1. Casper
While this purchase was rather impulsive, the passion behind it has been growing for years. When the listing fell into my lap, it was already mine. I would have paid double the asking price if needed. There was no way I was walking out of the negotiation without the deed.
My family invests in a lot of real estate. The Ridleys have quite the asset collection across the states, but especially in Minnesota, where my family and I are from. This is where I grew up.
I’m lucky enough to play professional hockey in my home state, even luckier that I get to do it with my two childhood best friends, Bates Finnegan and Kol Brighton. We’ve been playing hockey together since the damn beginning, and no matter what happens in our careers, we’re sticking together.
Most players wouldn’t be so confident in that, as most don’t have that control. But when someone’s as good as us, they are. We’re a bonded trio, and we aren’t going anywhere without each other.Minnesota will continue to be our home simply because it’s where we want to stay.
Bates, or Finny, pokes his head into the front seat and blows a raspberry. “Well, it’s creepy as shit—I’ll give you that.”
Playfully, I lift my elbow from the middle console and jab his chest. He grunts as if it really hurt. “Who said you could take your leash off?”
Kol scoffs, a flashy smile breaking the sternness that often lives on his face. “Bad Bates. Should get you a shock collar.”
“Serena would have a field day.” I laugh, imagining a shit-eating grin on her face with the remote in her hand and Bates on the floor, grabbing his throat. She’d stop rather quickly, the sweet and innocent side of her feeling far too guilty to continue.
“Don’t give her any ideas, okay?” Finny pushes himself into the back seat, plopping back against the leather. “Besides, I might like it.”
“I bet you would, you freak.” Kol emphasizes the last word with a teasing chuckle.
Bates is back, leaning between the front seats in the blink of an eye, fingers digging into the upholstery as his head whips Kol’s way. “That’s rich, coming from you. I know you’ve got some twisted fucking skeletons in that kink closet.”
They continue to bicker, and I turn my attention back to the house, my gaze dancing along the seemingly abandoned street and sidewalks.
Something jumps in the corner of my eye, and every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
My sight locks on to the movement—a swishing curtain in the window of the left tower.
It’s swaying back and forth, almost unnaturally, as if something caused it to move.
But the place is empty. My excitement piques at the thought of the alternative—that The Schrader House really is haunted, like the stories I read.
There’s a reason I wanted this place. I’ve always been an avid fan of all things spooky.
Scary movies. Cheesy haunted houses. Ghost hunter shows and documentaries. I consume it all, in any format.
But having the opportunity to own a historically haunted house? I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself had I passed it up. Besides, this is a business investment because it’s not only allegedly haunted, but it’s also a world-renowned attraction during the fall season.
Every year, this place comes to life. By day, it’s a family hub, complete with face painting, apple bobbing, mini-pumpkin painting, a corn maze, and bubbly, not-so-scary Halloween actors.
But by night, this place transforms into something else.
The lawn and the house come to life with truly horrifying scare actors with more fake blood than I thought someone could legally purchase.
A walk-through almost-pitch-black haunted house that takes up the lower level of the building, with jump scares and leg grabs, everything to spike your adrenaline—safely.
Then there’s the Saturday midnight ghost tours that take visitors through the history of the house, giving them an opportunity to experience it themselves at the end with spirit boxes and REM-pods—tools used by a lot of ghost-hunting experts.
But we still have some time before any of the official day or night activities begin. Corporate and private parties start first at the beginning of September, and act as the warm-up for the team.
This place is run on a very tight schedule with a very large staff. I don’t need to lend a hand to that aspect of the business. I’m merely the silent owner who is there for anything they need.
Thankfully, The Schrader House management was able to meet with me after purchase to walk me through everything. I was scheduled to meet with the past owner, but unfortunately, he passed a couple of days before that was supposed to happen.
The staff has been great, especially the main woman in charge—Director, Veronica Henderson.
She had to have been a high-ranking military leader with the way she commands this crew.
It’s incredibly impressive, and I would hate to ever land on her bad side.
But I know she’s a huge reason this place has reached new success milestones in the last couple of years.
I’ll do whatever I can to ensure she stays.
But I’m not doing it alone. My sister, Cambrie, is their direct contact, helping me balance my new investment with my hockey career, playing professionally for the Saint Paul Sinners. It’s my biggest passion, and once preseason starts, it’s where almost all of my time goes.
Cambrie works remotely out of her penthouse in Minneapolis, running a few of our family’s businesses. She’s a genius little shit, but I’d never tell her that. It’d go straight to her already-confident head.
Tuning back in to my bickering passengers’ conversation, I find them still landing verbal blows like fucking children.
“Are you two done yet? Do you still want to swing by Moore’s Crafts? They’re going to close soon.”
Bates doesn’t skip a beat, immediately singing their snappy jingle, and Kol’s laughter overshadows it.
“So, yes?” I bite back my smile, putting my car into drive. I wasn’t going to go inside tonight. I want to wait until my meeting with Clara, The Schrader House manager, to get the grand tour.
Before pulling away, I steal one last glance at the house, and a chilling shiver runs up my spine.
The curtain is moving in that tower window again, swaying aggressively.
But I try not to think about it too much.
It’s an old house. It’s probably just a draft or the wind …
that somehow moved the curtain on the right side of the window, but not on the left. It’s fine. Totally fine.
Kol turns the music up as I pull away from the curb, following the directions on my display screen to go across town to Moore’s Crafts. I still can’t believe we let Bates talk us into helping Serena with a collection of cards to sell in the lobby of her and Kerrigan’s business.
We have to make ten folded cards with predetermined sayings that the cupids themselves picked out.
We already have four done and are going to stay up tonight, finishing the rest. If we ever need a new career path, I think we’d kill the card business.
It all started when Bates wanted to get Serena, our head coach’s daughter, to fall for him without revealing who he really was. The Sinners Craft Club was born.
The drive takes about fifteen minutes before I’m parking in the nearly empty lot of Moore’s. A flickering lamppost illuminates the only other car in the vicinity—a beat-up Honda Civic with chipped red paint. As we walk inside, I can’t help but chuckle at the license plate—BIT3M3.
Whoever owns it must be a delight.
The overhead LED lights are almost too bright when we walk inside. But my eyes adjust after a second, finding Bates with his hands already wrapped around the handle of a cart, Kol striding at his side as they head for the paper aisle without waiting for me.
I quickly catch up, walking a few steps behind them. Serena’s message in the group chat that she threw us in pops into my mind. “Don’t forget, she wants us to add that pretty paper lace to the edges of a couple of cards.”
Bates scoffs without turning around. “You think I forget a single word that woman says? You don’t know me at all, Cas.”
Lifting my tennis shoe, I kick his butt, pushing him into the cart and stumbling a couple of steps. Kol bursts out laughing, and Bates flips me off.
A swoosh of black hair draws my attention down an aisle to my left.
With one glance, I know I would let that woman ruin my entire life.
Her wavy black hair is pulled half up in a messy bun with a big scrunchie.
Worn combat boots are impatiently tapping against the tiles, as if her own indecisiveness is pissing her off. It’s fucking adorable.
My eyes wander up her body. Over the fishnet tights and up to well-loved destroyed jean shorts with an oversize tee tucked into the front, the rest hanging down to the frayed denim edges.
Peppering her nearly ghostly pale skin are black-and-white tattoos. From all the way over here, I can only make out so much of their details, but I like the dancing skeleton fairies. They’re sick.
Maybe I should get a couple of skeleton fairies. They’d go great with my stabby mushroom guy on my wrist or the plants that grow sheet ghosts wrapping around my upper arm.
She must sense my presence, and by the time I pull myself from my stupor, it’s too late for me to slip away, unnoticed. Maybe she’ll be just as infatuated with me as I am with her.
Her neck twists as she turns her head to face me, and I quickly realize we are not on the same page.
Her brows immediately pinch together as a grimace takes over her burgundy-painted lips. Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s mad. Although I doubt there’s a time she wouldn’t steal my breath.
Her green eyes brand themselves into my mind. Her cute button nose upturns as she throws her arms to her sides, her phone tightly gripped in her right hand. “Can I fucking help you?”