Chapter 12
Screams And Sweet Touches
~HAZEL~
Willow Creek Manor: where architectural nightmares go to die and apparently where I volunteer to traumatize children with baked goods.
The October wind howls through broken shutters as I pull into the manor's gravel drive, my car's headlights catching the building in all its decrepit glory.
Three stories of Victorian revenge, complete with turrets that lean at angles geometry never intended and windows that look like eyes that've seen too much.
Perfect place for a children's event. Nothing says "fun Halloween" like potential tetanus and structural collapse.
My pastry boxes stack in the backseat like sugary soldiers prepared for war—witch hat cookies, "bloody" red velvet cupcakes, ghost-shaped marshmallow treats that took four hours and most of my sanity to perfect.
Because apparently, I can't just volunteer like a normal person.
No, I have to turn it into a production that would make Martha Stewart weep with either pride or concern.
The manor looms against the dying light, October painting everything in shades of rust and decay. Someone's strung orange lights along the porch, but they flicker erratically, less "festive Halloween" and more "electrical fire waiting to happen."
"HAZEL! You made it!"
Sarah Chen, PTA president and professional volunteer guilt-tripper, materializes from the shadows like a suburban specter. Her clipboard catches the light—of course she has a clipboard—and her smile could power a small city.
"Wouldn't miss it," I lie, hauling my boxes from the car. "Where's the witch's bakery station?"
"Second floor, old music room! It's perfect—creaky floors, suspicious stains, and a piano that plays itself sometimes!"
A piano that plays itself. Sure. That's normal and not at all terrifying.
"Great," I manage, balancing boxes while navigating porch steps that've seen better decades. "Nothing says 'eat these cookies' like paranormal activity."
The inside of Willow Creek Manor is worse.
Better? Worse. Both. Cobwebs drape from every surface, and I can't tell which ones are decorations and which are just..
. residents. The air smells like dust and mildew and something sweet-sick that might be rot or might be someone's potpourri attempt gone wrong.
Volunteers scatter throughout the rooms, transforming decay into family-friendly horror. Someone's testing a fog machine that immediately sets off three smoke detectors. The shrieking is atmospheric, at least.
"Hazel!"
I turn to find Levi Maddox bounding toward me like a golden retriever who's spotted his favorite person, except golden retrievers don't usually wear sheets with eyeholes cut out.
"Nice ghost costume," I deadpan.
"I'm going for 'friendly specter,'" he says, the sheet rustling as he strikes a pose. "You know, approachable undead. The kind of ghost you'd want to have a beer with."
"Ghosts don't drink beer."
"Ghost discrimination. We're very evolved now. Very inclusive of phantom dietary choices."
He reaches for my boxes, and even through the ridiculous sheet, I can smell him—honey butter and vanilla chai mixing with the manor's musty air like sunshine fighting through storm clouds.
"I can manage," I protest.
"I'm sure you can, but my mom raised me right. Dead or alive, I carry boxes for pretty bakers."
Pretty. He thinks I'm pretty even when I'm frazzled and covered in flour and probably have frosting in my hair.
We navigate the manor's questionable stairs, each step groaning like it's personally offended by our weight. The second floor is marginally less terrifying—someone's actually swept, and battery-powered lanterns create pools of almost-warm light.
The old music room sprawls in elegant decay, high ceilings lost in shadows, tall windows that rattle with every gust. An ancient piano hulks in the corner, covered in a sheet that moves slightly even though there's no breeze.
Don't think about the piano. Set up the station. Ignore the definitely haunted piano.
"This is cozy," Levi says cheerfully. "Very 'grandmother's house if grandmother was a witch who collected children's teeth.'"
"That's disturbing."
"That's ambiance."
We set up my station—black tablecloth, battery-powered candles, my treats arranged in what I hope looks intentionally spooky rather than accidentally cursed. Levi helps, his sheet constantly getting in the way, tangling around his legs until he nearly face-plants into my cupcakes.
"Maybe lose the sheet until the kids arrive?" I suggest.
"But I'm method acting. I need to become the ghost."
"You need to not destroy my four hours of work."
He pulls the sheet off, and his hair stands up in every direction, static-charged and ridiculous. His grin is pure sunshine in this house of shadows. "Better?"
Yes. No. Stop noticing how green his eyes look in this light.
"Marginally," I say, fixing the display he's knocked askew.
More volunteers arrive, the manor filling with controlled chaos.
Someone's testing the sound system, shrieks and moans echoing through walls that have probably heard worse.
The fog machine achieves sentience, flooding the first floor until visibility drops to zero and someone's dad walks into a wall.
"I need to find more extension cords," I announce, surveying my station. "The battery candles are dying already."
"Storage is in the basement," Sarah chirps, appearing with her clipboard like a organized poltergeist. "Lots of supplies down there! Probably definitely not haunted!"
Probably definitely not haunted. Great. Perfect. No red flags there.
The basement door looks like every horror movie's opening scene—peeling paint, rusty hinges, darkness that seems solid beyond the threshold. The single bulb at the top of the stairs flickers with suspicious timing.
"I'll come with," Levi offers.
"You need to practice your ghosting," I say, needing to prove I'm not afraid of a perfectly normal, definitely not cursed basement. "I can handle fetching cords."
Famous last words, Hazel.
The stairs down are narrow, wooden, and make sounds that wood shouldn't make. Each step is a gamble with physics and structural integrity. The single bulb provides just enough light to make the shadows worse, turning boxes and furniture into lurking threats.
The basement sprawls larger than seems possible, full of sheet-covered shapes and towers of boxes labeled in handwriting that probably predates electricity. It smells like earth and age and something chemical that burns my nose.
I find a box labeled "ELECTRICAL" in the far corner, because of course it's in the farthest, darkest corner. The extension cords are tangled in a Gordian knot that would make Alexander weep.
That's when the lights go out.
Not dimming. Not flickering.
Complete, absolute darkness.
No. No no no no—
The dark is solid, pressing against me from all sides. My chest tightens. My breath comes in short gasps that don't bring enough oxygen.
The pantry. Korrin locking me in the pantry when I "needed to calm down." Hours in the dark, begging to be let out, his pack laughing on the other side of the door—
I drop to the floor, back against the wall, making myself small. My hands shake. My whole body shakes. The darkness has weight, mass, malevolent intent.
Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't—
"Hazel?"
Levi's voice cuts through the panic, distant at first, then closer.
"Hazel, where are you?"
I try to answer but all that comes out is a whimper. Pathetic. Weak. Everything Korrin said I was.
"Keep talking," Levi says, his voice calm, steady. "I'll find you. Just make any sound."
I manage something between a sob and a word.
Then he's there, warm presence in the dark. He doesn't touch me, doesn't crowd, just sits beside me on the dirty floor, close enough that I can smell honey butter cutting through the basement must.
"Power went out," he says conversationally. "Whole block, apparently. Mrs. Chen's probably having a clipboard emergency."
He doesn't ask why I'm on the floor. Doesn't ask why I'm shaking. Just sits there, talking about nothing.
"You know what's weird about ghosts?" he continues. "The sheet thing. Like, you die and suddenly develop a textile preference? Was there a meeting? Did all ghosts vote on sheets as the official uniform?"
A laugh bubbles out through the panic, watery but real.
"And why white sheets? Why not patterns? Florals? Imagine a ghost in paisley. Very non-threatening. 'Oh no, it's the ghost of someone's grandmother's guest room!'"
Another laugh, stronger.
"I'd be a plaid ghost," he continues. "Really lean into the Pacific Northwest aesthetic. Flannel ghost. Probably carrying ghost coffee. Haunting artisanal bakeries."
"That's... that's ridiculous," I manage, voice shaky but working.
"Ridiculously brilliant. I'm trademarking it. Hipster ghosts. It's gonna be huge."
My breathing is steadier now, the panic retreating to manageable levels. The darkness is still there, still pressing, but Levi's presence makes it less suffocating.
"Want to hear my ghost impression?" he asks.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Nope."
He starts making what I assume are meant to be ghostly noises but sound more like a congested seal. Then he starts singing—if you can call it that—"Monster Mash" in a key that doesn't exist in nature.
"Stop," I gasp between laughs. "That's so bad."
"I was working in the lab, late one night," he continues, somehow getting worse. "When my eyes beheld an eerie sight—that's you, by the way, you're the eerie sight—"
"I hate you."
"For my monster from his slab, began to rise—"
"Levi!"
"And suddenly to my surprise—HE DID THE MASH—"
I'm laughing now, real laughing, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. The darkness is still there but it's just darkness, not a prison, not a punishment.
"THE MONSTER MASH—"