3. Ash #2
My throat tightens. “I—didn’t...”
“The man saved my life. I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I didn’t cover all the bases. Protect him like he did me. He's been through enough."
"I'm not trying to hurt him," I say more gently. "I just want to do my job."
After another evaluating look, Ghost nods once. "I get a good vibe from you. But I wanted to be sure.” He smiles. “The Hall of Whispers is through here. It's one of our most popular attractions."
And just like that he’s dropped the subject.
We continue the tour, the tension easing.
As we walk, Ghost occasionally drops small insights about Wolfe…
how he personally carved all the woodwork in the Library of Shadows, how he stays up for days when creative inspiration strikes, and how he donates a significant portion of the manor's profits to veterans' organizations anonymously.
A picture forms in my mind of a man far more complex than the brooding beast he presents to the world.
We're examining an elaborate mechanical raven in the Edgar Allan Poe room when a distant crash echoes through the manor.
"That'll be Howie testing something," Ghost sighs. "I better check to see if he needs help. The gallery's just through there if you want to look around. Stay on the main path, though."
He disappears the way we came, his footsteps fading until I'm alone in the dimly lit corridor. The gallery he mentioned is visible through an arched doorway ahead, and I can't resist the urge to explore.
The room is stunning—a long, narrow space with a vaulted ceiling and walls lined with artwork.
Gothic landscapes, macabre still lifes, and unsettling portraits create a visual journey through the darker side of artistic expression.
In the center of the room stands a glass case containing antique Halloween decorations.
There are carved pumpkins made of wood, papier-maché skulls, and delicate paper witches from the early 1900s.
I lift my camera, unable to resist capturing the play of shadow and light across the historical pieces.
"You just can’t follow rules, can you?"
I nearly jump out of my skin at Wolfe's voice behind me. “You really should wear a bell or something,” I say, turning to face him. “I’m just taking pictures of the artifacts."
"Those are private family heirlooms." He moves closer, his bulk somehow even more imposing in the narrow gallery. "My grandfather collected them."
"They're beautiful," I say sincerely. "The craftsmanship is incredible. They belong in a museum."
He clears his throat. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely. The artistry, the historical significance—" I gesture toward a particularly intricate paper skeleton. "Look at the detail on the joints, the way they captured movement in something so fragile. That's skill."
He studies me, seemingly searching for mockery and finding none.
"My grandfather used to say the same thing," he admits. "Halloween was different back then. Not just commercial plastic junk, but handcrafted pieces that families passed down for generations."
"May I?" I ask, raising my camera again. "Just for reference?"
He hesitates, then nods once. I snap several shots of the collection, acutely aware of him behind me. When I lower the camera, I find him standing closer than before, examining a mechanical fortune-telling witch whose crystal ball illuminates with a hidden mechanism when approached.
"My grandmother's favorite," he says softly. "She'd bring it out every October and tell our fortunes."
"Does it still work?" I ask, intrigued by the delicate craftsmanship of the witch's painted face and crystal ball.
Wolfe hesitates, then reaches into the case, carefully lifting it. "Let's see." He winds a small key on its base, and the witch's head begins to move slowly from side to side. The crystal ball flickers to life with a pulsing red glow.
"Ask it a question," he says, softly.
I lean closer, aware of his warmth beside me. "Will I find what I'm looking for at Marsden Manor?"
The mechanical witch's eyes seem to focus on me as hidden gears click and whir. A small drawer at the base pops open, revealing a yellowed card. Wolfe retrieves it, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it to me.
"The seeker shall become the sought," I read aloud. "What hunts in darkness yearns for light."
"Cryptic," Wolfe murmurs.
"Your turn," I say.
He winds the key again, the crimson lighting up his mask. "What does the future hold for the Beast of Marsden Manor?"
The witch's head tilts, her crystal ball pulsing brighter. Another card emerges. This time I reach for it, reading: "Truth lives not in what is hidden, but what is revealed."
Our eyes meet, as if trying to piece together both fortunes.
Then Wolfe clears his throat, quickly returning the fortune teller to its case.
“It’s pretty silly,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.
I'm about to respond when a high-pitched whine cuts through the air, followed by a loud pop.
Suddenly, thick fog begins pouring from vents in the floor and ceiling, rapidly filling the gallery.
"Damn it, Howie!" Wolfe growls, reaching for my arm. "We need to get out before?—"
A mechanical clank echoes through the room, and I hear something heavy sliding into place. Wolfe curses again, more creatively this time, and pulls me toward where the door should be. But when we reach it, we find it sealed by a metal security shutter.
"What's happening?" I ask, trying not to panic as the fog grows denser.
"Safety system malfunction," he explains through gritted teeth. "If the effects trigger without the proper sequence, the room goes into lockdown to prevent fire spread."
"So we're trapped?"
"Temporarily. There's a manual override, but I can't see it in this fog." He fumbles along the wall, his large form becoming increasingly blurry through the thickening mist. "Stay where you are. The floor drops about ten feet at the north end."
"Seriously?" My voice rises. "You have actual pitfalls in your house?"
"It's a haunted attraction," he reminds me. "And it's usually clearly marked when we're open."
I stand frozen, aware that I have no idea which direction is north. The fog is so thick now I can barely see my hand in front of my face. It seems to be getting colder, too, and I shiver.
"Wolfe?" I call, fighting the edge of panic in my voice.
"Here," he answers, closer than I expected. "Take my hand."
I reach out blindly, connecting with solid muscle before finding his outstretched hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and safe.
"The override switch is behind a panel near the entrance," he says, his voice surprisingly steady. "I need to find the wall first."
He guides me slowly through the fog, one arm extended to find obstacles while keeping me close to his side. I can feel the heat of him even through our clothes, a stark contrast to the rapidly cooling air.
"Why is it so cold?" I ask, my breath now visible in front of me.
"Part of the effect. The fog chills as it spreads." His grip tightens on my hand. "Here's the wall. Stay close."
We edge along the perimeter, Wolfe's fingers tracing the wainscoting until they find what he's looking for, a small panel that slides open to reveal a keypad. He punches in a code, but nothing happens.
"Power must be out to this section," he mutters. "There's a manual crank behind the Dorian Gray portrait."
We continue our careful journey through the fog, which has taken on an eerie bluish glow from emergency lights I hadn't noticed before. Shapes loom and dissolve around us like specters, the artwork transformed into ghostly apparitions by the swirling mist.
Suddenly, Wolfe stops. "Here it is."
I can just make out the outline of an ornate frame. Wolfe releases my hand to feel around the edges of the portrait, then pulls it forward on some kind of hinge. Behind it is a metal crank, which he begins to turn with considerable effort.
"This should...restart the...auxiliary power," he grunts between turns.
A grinding mechanical sound fills the gallery, and the fog begins to disperse as hidden fans activate. I can see Wolfe more clearly now, his powerful body bent to the task, muscles straining beneath his sweater.
Sweat beads on his brow despite the chill, and as he gives the crank one final, forceful turn…his mask shifts.
It happens in an instant.
The strap catches on the edge of the portrait frame, and the mask slips partially free, revealing the left side of his face before he can react.
I glimpse what he's been hiding: a battlefield of thick scar tissue, deep furrows and ridged areas where the skin has healed unevenly. The damage extends from his hairline down his cheek and jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater.
Wolfe freezes, his eyes meeting mine with a look of horror before he quickly turns away, fumbling to reposition the mask with one hand while still holding the crank with the other.
Without hesitation, I step forward and place my hand on his arm. "Let me help."
I expect him to protest, but instead he goes still at my touch. I gently take the mask from his trembling fingers and position it back over the left side of his face, securing the strap.
"There," I say softly.
When I step back, his gaze is locked on me, searching for something. Disgust? Pity?
"You didn't..." he starts, then stops.
"Didn't what?"
"Flinch. Grimace. Look away." His voice is hoarse. "Everyone does."
I meet his eyes steadily. "I'm not everyone."
The security shutter chooses that moment to grind open, revealing a panicked Howie and Ghost on the other side.
"Thank god!" Howie exclaims. "I swear I didn't touch anything! The system just went haywire and?—"
"Fix it," Wolfe cuts him off, voice tight. "Now."
Without another word, Wolfe strides past them and disappears down the corridor, leaving me standing in the thinning fog.
Ghost gives me a searching look. "You okay?"
I nod.
I've just seen the real man behind the mask—and what I saw wasn't a beast at all, but a hero who carries his courage there on his skin for anyone brave enough to truly see.