It was a beautiful Christmas. Marco was very happy, because it would have been a different Christmas in the mountains. He was born at the seaside and loved him, but this diversion did not upset him at all. With their parents they had rented a small apartment, halfway between the ski slopes and the small town, which you could still walk to. Marco was 17 years old and was the classic Mediterranean type. It wasn't nice, but it wasn't unpleasant to look like.

The country was the classic one where "everyone knows each other". The apartment was just for the white week, two well-heated rooms, a bathroom and a kitchen. The owner had welcomed them to hand him the key. The man had an unpronounceable surname, like so many Italians on the border, who perhaps speak more German than their native language.

She looked and dressed as a mountaineer, her shirt was so fancy that if she had laid it out on a table, she would be mistaken for the tablecloth. The trousers were an unlikely green, so much so that Marco was convinced that the man had to wear a kind of costume, just to feed the local folklore.

The man spent himself in a series of instructions and information that would have been useful to the family and that Mark managed to follow up to a certain point, but one sentence caught his attention.

"The commander of the police asked me to make this recommendation to you. There is a run-down villa on the trail to the slopes. Don't come any closer."

"A ghost house?" Mark asked.

The man laughed.

"No! Ghosts avoid Fagnano."

Fagnano was the name of the country.

"It's dangerous. Someone has already hurt themselves by entering it and has made a complaint because it is private property."

The man looked at the watch on his wrist. Marco noticed that it was an extremely modern watch. Then his mobile phone rang and Marco noticed that even that was extremely modern and expensive, then he had no more doubts. The dress was a mask for tourists.

"I must go now. If you need anything you have my number," the man said as he walked out the door.

Chiara, Marco's mother, a blonde lady in her forties, said:

"I'm hungry!"

Enzo, the dad clearly understood that the message was' 'I'm hungry, I'm tired and I don't want to cook.'

"Let's go to that restaurant that Wogler, the proprietor told us."

The restaurant was quite large, warm and welcoming and even there Marco had the impression that it was all meant to cultivate the tourist's imagination, but it didn't matter. The place was relaxing and you ate well.

When they finished dinner, a very scruffy woman entered the club. He was heading in the back when he noticed the new family, then he changed direction. He approached them, stretching out his hand as if he wanted to touch them. She managed to get so close that Mark could look her in the eye. The woman's gaze was the absent one of those who were looking at a beautiful thing, long desired for a long time.

The waiter blocked her, preventing her from approaching further, and the woman's gaze suddenly changed. He became desperate. He tried to continue, but the difference in build was all in favor of the waiter, who had no difficulty in stopping her.

The woman screamed and wept desperately.

"Martha! Marta! What's wrong with you? You can't do that!" the waiter told her as he took her out, doing it resolutely but not aggressively. He knew the woman and didn't want to hurt her.

Marco and his parents were impressed by the scene.

"You have to excuse her. It's never happened before," said the waiter who had returned.

"Who was that woman?" Enzo asked.

"That's Martha. She's not with his head. Every now and then he comes to the club, eats a dish and leaves, but she doesn't bother...until today."

"Is she drugged?" Chiara asked.

"No lady. No one can explain what happened to her. She was a beautiful girl. At some point it started to fade."

Then the man shook himself by who knows what memories.

"Anyway! I'm bringing you a homemade limoncello to send away the bad memories. The guest is sacred to us and should be treated well."

Marco had a beautiful night's sleep, invigorating and dreamless. The next day they woke up early to reach the slopes, but Marco was excited, who knows why he wanted to see the villa. He wasn't one of those guys getting into trouble, but a look wasn't forbidden.

In fact the villa was there, on the street. It was not a construction of a particular beauty. It was a huge box placed on the ground, with many open and dark windows inside. The wall, which must have been imposing, had collapsed almost entirely. By day he didn't even make an overly ugly impression. If his Marcos hadn't been there he probably would have come closer to look better, but now the ski slopes were waiting for him. In fact, they were waiting for the track for the plastic sledding they had brought with them, since they could not ski.

The day passed between slips, laughter, photos, a light packed lunch, then other slips, laughter and photos. On the way back the villa was still there but, in the dark, the atmosphere was different. Spectral. The silhouette was just a little more than recognizable and you could not imagine inside who knows what spectres drag chains. In the dark, Marco wouldn't have had the courage to go in there.

Even that evening they ate in the only restaurant in the country and even that evening the scruffy woman entered, but this time she merely stared at them. Marco and his people were ready for anything this time, but the woman did not come any closer. She stood and looked at them before entering the back of the restaurant.

"She's creepy!" Clare said as she passed away.

"If she approaches this time, I'll stop her," Marco said.

"Shut up, I think she pretends. The local crazy woman raises audience," Enzo said.

"If she pretends, I swear it's convincing to me," Clare added.

"I'll bring you more?" said the waiter. He had approached to block Martha again if needed, but then he had concealed.

"Thank you," Enzo said.

"And homemade limoncello," the other added.

"And homemade limoncello," Clare said,who had now calmed down.