CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Days with Nathaniel were picnics in grass meadows, movie nights snuggled underneath blankets, and after-hours tours of Browning Books when it was my turn to close up shop. It was stolen kisses between classes, longer kisses in silk sheets, with no pressure for anything more.
The Devil quieted in his presence. Nightmares transitioned to dreams. Permanent scowls were replaced with permanent smiles. I was, in every sense of the word, happy. It was strange, unfamiliar, but I clung to it, afraid of it being snatched from my hands, never to be found again.
We received our results for Psychological Manipulation— ninety-eight percent, the highest in our class. Prior to our being forced to work together, we would have glanced around the room in search of the other’s reaction, but this time, we were seated side by side, grinning from ear to ear.
Nathaniel’s friends wanted to celebrate the end of the semester with a night of bar hopping, but Nathaniel declined, informing them he'd already made plans with me. His friends wriggled their eyebrows and made suggestive noises before Nate managed to shew them away with a laugh.
“We don’t have plans,” I pointed out as we walked away.
“I know,” Nathaniel chuckled, “but we should do something. You’re the only one I want to celebrate with.”
"What should we do, then?"
"I don't know. It's your turn to surprise me, don't you think?"
"You want me to decide?"
"My love language is quality time and acts of service," he hummed, reaching for my hand, "so yes, Augustus, I would love it if you planned our next date. Make it a surprise."
Planning a date was hard. Not only because I had not one romantic bone in my body, but because it was for Nathaniel—and it was his heart on the line. What if I let him down? What if he realised I wasn't good enough for him?
To combat my self-doubts, I made a list of all of Nathaniel's favourite things—most of which I learned involuntarily during our study sessions.
Music, the piano, video games, horror movies, his family, museums, reading.
I considered forcing him to read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley on our surprise date—he'd promised to read it weeks ago and still hadn't—but I wanted to prove I could be selfless, that I had paid attention to his interests and wanted to share them.
And so, our date began with dinner. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry, the date didn't end with dinner. What little faith you have in me…
We dined at his favourite Korean restaurant, sharing a large bowl of tteokbokki with cheese and noodles, the red sauce bringing tears to my eyes. I had to scull two glasses of water before braving the sticky fried chicken, Nathaniel laughing at my low spice tolerance.
There was a photobooth next door and even though I despised the way I looked on camera, I dragged Nathaniel inside and put on whatever silly hat he wanted me to.
The silly hat he selected was a strawberry that he clasped under my chin, a single curl falling over my forehead while the others remained confined beneath the red and green head piece.
"Cute," he grinned, snapping a photo of me with his phone before slipping on an identical strawberry that was, indeed, quite cute.
We posed for several photos, with and without props, but the old lady minding the store watched us with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, so we only paid for two sessions before fleeing with our photo prints.
"How are you so damn photogenic?" I complained, glancing down at the four poses Nathaniel nailed whilst I looked like a fish that had fallen into a shark tank.
"Shut up, you look adorable," he nudged me, "I'm hanging these up in my room."
"Gay."
"Don't pretend like you're not obsessed with me," he teased, "I've seen the photo you set as your home screen."
A cool breeze caressed the back of my neck as I reached for his hand, snuggling closer to escape the cold.
In a matter of seconds, his coat was around my shoulders, not a word exchanged.
We walked in comfortable silence, hand-in-hand, until we reached his car, Nathaniel opening the door for me with a warm smile brightening his rosy cheeks.
"Here," I said, returning his coat, "you're cold too."
"I don't mind the cold," he insisted.
"It's fine, I promise."
"Augustus Saint." His tone was firm, though his hands were gentle as they cupped either side of my face. "I would rather freeze to death than have you uncomfortable for even one millisecond. Wear the damn coat."
And wear the damn coat I did before climbing into the passenger seat, smiling to myself as the scent of his vanilla cologne infiltrated my nostrils.
"Where to now? The night is still young."
"It's a surprise," I grinned before giving him the address to an eighteenth-century building owned by an elderly woman named Beverely White.
Mrs White did not live in the two-storey house with brown bricks smothered in ivy, front steps warped by decay, and tall windows stained with centuries of soot, mold and neglect.
It was too haunted, she claimed in a BBC interview six years prior, she didn't want to live alongside the dead.
The home was rented out to ghost hunters and television programs, as well as people like me who wanted to take their horror-loving boyfriend to a 'real' haunted house.
"What is this place?" Nathaniel asked as we pulled onto the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house glared down at us, a welcome sign swaying weakly from a single hinge as though waving us to come in or run away.
"The most haunted house in the United Kingdom," I recited from the booking website, "where the living meet the dead."
"For real?" Nathaniel asked, eyes widening.
"I guess we're going to find out."
We climbed out of the car and ascended the front steps, wood wincing beneath our feet.
A maroon door with a rusted '109' awaited us at the top, a blackened window on either side watching us like a predator watching its prey.
The instructions stated the key was under the pot plant on the right of the door, which I made Nathaniel retrieve since my gaze was locked on my reflection staring back at me in the window to the left.
The Devil winked. And then he was gone. But the damage was done, his presence tormenting me even at my happiest.
"So, what's the story with this place?" Nathaniel asked as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, reaching blindly for a light switch.
"The lights don't work," I sighed as I moved to step past him, "Mrs White doesn't want to pay for electricity. There are supposed to be torches on the—oh, yep, here they are."
Handing him a torch, I flicked on my own, its light cutting a narrow path through the suffocating darkness of the first floor, crumbling wallpaper unveiling cracks along the walls.
A thick dampness smothered the air, dust crawling into my nostrils, a set of sneezes drowning out the darkness.
Cobwebs dangled like curtains from the high ceiling, exposed beams crawling with spiders.
"The story," I sniffled, clearing my throat, "is that in the mid-eighteen hundreds, two young women were murdered. One body found on the staircase, the other on the second floor, both covered in blood."
"Are you making this up?" Nathaniel asked as he shone his light into the living room, floral wallpaper looming behind dust-covered furniture and crooked photo frames.
"No." Oak floorboards creaked with every step, a symphony of the aches and pains of an old house. "I read about it on the website."
"Oh. Well, carry on."
"The young women—Emelia Bath and Violet Vaccari—moved into the house along with Emelia's older brother Henry," I said.
"The nature of their relationship is unknown, though some theorise they were lovers, whilst others believe Violet was a friend of the family set to marry Henry.
All three lived here for nearly a year before tragedy struck. "
"Let me guess, Henry murdered them," Nathaniel said, torch fixed on a portrait of Mr Bath hung above the fireplace.
"Henry travelled a lot for work. Reports say he'd been away for several weeks when the women's bodies were found."
"Who found them?"
"Julian Walsh," I answered. "A fifteen-year-old boy who lived next door. He knocked on the door on September seventeen intending to ask Emelia if he could pick a rose from their garden for his mother. But the door was open. He went inside and found Violet sprawled halfway down the staircase."
"And Emilia?"
I cast my torch toward the staircase, the moth-eaten carpet torn from the wood, leaving patches where a body once stained it with blood. "Upstairs. Just before the first step."
"Who was it, then? Who killed them? And why?" Nathaniel asked.
"No one knows," I sighed, "the murder remains unsolved to this day."
We ascended the staircase, wood protesting under our weight as shadows danced around the edges of our torches, dust floating across our light beams. A cold chill crept along the back of my neck, the darkness menacing.
Upon reaching the second floor, our torchlights extinguished, the house enveloping us in darkness. I reached for Nathaniel, but my fingers met only air.
"Nate?" I whispered.
Silence.
You're alone again, little monster.
Dread carved a blade through my chest, the Devil's fingers curled around the hilt to drive it in deeper as blood filled my mouth, trickling down my chin. Breath evaded my lungs. Knees fell to the floor. Laughter rained down on me as death inched closer.
And then a pale glow illuminated the room, an indistinct shape holding a flickering candle. It hovered in a familiar hallway, a cold draft brushing the curls from my forehead, delivering a breath of fresh air that swam toward my lungs.