10. Casper #2
“Well, thank you. Do I get to see it in the mirror like everyone else?” I ask, pushing up from my seat. “Or does that cost extra?”
Clicking her tongue, she gestures to the kid next in line. “Oops. Looks like your time’s up.”
I’d let her play with me like this all goddamn day and thank her for it. Tell me off. Make me beg. Then I’d turn the tables, and the fun would really begin. Every. Damn. Day. I want it more than I want to fucking breathe.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” I wink and smirk, turning and walking toward my group, who’re mingling a few feet away.
She ignores me, immediately working on her next client. I wonder how different that encounter would have been had she known who I really was or if I had worn my mask and let her paint my chest instead.
My thoughts slip away as I take in the faces of my friends, all staring at me with an array of shock and amusement.
“What?” I scoff. “What’s going on?”
Bates is in a fit of laughter, grabbing his waist. “You said a skeleton, right?”
Serena digs her phone out of her purse and flips it around to face me, the camera app open so I can see myself and …
Oh my fucking God. She did not.
I thought that mine had taken surprisingly longer than the others, and that’s because I didn’t get a skeleton, like advertised. I got a butterfly on half of my face and a unicorn on the other.
While I’m absolutely fucking rocking it, I want to throw her over my shoulder and drag her into the house. I want to imprint every line of my hand onto her ass for being such a brat. She would love it, and so would I.
Too bad it’s not going to happen the rest of this night.
She told me after her shift, she’s going to work with Peyton, training for cast makeup.
That’s where she really wants to be, and I’m not getting in the way of it for a single second.
We have a lifetime of chances for her to be a brat and for me to give her the treatment she desperately deserves.
I glance back at her, and she’s beaming at me with the biggest smile. Her hand flashes up, and it takes me but a second to register her middle finger flipping me off.
If I could take a picture right now, I would and hang it in a museum. Or at the very least, my bedroom.
She turns away, getting to work on her next client, forcing me to stay in place. I can’t go over there and pull her away, scold her for her attitude, or reward her for it.
I’m just Casper, hanging out with his friends at the opening night of The Schrader House, where no one really knows that I secretly own it. We make our way into the veranda at the back of the building, venturing inside.
They want to go through the haunted house, and as fun as that sounds, I’d rather stay out here. I’ve been through it already a time or two, and I don’t have any desire to do it again.
Instead, I grab a drink from the bar while they wait in line for the best haunted house in all of Minnesota.
The full guided path takes about fifteen minutes to get through at a slower walk, stretching across the west side of the house, passing through the maze of hallways and decorated rooms, then down a separate staircase that’s hidden inside the route.
It continues on the first floor, around the west wing, and then ends at one of the exits at the back of the house, emptying outside.
They’re going to have so much fun, and I can’t wait to hear Bates shriek when one of the zombie actors grabs at his feet in room eleven. Maybe I should’ve gone. But it’s too late. They’re already wandering into the entrance, disappearing behind dark curtains.
With my drink in hand, I stride up to the second floor, weaving through people of all ages having fun.
I meander around the main stretch of hallway closest to the stairs, studying old photos of the Schraders, of the Palmers, and news clippings from the original fire and the story of some actress who claimed this place was haunted.
There’s even a framed newspaper article from some ghost-hunting group that came here in the early ’90s and allegedly couldn’t bear to stay through the night because of all the paranormal activity.
I love this fucking house.
I still can’t believe it’s mine. A horror-film-and-Halloween-obsessed little boy’s dream come true. I mean, I own a literal haunted house. It can’t get better than that.
Granted, I haven’t seen an actual ghost, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Maybe it doesn’t feel comfortable enough to show its true self yet. I think there’s still time for us to become buddies.
Curiosity carries me upstairs to the third floor, to the room I devoured Mona in—an old library. I wonder if there’s more information on the house in there. Gotta be.
I don’t think the audio system was installed on the third floor. The music still carries up the stairs, softer and more muffled, like the rest of the party noise. But it goes almost silent when I enter the library, flicking on the light and shutting the door behind me.
The overhead chandelier illuminates the room, and without Mona drawing my attention, I take it in fully. The place is clearly not visited often, thick dust lining the shelves, aside from where Mona’s and my prints mark our perfect fucking night.
I stride over to the full wall of built-in oak shelves, packed to the brim, with notebooks and books stacked in any opening available. This place was very loved once upon a time.
I drag my finger along the spine of the book, seeing the trail left, void of dust. Unmarked leather-bound books.
Collector’s editions. Fiction novels of all kinds, spines broken and creased from repetitive reads.
Nonfiction books about business, money management, running a hotel, managing people, the list drones on.
My brows furrow as I read the next title—How to Forgive Yourself. Apparently, I’ve entered a self-help section.
Living with Regret.
Protecting Your Peace.
Choosing Your Family.
A ton of titles, all centered around a fucked-up family dynamic, has me questioning the loving face the Schraders always showed the media.
What the hell is going on here?
Reaching a collection of notebooks or journals of some kind, I make a mental note to come back and read through these when I have time.
Or better yet … I pluck two from the top shelf, tucking them into my arm.
They’ll be a lot easier to read if I don’t have to be here to do it.
Besides, there’s no way I’ll be in this house and not glued to Mona.
Any time I get here will be spent with her. Talking to her. Kissing her. Trailing my tongue up and down her body. Sleeping with her wrapped in my arms.
This damn mask needs to come off sooner than later.
But not yet, not when she seems to loathe the real me. I need her to claim her undying love for me before I show my face. Better yet, maybe I’ll tell her my real name by tattooing it in her skin. Then she'll really be stuck with me for good.