Chapter 2 #2
"You're a good boy, Shane," Walt said as I checked his blood sugar. "Always taking care of everyone. Just like your mother taught you."
I didn't correct him. Walt had never met my mother—none of my foster families had been the teaching kind—but in his fractured memories, he'd created a version of my past that was kinder than reality.
"Quick pinch," I said, administering his insulin.
Raven watched from the doorway, her expression thoughtful. When Walt started eating the soup I'd heated, she gestured for me to follow her into the hallway.
"He mentioned a name earlier," she said quietly. "When he was talking about the fire. Who's Carlson?"
"The owner. Back in the nineties." I kept my voice neutral. "Why?"
"Just curious. The way Walt said it. There was fear there. Real fear."
"Walt's afraid of a lot of things that exist only in his mind."
"Maybe." She pulled out her phone, frowning at the lack of signal. "Is there ever any cell service up here?"
"No. I have a satellite phone for emergencies and a walkie talkie."
She scowled, probably realizing she was alone on a mountain with two men she didn't know, no way to call for help, and an uncomfortable place to sleep.
"Having second thoughts?" I asked.
"About the content opportunity? Never." But her hand tightened on her phone. "About my personal safety? I'm reserving judgment."
"Smart." I moved closer, using my size deliberately, watching how she responded. Some women found my height threatening. Others found it attractive. Raven's pupils dilated slightly, her breathing quickening, but she didn't back away. "You should leave."
"Should I?"
"Staying here could be dangerous." I leaned down, close enough to smell her shampoo—something floral and completely at odds with her gothic appearance.
“That’s what my subscribers are hoping for.”
I frowned. That didn’t sit well with me. “You put yourself at risk for a bunch of strangers?”
“You’re putting yourself on the line for Walt.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
"This mountain is mine. The lodge is mine. And for the next week, you're mine to watch. Mine to protect."
Her breath hitched. "Just like Walt?"
"Not exactly." I straightened, putting distance between us before I did something stupid like find out what her lips tasted like. "You're in my territory now. That means I'm responsible for keeping you alive. Even if you're too reckless to be scared."
"I'm not reckless."
"You trespassed on private property to film an abandoned building. That's the definition of reckless."
"That's the definition of my job."
"Then your job is dangerous." I moved back toward Walt's area.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll show you the areas you can film.
But tonight, stay in the west wing. Door stays closed.
Don't wander. This building is falling apart.
There are weak floors, exposed nails, rotted boards that'll give way if you step wrong.
" I met her eyes. "And because Walt wanders at night.
If he sees you, gets confused, thinks you're someone from his past, he could get agitated. Dangerous, even."
"Dangerous how?"
"He's confused, not violent. But in his mind, he sometimes relives that fire. If he thinks you're in danger, he might try to 'save' you. Drag you outside in the cold. Or if he thinks you're an intruder..." I let the implication hang.
Raven nodded slowly. "Understood. West wing. Door closed."
"Good girl,” I said, more possessively than I'd intended, but I was glad I did when I saw desire flash in her dark eyes before she looked away.
"I'll need to set up night vision cameras," she said. "For the Halloween special. Nighttime footage is essential."
"Fine. But set them up during the day, and don't check them after dark. Last thing I need is you wandering around with a laptop screen lighting you up like a beacon."
"Noted." She hesitated. "Shane? Thank you. For letting me stay. For trusting me with Walt."
"I don't trust you yet." The honesty felt important. "But I'm willing to give you a chance to earn it."
After she left for the west wing, I checked on Walt one more time. He was already asleep, his breathing steady, the worry lines smoothed from his weathered face. In sleep, he looked peaceful. No confusion, no fear, no memories of fires and death.
I should go home. Back to my warm cabin, my comfy bed, and all my modern conveniences. But how could I be comfortable when Walt and Raven were here. Raven’s sleeping bag might be state of the art, but it wasn’t a bed like mine.
I settled into my usual spot—the old manager's office across from Walt's area—and tried not to think about Raven alone in the west wing. Tried not to imagine what she looked like getting ready for bed, pulling off those boots, that black shirt, those tight pants.
Tried not to think about how easily my hand had wrapped around both her wrists earlier, how small she'd felt backed against that wall, how her pulse had raced under my thumb.
The lodge settled around me, wood creaking and groaning like something alive. Wind whistled through the broken windows, carrying the smell of approaching rain. Somewhere above, something skittered across the floor—rats or squirrels, nothing more sinister than nature reclaiming abandoned space.
But in the darkness, with shadows moving in corners and Walt's occasional sleep-mumbling, it was easy to understand why locals called this place haunted.
RAVEN
The west wing was fucking creepy at night.
I'd explored abandoned buildings all over the world. Asylums where people had died in restraints. Prisons where executions had taken place. Even a morgue in Eastern Europe that still had examination tables bolted to the floor.
None of them had felt like this.
Maybe it was the isolation—no streetlights, no distant traffic sounds, no reminder that civilization existed beyond these walls. Maybe it was the wind that made the whole building moan like something in pain.
Or maybe it was knowing that somewhere in this decaying lodge, an old man was lost in 1995, reliving memories of a fire that had killed two people.
I wish I had cell service so I could do more digging on ski lodge.
I supposed I could have gone back into town and stayed in a bed and breakfast and come back here at night.
But I didn’t want to disturb Walt by coming and going.
I'd set up my sleeping bag near the old fireplace in what had been a suite.
Shane had built me a fire before leaving, and the flames cast dancing shadows on the peeling wallpaper.
Water stains on the ceiling looked like faces in the flickering light—mouths open in silent screams, eyes that followed my movement.
"It's just water damage," I muttered to myself, pulling out my laptop to review the day's footage.
The thermal imaging showed exactly what I expected—cold spots from broken windows, drafts, but nothing supernatural. The EMF readings were equally mundane—old wiring still carrying residual charge, metal framework in the walls.
But the audio was different.
I pulled up the recordings from the dining room, adjusting the frequency filters. Walt's voice came through clearly—his confused questions, his rambling. But underneath, barely audible even with enhancement, there was something else.
Not voices, exactly. More like... echoes. As if the building itself was remembering sounds from decades past. Laughter, conversations, the clink of silverware on plates. Ghosts of sounds, preserved in the walls like recordings.
"Acoustic memory," I said aloud, trying to rationalize it. Some buildings could hold sound, especially those with specific construction materials. Layered wood and plaster could create chambers that preserved and replayed vibrations under the right conditions.
But it still made my skin crawl.
A loud crash from somewhere above made me jump, my hand flying to my chest. Just the building settling. Had to be. Old structures made noise, especially in wind.
But then I heard it—footsteps. Slow, shuffling, directly overhead.
Walt. Had to be Walt, wandering in his confusion.
I checked my phone. It was just before two in the morning. Shane had said Walt usually slept through the night, but dementia patients were unpredictable. Maybe he'd woken up disoriented, was looking for something.
The footsteps moved across the ceiling, following what sounded like the path of the hallway above. Then they stopped.
Silence.
I held my breath, listening.
Nothing.
"It's fine," I whispered. "Shane's here. He'll handle it."
But the rational part of my brain that had kept me alive during dozens of dangerous explorations was screaming that something felt wrong.
Walt's area was in the opposite wing. If he was wandering up here, he was far from where Shane could easily find him.
And if he fell through a rotted floor, got hurt—
I grabbed my flashlight and crept to the door.
The hallway was pitch black beyond my room, the darkness so complete it seemed solid. My flashlight illuminated peeling paint and torn carpet and decades of decay.
"Mr. Harrison?" I called softly. "Walt? Are you up here?"
No answer.
I moved into the hallway, every horror movie I'd ever seen playing in my mind. This was how people died—going to investigate strange noises, separating from safety, walking into danger with nothing but a flashlight and good intentions.
But I couldn't just leave Walt wandering alone if he needed help.
The hallway stretched ahead of me, doors hanging open on either side like mouths. Some rooms were completely exposed, their exterior walls collapsed, letting in cold October wind. Others were sealed tight, their doors swollen shut with moisture.
My flashlight beam swept across a doorway, and I froze.
A figure stood in the shadows just beyond the light's reach.
Tall. Male. Completely still.
"Walt?" My voice came out higher than I wanted. "Shane?"
The figure didn't move.
I took a step forward, my light illuminating more of the shape.
Not a person. Just a coat rack, draped with old maintenance uniforms that had been left behind. The angle and shadows had made it look human.
I laughed shakily, adrenaline making my hands tremble. "Get it together."
But as I turned to head back to my room, I heard it again—those shuffling footsteps, but this time coming from below me. From the main floor.
Which meant whoever had been walking above me was still up there.
Or I'd imagined it entirely.
"Fuck this," I muttered, walking quickly back to my room. Shane had been right. Don't wander at night. The building was too dangerous, too disorienting in the dark. Better to wait until morning, check the recordings from my night vision cameras, see what they'd captured.
I closed and locked my door—the lock was old but functional—and added a chair under the handle for good measure. Then I dragged my sleeping bag closer to the dying fire and tried to convince myself that the sounds were just the building settling, the wind, my imagination working overtime.
But I kept my knife close. And my flashlight. And I didn't close my eyes until the sky outside started to lighten with dawn.
Because urban exploration had taught me one important lesson: the scariest things in abandoned buildings were never ghosts.
They were always human.