3. Ash
ASH
F ollowing Wolfe’s instructions, I make my way to the dining room at precisely seven o'clock.
The storm continues to rage outside, rain pounding against leaded glass windows like desperate fingers seeking entry.
At the bottom of the stairs, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Willa.
Where are you?? Dash says the roads are terrible.
I’m stuck at Marsden Manor because the access bridge is damaged. I won't make it to you tonight. I have to stay with the Beast.
OMG! Now I’m really worried.
Don’t be. The Beast is…kinda hot.
Oh, geez. You are definitely telling me EVERYTHING tomorrow. And I mean EVERYTHING!
Bet!
I chuckle, sliding my phone into my pocket as I reach the dining room.
The space could be straight out of a Gothic novel: a gigantic oak table that seats about twenty, ornate candelabras flickering light across dark wood paneling, and a chandelier that looks like it's been waiting a lifetime to fall on some unsuspecting guest's head.
It’s as if Dracula decided to host a kitschy dinner party. Ridiculous and awe-inspiring at the same time.
I count six place settings crowding one end of the huge table.
"Ah, our captive has arrived," says a wiry man with wild ginger hair as I enter.
He wears an outfit patterned with little glow-in-the-dark-skeletons as he fiddles with a small mechanical device.
"I'm Howie. Special effects wizard." He gives an exaggerated bow that nearly topples him into a suit of armor standing guard in the corner.
"Careful," Ghost says, materializing from the shadows so suddenly I nearly jump. "That's authentic sixteenth century."
"Totally overrated," Howie deadpans.
“Great to meet you, Howie,” I say, eyeing the table.
Devin enters carrying a bottle of wine. "Ash, I hope you're settling in alright, despite the circumstances."
"The blue room is beautiful," I say, accepting the glass of blood red wine they pour for me. Fitting. "Though I had a brief power outage."
"Old house, old wiring," Devin nods.
"Wolfe came to my rescue," I say.
Ghost and Devin exchange a look I can't quite interpret, but before I can probe further, a weathered man with silvery hair and a beard enters from what I assume is the kitchen, carrying a steaming tureen.
"Lee Novak," he introduces himself with a nod. "Groundskeeper and damn good cook. Hope you like venison stew."
"Never had it, but I'm game ," I say, then wink.
Lee cracks a smile. "I like her already."
The stew smells wonderful, rich and hearty. My stomach rumbles embarrassingly loud, reminding me I haven't eaten since this morning.
"Where's our gracious host?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Probably brooding in front of a mirror practicing his scowl," Howie says, earning him an elbow from Devin.
"I'm right here."
Wolfe's voice comes from behind me. I turn to find him filling the entryway, still masked but having changed into a dark gray knit sweater that stretches across his sinfully broad chest. The sleeve on his right arm is pushed up to the elbow, revealing a corded forearm, while his left arm remains covered. I’m guessing he has scars there too.
It just seems to add to his sex appeal. He’s like some modern Nordic battle-scarred god.
"We were just discussing your many charms," Devin says, raising their wine glass in salute.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he takes the seat at the head of the table in a throne-like chair with clawed feet. I notice the group has left a seat open for me to Wolfe’s right. Ghost sits to Wolfe's left, Devin next to me, Howie next to Devin, and Lee beside Ghost.
"Dig in before it gets cold," Lee says, breaking the tension. "Storm's not letting up, so might as well enjoy a hot meal while we can."
The stew is delicious, not too gamey with full flavors and vegetables and herbs from what Lee proudly tells me is his garden out back.
“Did you have a hand in this, too?” I ask Howie.
“Nah, Lee’s the culinary genius. I just add the”—he mimes sprinkling something—“ pizzazz .”
“By which he means he drops the pepper grinder into the pot,” Devin deadpans.
Conversation flows easily among the group—at least, among everyone except Wolfe. I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, gaze as sharp as a blade. And every time our eyes meet, he scowls and stabs at the potatoes in his stew.
"So how'd you get into photography?" Howie asks through a mouthful of sourdough bread.
"I've always had a camera in my hand," I say.
"But professionally, it started after college in L.A. I saw so much in the world I wanted to capture, the beauty in things we take for granted or have preconceived ideas about.” I pause.
“Anyway, I built my portfolio with local events, then got a lucky break with a small magazine, and worked my way up from there. "
"What made you leave L.A. for San Francisco?" Devin asks.
I feel Wolfe's gaze sharpen on me.
"Change of scenery," I say lightly, not looking up. And to get away from my controlling ex, Neil, whose idea of beauty consisted only of things you could buy with loads of money.
"And you’re friends with Willa McCafferty?" Ghost asks unexpectedly.
I blink at him. "We met in high school when she lived with her mom. Been BFFs ever since. How did you?—"
"Small town," he says simply. "Word gets around, even all the way out here.”
"Ghost is naturally suspicious," Wolfe says, speaking for the first time since sitting down. "Former military."
“So, like you," I say.
Silence falls over the table. I can feel the weight of unspoken history pressing down, heavy as the storm clouds outside.
"Yes," Wolfe says finally. "Like me."
"Howie, tell Ash about the new effects you're working on for the Crimson Chamber," Devin says, clearly changing the subject.
Howie launches enthusiastically into a technical explanation involving pneumatics, light sensors, and something called "bloodless blood" that I only half follow.
What fascinates me more is watching the group dynamic—how they protect Wolfe in subtle ways.
There's no pity in their interactions, just acceptance and a comfortable familiarity.
After dinner, I offer to help with dishes, but Lee waves me off. "House rule. Guests don’t help clean."
"Then I’ll explore a bit," I say.
Wolfe stiffens. "The manor is off-limits to anyone who doesn't know its quirks."
“I’ll give her a tour,” Devin offers.
“Fine,” Wolfe says, going back to glowering at the dwindling fire, while the others disperse.
Devin leads me through the beginning of the main haunted exhibit, a labyrinth of rooms Wolfe designed himself.
“He’s not usually this…broody,” Devin murmurs as we walk down a corridor. “You unsettle him.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends if you like living dangerously.”
I chuckle. Huh, maybe I do.
The first room is absolutely brilliant. It’s a Victorian funeral parlor, complete with a coffin surrounded by weeping wax mourners.
But it’s the details that really impress me—dust motes floating in beams of faux moonlight, velvet drapes frayed to perfection, a sheet music stand holding a requiem dotted with “blood” stains.
“This is fantastic,” I breathe, running a finger over a mourner’s lace handkerchief. “It feels…authentic. Not cheesy.”
Devin smiles. “Wolfe studied nineteenth-century mourning rituals for months. Every prop has a story.”
“Why go to such lengths? Most haunted attractions just throw up some fake spiders and call it a night.”
“Because for him, it’s not always about scares…though that’s a lot of it.” Devin adjusts a crooked candelabra. “It’s also about honoring the beauty in darkness.”
We move through rooms more elaborate than any movie set, a laboratory with vials of glowing “ectoplasm,” a library where books shiver on shelves, a ballroom filled with ghostly dancers. Each space feels somewhat alive .
“He’s an artist,” I say, staring at a fresco of doomed lovers painted across a ceiling.
“We tell him that often, but compliments make him grouchy. Last time someone said it he threatened to tear everything down and build a torture chamber.”
We shake our heads and laugh, as a cold breeze snakes down the hallway. Ghost appears, silent as ever.
“West wing’s leaking again,” he tells Devin. “Need you to check the Forgotten Souls exhibit’s wiring before it fries the ghosts.”
Ghost glances at us. “I can take over the tour.”
With that Devin departs and I follow Ghost. He’s surprisingly knowledgeable about both the manor's history and the artistry behind its transformation into a haunted attraction. Each room’s theme is meticulously crafted to elicit a specific emotional response—from the subtle disquiet of the Portrait Gallery, where eyes in paintings seem to follow you, to the pulse-quickening terror of the Plague Doctor's Laboratory.
"Devin tells me Wolfe designed everything himself," I say, genuinely impressed.
"Every detail," Ghost confirms. "He has a master's degree in fine arts, specializing in theatrical design. Did it online after his medical discharge."
This surprises me. "I didn't know that."
"There's a lot you don't know about him."
We pause in a hallway lined with antique mirrors of various shapes and sizes. My reflection multiplies and distorts as we pass, creating the disorienting sensation of being watched from every angle.
"Like what?" I ask. "His military service? The injury?"
Ghost stops walking, turning to face me directly. In the dim light, his expression is unreadable. "Why are you really here, Ash?"
"For the assignment."
" Thrill Seeker Magazine could have sent anyone. Why you?"
I frown. "What are you getting at? I got this gig because I'm good at what I do." I shake my head, genuinely offended. "I'm here to photograph a haunted attraction and its reclusive owner for a Halloween feature, not conduct some covert investigation."
Ghost studies me for a long moment. "I was there when he took the blast in order to save the six of us in his unit. Even after that he carried two to the medevac himself, bleeding out.”