Spooked (Deepwood Mountain Holiday Specials #4)

1. Ash

ASH

T he sky above Deepwood Mountain looks like a sea of roiling dread.

Dark purples and blues blend into murky shades of gray as I wind my way up the narrow road, following a series of weathered wooden signs shaped like bony fingers pointing toward my destination.

Perfect weather for visiting Montana's most notorious haunted attraction, and photographing its even more notorious owner.

"MARSDEN MANOR: WHERE NIGHTMARES COME TRUE," announces the final sign, its Gothic lettering illuminated by a flash of lightning as thunder rolls across the valley.

"Dramatic," I mutter, squinting through the windshield at the heavily adorned iron gates that materialize through the mist.

Marsden Manor.

Even the name sends a little shiver down my spine—exactly what Wolfe Marsden hopes for, I'm sure. I've spent the last two weeks researching him: decorated Army Ranger, reclusive business owner, and the mastermind behind the most successful haunted attraction in the Northwest.

The man everyone calls the Beast .

The gates are open, which I take as a good sign, even though I'm a day early.

My editor at Thrill Seeker Magazine would kill me if she knew I was here before my scheduled appointment, but that's how I got where I am.

I thought go-getters and self-starters are what all employers dreamed of in an employee.

Especially photojournalists.

I pull up to the parking area and cut the engine. The silence that follows feels weighted, like the property itself is holding its breath. The manor looms ahead, a sprawling Victorian Gothic monstrosity with jagged turrets and gables that pierce the cloudy sky.

In daylight, it might look merely imposing, possibly majestic. But with storm clouds gathering, it's downright menacing.

Grabbing my camera bag, I step out into the cool October air.

The wind whips my ponytail across my face as I sling the strap over my shoulder.

The path up the massive concrete steps to the front doors is lined by a series of carved jack-o-lanterns, each one glowing maniacally as I approach.

They lead to human-sized stone gargoyles bracketing the entryway, like something you’d see at the Frank-N-Furter mansion straight out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show .

This photoshoot could make my career: a full feature spread on Marsden Manor and Wolfe Marsden for Thrill Seeker's Halloween Special issue.

I mean, landing this assignment wasn't luck; it was the result of my meticulously curated portfolio and reputation for capturing authentic moments in unexpected places.

My editor called me “the ideal photographer” to showcase the haunted attraction that's been terrifying visitors for years. And I agree.

Also, the timing couldn't be better. I was already planning a visit to my best friend Willa and her family here in Deepwood Mountain for a long-overdue catch-up.

When this assignment came through, it felt like fate.

I could knock out a primo photoshoot and spend quality time with Willa, her husband Dash, and their adorable daughter Brynn.

I lift the heavy iron knocker—shaped like a snarling wolf's head, naturally —and let it fall against the wood.

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

A few seconds pass, then a minute, and no response.

I try again, harder this time, then step back to survey the facade. More gremlin-looking stone gargoyles peer down from the corners of the roof, their weathered faces twisted in eternal grimaces. Light glows from within stained glass windows, so someone must be here.

After more time goes by, I'm about to knock again when the door creaks open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.

"Hello?" I call out, my photographer's instinct already cataloguing the contrast between light and shadow. “Mr. Marsden? Anybody?”

I take a breath. “It’s Ash Vaughn from Thrill Seeker Magazine . I know I'm early, but?—”

"You're trespassing."

The voice comes from the darkness…low, rough, and unmistakably angry. It sends goosebumps racing up my arms, but I stand my ground.

"I'm not trespassing. I have an appointment." Okay, so tomorrow, but…details.

"Tomorrow." The voice confirms. Okay, so he knows exactly who I am. "Today , you're trespassing.”

A figure moves within the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered. When he steps into the fading daylight, I nearly gasp.

Wolfe Marsden in the flesh.

He’s big, maybe six-five, with shoulders that crowd the doorframe.

Dressed in black from head to toe, it emphasizes the white half-mask molded to the left side of his face.

The mask glints silver at the temple where it connects to straps vanishing into thick dark-blond hair.

His right side is striking…sharp jawline, intense green eye, and an expression that could freeze-over hell.

"The roads are dangerous in this kind of weather," he says, his voice like whiskey poured over gravel.

Behind him, I catch glimpses of a grand entryway—dark wood, antique furniture, and what looks like vintage Halloween decorations that blur the line between seasonal décor and museum-quality artifacts. "You should leave. Now."

I straighten my spine. "Look, Mr. Marsden, I apologize for arriving early, but I wanted to get a feel for the place and scout some locations before our session. The magazine deadline is tight, and?—"

"Not my problem." His eyes narrow. "The manor is closed to visitors today."

The wind wails through the iron gate in the distance.

I huff. "I'm not a visitor. I'm a professional photographer here to do a job." I lift my camera slightly. "A job you agreed to."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. " Tomorrow. But I can always change my mind about doing it at all."

Crap. I purse my lips. “Okay, okay.”

Lightning cracks across the sky, followed instantly by a boom of thunder that I feel in my chest. Fat raindrops begin to fall, quickly transforming into a downpour.

"At least let me wait inside until the storm passes," I say, shivering as the cold rain trickles down my back.

For a moment, I think he might actually close the door in my face.

Then a voice calls from inside.

"Wolfe, for god's sake, let her in before she drowns."

His expression darkens, but he steps aside.

I hurry past him, acutely aware of his body as I brush by.

The place really is impressive, with high ceilings, an ancient chandelier covered in cobwebs (that I’m not sure are real or not), and wooden floors that gleam despite their age.

Ornate sconces cast flickering shadows across walls covered in deep crimson wallpaper, and a massive staircase curves upward, its banister intricately carved with scenes from classic horror stories.

It smells of lemon polish and something else spicy with a hint of musk.

But I think those last two are Wolfe, not the house.

A slim person with an undercut hairstyle and subtle blue highlights approaches, hand extended. They're dressed in a stylishly tailored outfit that somehow manages to look both professional and artistic against the Gothic backdrop.

"Devin Zhao," they say with a professional smile. "You must be the Ash Vaughn. I’m the business manager. We talked via email." Their gaze flicks to Wolfe, then back to me.

I shake their hand. "Good to meet you in person. And yes, thought I’d get some ideas for shots before tomorrow."

"Without permission," Wolfe growls from behind me.

Before I can respond, the mansion trembles with another thunderclap. The lights flicker ominously.

"This is going to be a bad one," Devin says, glancing toward a window where rain now lashes sideways against the old glass. "The creek might flood."

"Then Ms. Vaughn should leave before the bridge goes under," Wolfe says pointedly.

A new figure appears from a side corridor—a tall man with close-cropped black hair and watchful eyes. He moves with eerie silence for someone his size, emerging from beneath an archway adorned with elaborately carved ravens.

"Too late for that," he announces, his voice deep, but surprisingly soft. "Just got a call from Lee. Mudslide took out part of the bridge already. No one's going anywhere tonight."

Wolfe goes completely still, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.

"Looks like you're stuck with us, Ms. Vaughn," Devin says with a slight smile. "Welcome to Marsden Manor."

Another crash of thunder, and the lights go out completely, plunging us into darkness.

When they flicker back on seconds later, Wolfe is directly in front of me, so close I can see the edge of his mask where it meets scarred skin.

A vintage grandfather clock in the corner chimes ominously, its sound reverberating through the cavernous space.

"Let me make one thing clear," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "You're here by circumstance, not invitation. No unauthorized photos or I'll personally escort you out into the storm. Understood?"

I should be intimidated. Really, I should. But all I feel is a rush of adrenaline and…the spark of something hot and sinful low in my belly.

"Crystal clear," I say, meeting his gaze without flinching. "But tomorrow, Mr. Marsden, you're mine ."

Something flashes in his eyes. He steps back as if I've pushed him, his massive form casting a long shadow across the marble tile.

"Ghost will show you to a guest room," he says coldly, nodding toward the big guy. A very apt name for the quiet one. "Stay there for the time being.”

With that, he turns and stalks away, disappearing down a dark hallway like the phantom he's dressed as. His footsteps fade into the creaks and groans of the old house as it battles the storm outside.

"Don't mind Wolfe," Devin says once he's gone. "He can be a grump about his privacy."

"I gathered that," I reply, still staring after him. "But he agreed to this photoshoot."

"Under very specific conditions," Ghost speaks up. "You caught him off guard. And he hates that."

"I noticed. Is he always this charming, or am I just special?" I ask, hefting my camera bag higher on my shoulder.

Ghost's mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. "Both."

He gestures for me to follow him up the grand staircase. As we ascend, my fingers trail along the banister, feeling the contours of the carvings. Oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors on the walls watch our progress, their glowering eyes seeming to track us.

I can't help looking back at where Wolfe disappeared, my mind already composing shots: the masked man in his haunted domain.

The beast in his lair.

Tomorrow, I'll capture the enigma of Wolfe Marsden on film.

Tonight, I'm trapped with him.