Chapter 7 Haunted House Dare
haunted house dare
. . .
Derek
The haunted house loomed at the edge of the festival grounds like something out of a low-budget horror movie.
A cardboard cutout of a skeleton stood guard by the door, one bony hand pointing toward the entrance with the words ENTER IF YOU DARE scrawled above it in dripping red paint.
It was ridiculous. Cheesy. Exactly the kind of small-town Halloween attraction that would've made me roll my eyes a few months ago.
Now, standing here watching Miles argue with his sister about it, I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do more.
“It's childish,” Miles said.
His arms crossed over his chest, shoulders tight, scowling at the entrance like it had personally offended him. The fairy lights strung overhead caught in his dark curls, making them shine.
Lila rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “It's fun. You remember fun, right? That thing you used to have before you became a grumpy old man?”
“I'm not grumpy.”
“You're the definition of grumpy.”
Miles's jaw tightened, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. He looked so indignant, so defensive, his curls falling into his eyes as he glared at his sister. The muscle in his jaw flexed. His fingers dug into his biceps where his arms were crossed.
God, he was cute when he was pissed off.
“I'm realistic,” he said.
“You're scared.”
His eyes flashed—something dangerous and defensive—and my stomach tightened. “I'm not scared. I just think haunted houses are a waste of time. It's fake blood and teenagers in rubber masks. What's the point?”
“The point,” Lila said, grinning wider now, “is that you're terrified and trying to hide it.”
“I'm not terrified.”
“Prove it.”
Miles opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes narrowed, and I watched the thoughts flicker across his face—suspicion, calculation, annoyance. “What?”
“I dare you.” Lila crossed her arms, mirroring his stance perfectly. “Go through the haunted house. If you make it to the end without screaming, I'll stop nagging you about the festival for the rest of the week.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then you have to wear one of my Resting Witch Face sweaters to the coffee contest.”
Miles stared at her. I watched horror dawn on his face, slow and beautiful. His mouth fell open. His eyes went wide. “You're kidding.”
“Dead serious.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed and both of them turned to look at me. Miles's scowl deepened, darkened, and something hot flickered in his eyes. Lila's grin widened.
“Something funny?” Miles snapped.
“You.” I stepped closer, watching the way his pupils dilated as I invaded his space. “The idea of you in a glitter sweater is hilarious.”
“Shut up, Derek.”
“Make me.”
His eyes flashed. His breath hitched—just slightly, just enough that I caught it—and I felt that familiar pull. The one that made me want to push him, tease him, see how far I could go before he either kissed me or punched me.
Either worked.
“I'll go with you,” I said.
The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I watched Miles's expression shift. Confusion. Irritation. Something else underneath—something softer, more vulnerable.
“What?”
“The haunted house.” I leaned in, just slightly, just enough that I could smell his cologne—something clean and crisp with a hint of coffee. “I'll go with you. Keep you safe from the big bad skeletons.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “I don't need you to keep me safe.”
“Sure.” I grinned, letting my gaze drop to his hands. “That's why you're gripping that ticket like it's a weapon.”
He glanced down. Sure enough, his hand was clenched around the piece of paper Lila had shoved at him, knuckles white, fingers trembling slightly. He shoved it into his pocket, scowling, and I watched the flush creep up his neck.
“I'm fine.”
“Then prove it.”
The crowd around us had started to gather—people recognizing us from the pumpkin-carving disaster. Someone whistled. Someone else called out, “Do it, Miles!” And before either of us could back down, Lila was pushing us toward the entrance, grinning like she'd orchestrated the whole thing.
Which, knowing her, she probably had.
“Have fun, boys!” she called, waving as we were swept into the line.
Miles muttered curses under his breath. I couldn't stop smiling.
This was going to be fun.
The line moved slowly, the strobe lights casting everything in flickering shadows. Music blared from inside—some kind of eerie organ soundtrack mixed with screams and chainsaw noises. Miles stood in front of me, tense and rigid, his shoulders tight.
I studied the back of his neck. The way his hair curled against his collar. The way his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“You really are scared,” I said, leaning close enough that my breath ghosted over his ear.
He stiffened. Didn't turn around. “I'm not.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“They're cold.”
“It's sixty degrees.”
“I have poor circulation.”
I laughed, low and rough, and he finally turned. Glared at me. But there was something else in his eyes—something softer, more uncertain. Like maybe, just maybe, he was glad I was here.
“Just don't be a dick about it,” he muttered.
“When am I ever a dick?”
“Always.”
“Fair.”
We reached the entrance, and a teenager in a zombie mask gestured us inside.
The fog was thicker here, swirling around our ankles in thick white clouds.
The strobe lights made everything disorienting—shapes appearing and disappearing, shadows dancing across the walls.
I could barely see a foot in front of me.
I heard Miles's breath hitch as we stepped into the darkness.
The first corridor was narrow, the walls lined with fake spiderwebs and plastic skeletons that rattled when we brushed past them.
A recording of creaking floorboards played on a loop, and somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.
Miles walked ahead of me, his shoulders hunched, and I stayed close.
Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.
Close enough that when he stumbled slightly on the uneven floor, my hand shot out instinctively to steady him.
Then the first jump scare hit.
A guy in a zombie mask leaped out from behind a curtain, arms outstretched, groaning like he was auditioning for a B-movie. Miles yelped—a sharp, involuntary sound that shot straight to my gut—and his hand shot out, grabbing my arm.
I froze.
Felt the warmth of his grip. The way his fingers dug into my sleeve, desperate and tight. The way his body pressed back against mine, seeking shelter.
He realized what he'd done a second later and jerked his hand back, clearing his throat.
“I wasn't scared,” he said quickly. “Just startled.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
I didn't. And from the way his jaw tightened, from the way his shoulders went rigid, he knew it.
We kept moving. The corridor twisted and turned, the fog getting thicker with each step. Another scare—this time a skeleton dropping from the ceiling on a wire, its plastic bones clattering. Miles flinched but didn't grab me again.
I could see the tension radiating through his body. The way he kept glancing around, eyes wide, like he expected something to jump out at any second. The way his breathing had gone shallow.
And then the corridor narrowed.
We had to walk single file, our shoulders brushing the walls, and I found myself pressed close to Miles's back.
Close enough to smell the faint scent of coffee and something else—something warm and clean that was just him.
Close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his body tensed with every sound, every flicker of light.
Heat coiled low in my stomach.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.
“Fine.”
But he wasn't. I could tell from the way his hands were clenched at his sides, from the way his shoulders were practically up by his ears. He was genuinely spooked, and for some reason, that made something in my chest tighten.
Made me want to wrap myself around him until he felt safe again.
“Hey.” I reached out. Let my hand find his shoulder. Felt him still beneath my touch. “It's just fake. None of it's real.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you freaking out?”
“I'm not freaking out.”
“Miles.”
He turned slightly—just enough that I could see his profile in the dim, flickering light. His jaw was tight. His eyes wide. And there was something vulnerable in his expression that I'd never seen before, something raw and unguarded.
“I don't like the dark,” he admitted quietly. “Never have.”
The confession hung between us, raw and honest, and I felt my chest constrict. He looked embarrassed—like he'd just admitted some terrible secret—and I wanted to pull him close. Wanted to tell him it was okay, that everyone was scared of something.
That I'd protect him from whatever darkness he was running from.
Instead, I just squeezed his shoulder. Let my thumb brush against the side of his neck. “Then stay close to me.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine in the darkness. Then he nodded. Just once.
And we kept moving.
The next room was worse.
It was a mock graveyard, complete with fog machines and plastic tombstones jutting out of the floor at odd angles.
Strobe lights flickered overhead, casting everything in harsh, disorienting flashes.
A recording of thunder crashed—loud and sudden—and Miles stumbled, his hand shooting out to grab my arm again.
This time, he didn't let go.
“Sorry,” he muttered, but his grip tightened.
“Don't be.”
We walked through the graveyard, his hand wrapped around my arm, and I found myself hyper-aware of every point of contact.
The warmth of his palm through my sleeve.
The way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying his fear.
The way he pressed closer when another scare hit—a ghoul popping up from behind a tombstone, latex mask distorted and grotesque.
My pulse hammered. Not from fear. From something else entirely.