When not writing, this best-selling author is reading, researching, gardening, or cooking up something special in her chaotic kitchen. She shares her colonial home in the north woods with those she loves most – her wonderful husband, daughter, and three crazy dogs.

Find Kathryn Hills Online

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