Chapter 18 Theo
Theo
While standing near the East Harrison St. parking garage for ten minutes, Theo adjusted his hoodie and tried to ignore how sweaty his palms were.
This wasn’t a date.
It was just a shared outing.
And a very calculated excuse to get Maya Brooks into his horror domain, with minimal risk of her running for the hills…
He’d picked a tour with just enough historical grit to keep it interesting, but not so frightening that she’d shut down. He’d even previewed the route himself just to make sure it wasn’t too long for their walk.
A couple passed behind him, laughing loudly. Theo stepped closer to the iron railing, tugging his hoodie sleeves down, and pulled out his phone again.
No new messages.
He tucked it away.
She said yes. That was enough.
A voice behind him called his name. The quietly amused tone was unmistakably hers.
He turned, already smiling.
And there she was, looking gorgeous yet casual.
She wore sneakers with black jeans cuffed at the ankle and a slightly oversized denim jacket layered over a soft gray tee. Her hair was wound in a tight slick-back bun, minimal makeup, but her lips still looked kissable. Always did.
“Hey,” she said, tipping her rideshare on her phone. “Did you trick me into an educational field trip?”
He grinned. “Not yet. That comes at the halfway point when we visit a haunted schoolhouse.”
“Ooooh, the ghost of children begging for extra credit…” she said, wiggling her fingers in his face.
The tour guide corralled them like a teacher would their students, introducing himself as “Marshall: actor by day, ghost wrangler by night.” And then launched into his opening monologue like a man used to applause breaks.
Theo kept a comfortable pace beside Maya as they headed toward the Congress Plaza Hotel. She stayed close to him, close enough to brush his arm several times.
Marshall stopped them at the edge of the sidewalk, across from the hotel’s imposing entrance. The building’s facade loomed in that familiar Chicago way, old money Beaux-Arts, grand but not flashy.
“Now this,” Marshall began, voice pitched just above the hum of passing traffic, “is where things get interesting.”
He launched into the usual: built for the 1893 World’s Fair, hosted presidents, celebrities, gangsters. Then he lowered his voice.
“But the hotel’s most infamous resident? That would be The Hand.”
Maya glanced sideways. Theo smirked, mouthing, just wait.
Marshall continued. “Guests on the twelfth floor have reported waking to find something under the covers. Cold. Clammy. Grabbing their ankles. One man swore he felt a hand on his chest in the middle of the night, pinning him down. When he screamed, no one came. They found him the next morning with deep bruises on his arms… and no record of another guest on the entire floor.”
Maya’s eyebrows lifted. “Did he just casually drop the idea of ghost assault?”
Theo leaned down, voice low at her ear. “You scared yet?”
“I’m concerned.”
He chuckled. “Give it ten minutes.”
She turned her head, just enough for their noses to nearly brush. “You want me scared?”
He held her gaze. “I want you close.”
She flashed him a grin before rolling her eyes. “There it is… you just wanna hug up on me.”
“Sure,” he admitted. “But I like hanging out with you, too.”
As the group crossed Michigan Avenue, Marshall was waving them past like a man on a mission. Theo hung back just enough to walk beside Maya again, their footsteps in sync over the sidewalk.
A little while later, they stopped just down from the Nederlander Theatre, its lit marquee casting gold light on the pavement. Marshall lifted a hand dramatically.
“This was once the site of the Iroquois Theatre,” he said, eyes sweeping the crowd. “In 1903, during a matinee performance of Mr. Blue Beard, a stage light sparked a fire above the curtain. Within minutes, the entire place was burning. Locked doors, faulty sprinklers, chaos.”
Maya’s face tilted upward, taking in the ornate columns and the too-quiet hush of this corner.
“Over 600 people died,” Marshall said softly. “Most of them women and children.”
The group stilled.
Marshall gestured toward the sidewalk beneath their feet.
“Some say if you listen closely, you can still hear applause. Sometimes you can hear screams. One usher claims he saw a woman in a feathered hat vanish through a wall. I say…” He paused, eyes gleaming.
“Stay long enough, and the ghosts might take a bow.”
Maya gave a small shiver—barely perceptible—but Theo noticed.
He leaned in. “Scared?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine,” she said in a prim voice. “I just didn’t expect that.”
Scared or not, none of it mattered once she took his hand.
By the time they reached the river’s edge, Theo wasn’t listening. While Marshall recounted the tragedy of the SS Eastland, he studied Maya’s face instead—how she tilted her head, how her fingers curled tighter in his. She was focused on the story. He was focused on her.
He wanted more of this.
Which was the problem.
He wasn’t supposed to want anything. Not more haunted tours. Not more time with her, close enough to touch, close enough to need.
But she was right there, warm and real and holding his hand.
Theo tried not to overthink it as Marshall led them back toward the theatre district, stopping short at the mouth of a narrow alley. It was framed by worn brick and old metal fire escapes, half-lit by a flickering bulb overhead. A wind tunneled through, lifting bits of debris across the concrete.
Marshall turned to face the group. “This one’s for my fellow performers,” he said with a grin. “Back in the vaudeville days, this alley served as the rear entrance to several performance halls. Including one that housed The Marvelous Marco and Madeline.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. That name was new.
Maya leaned in. “Is he making this up?”
He shook his head. “No. He’s just dramatic.”
Marshall continued, clearly savoring every syllable. “Marco was a knife-thrower. Madeline was his assistant… and his wife. During a rehearsal gone wrong, he missed the mark. Buried a blade in her chest. She died on this very spot.”
A couple of gasps went up from the group.
“Some say,” Marshall added, lowering his voice, “you can still see her ghost pacing the alley, dressed in white sequins, holding the last knife he threw. Others say it’s Marco you see, stumbling in circles, searching for forgiveness.”
Theo let his eyes adjust to the shadows. The group clustered close to hear, but the alley was tight, forcing people shoulder to shoulder.
Maya was pressed up beside him now, one arm brushing his chest. She gripped his hand a little tighter.
“I’m trying not to flinch,” she whispered. “But this is giving... final girl vibes.”
“Wouldn’t be a bad look on you,” Theo murmured.
She tilted her chin, daring. “Are you the doomed love interest or the killer?”
He considered. “Plot twist: I’m the unreliable narrator.”
Her smile was slow and sharp. When someone jostled them from behind, she instinctively placed a hand on his chest to steady herself.
She didn’t move it right away.
Theo’s pulse thudded as her palm slid down at an aching pace. He reached up and held it in place, giving her a gentle squeeze. And then—
He hugged her like he’d wanted to when he first saw her.
Whatever tension he started the tour with slowly seeped from his body as she hugged him back.
By the time they reached the West Loop, the air had cooled, and the wind had sharpened just enough to justify him wrapping his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him and sighed.
Marshall came to a dramatic halt in front of a squat brick building with a slanted roof and tall, narrow windows. It didn’t look haunted. It looked historic. Ordinary.
“This,” he announced, “is Hull House.”
A few people murmured. Maya crossed her arms, not unimpressed, just… skeptical.
“Founded by Jane Addams,” Marshall said, “this was once a cornerstone of social reform in Chicago. But we’re not here to talk politics.” He paused. “We’re here to talk about the Devil Baby.”
Maya blinked. “Excuse me?”
Theo grinned. “It gets better.”
“Legend has it,” Marshall continued, “that in the early 1900s, a woman gave birth to a child so hideous, so unnatural, he was deemed the spawn of Satan himself. Cloven hooves. Scales. Red eyes. Jane Addams, ever the humanitarian, took him in. Hid him in the attic. Protected him until the day he vanished.”
The crowd laughed. Maya covered her mouth, half horrified, half entertained. “There is no way that’s true.”
Marshall shrugged, clearly delighted. “You’d be amazed what people believe. Over a hundred years later, visitors still claim to see a small figure in the attic window. Some say he scratches at the glass. Others say he smiles.”
Theo glanced at Maya. “What do you think?”
“I think patriarchy and Catholic guilt make for great horror.”
He laughed. “God, you’re hot when you’re trying to be cynical.”
She didn’t deny it.
Instead, she tilted her head toward the building. “So what happens now? We wait for the demon toddler to jump out and drag us to hell?”
“Nope,” Theo said, voice low, “now I take you to the movies.”
“Ooh, okay… is it in-line with our theme?”
“Yep.”
They left the last stop with the group splintering behind them, some heading to bars, others pulling out phones to book rideshares. Theo and Maya didn’t talk right away. The silence between them, as they walked to the parking garage, wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy. Buzzing. Like a held breath.
Theo unlocked his car with a soft chirp and opened the passenger door for her.
“The movie isn’t too scary, is it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m easing you in. We’re gonna see a classic.”
She slid in without another word, and he shut the door gently before circling to the driver’s side.
The streets were a little quieter now. Streetlights flickered past in rhythmic bursts. He navigated the city with the ease of a veteran, only now, Maya accompanied him through the dark.