Bart picks up a flask and proceeds to pour drink into the plastic lid. I’m surprised, I thought he might take me into a kitchen and boil a kettle.
“Here,” he thrusts it at me.
The coffee burns my mouth as I take a glug and I swear there’s something else in it. I cough and swipe at my watering eyes.
Bart laughs again, “there’s brandy in there,” he says, “keeps me warm on these cold winter days. It can get bitter up here.”
“It’s beautiful here,” I say, gazing at the lake, “is it always so peaceful?”
“Mostly,” he replies, “apart from when we have those pesky ghost hunts.”
“Ghost hunts?” I echo.
“Didn’t you know,” he looks at me, “this place is haunted, and so are those woods.” He points to the stretch of trees the other side of the lake.
“Bartholomew!” The sound of his name has
