Cursed with Benefits

Chapter 1

Nadia

The mansion looked like it had eaten the last five house-sitters and was waiting for dessert.

I parked my extremely average, slightly dented Corolla at the bottom of the gravel driveway and stared at it.

The place loomed before me, all gray stone and towering windows.

There were gargoyles. Actual gargoyles. Someone had definitely paid extra for the gothic add-ons.

The hedges were so overgrown I was sure generations of wildlife were inhabiting them.

I took a long sip from my iced coffee, which was sweating like me in spin class, and told myself the same thing I’d told myself all week: “You’ve survived worse.”

I thunked my forehead against the steering wheel and groaned. “You can do this, Nadia. You’re brave. You’re semi-functional. You own a cardigan with kittens on it. That counts for something.”

I needed this summer job. Teachers don’t get paid nearly enough, and my savings account was a cruel joke. This house-sitting gig paid enough to cover my bills, and maybe I could even splurge on a fancy planner I’d abandon by August.

I reached over to the passenger seat and flipped open my notebook. Tucked inside was the folded handout I’d made for myself,

SUMMER PROJECT: Take Up Space

My handwriting screamed from the page in Bossy Purple marker:

I am not too much. I am me.

I do not audition for cliques.

I don’t transform myself for bullies.

My weird is welcome in my own life.

Two truths before a joke.

I choose rooms that like me loud.

I can be kind and keep my boundaries.

I smiled at it. Then I immediately rolled my eyes at myself. “Okay, therapy homework, don’t fail me now.”

My therapist and I had decided this would be my Summer of Healing. I’d get fresh air, solitude, maybe a tan. A creepy mansion wasn’t the ideal setting, but it was the available setting, and I was going to embrace it. Or at least give it a quick side hug and hope I didn’t get tetanus.

The truth was, being neurospicy meant I’d spent most of my life trying to earn space that already belonged to me.

ADHD made me say yes to everything before thinking, anxiety made me rehearse conversations that never happened, and together they’d turned me into a walking people-pleaser with a guilt complex.

I called it hyper-empathy. My therapist called it bad energy management.

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel for a second.

I had worked hard to break old patterns, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the last school I’d worked at.

It always started with the same tight feeling in my chest. The one I got every time I remembered how the veteran teacher clique decided I was a problem before they even learned my last name.

They never confronted me directly, but they didn’t need to.

They watched me walk in with enthusiasm and made it clear they disapproved.

I was too eager. Too friendly. Not deferential enough.

My students liked me too much. I didn’t fit into their hierarchy, and that alone was enough to set them against me.

They rolled their eyes when I spoke. They treated my new ideas like acts of war.

They left me off email chains. They picked apart the way I arranged my classroom. They commented on my emotional tone.

I kept trying to earn a place anyway. I stayed late, worked harder, kept believing if I proved myself, they would ease up.

Then I made one small mistake. A date entered wrong on a shared calendar.

Nothing serious, but they took it to administration, accused me of being scatter-brained, and presented a list of every time I’d struggled to focus in a meeting.

Admin agreed with them because it was easier than questioning the veterans.

After that, I was placed on a corrective plan.

Colleagues avoided me. My classroom no longer felt safe.

I kept trying to fix it. Kept trying to fix myself—a futile effort that had followed me through my whole life.

I had always worked for approval that never came; tried to be easy to like, easy to manage, easy to understand.

I kept pouring myself into people who did not give anything back.

The school only made the pattern louder.

Their judgment felt familiar in a way I hated.

It pushed every old instinct to bend and soften and apologize.

Every friendship, every almost-relationship, every time I had given away too much of my time, my focus, or my peace, came from that same glitchy wiring that made me love too fast and crash even faster.

But that experience finally showed me what it cost. That was the moment that forced me to stop repeating the same cycle.

This summer, that was changing.

I had a plan.

A clear, laminated-in-my-mind strategy for how not to lose myself to other people’s chaos and judgments again.

I had acquired a new teaching job at a new school and was dedicated to working toward becoming my best self this summer. Nothing was going to get in my way. Not a bad habit, not a breakdown, not even a haunted house.

Back at the end of the school year, the listing for this gig had read: House sitter needed. 8 weeks. Must be discreet. Pays well.

It hadn’t screamed murder ad. So naturally, I applied. Little did I know. Now, I started to wonder if maybe Craigslist wasn’t the best place to find life-changing opportunities.

I grabbed my phone, snapped a quick photo of the house, and texted my best friend Lena.

Me: Here. House looks haunted. If I vanish, avenge me.

Lena: Girl, no. Call me when you’re inside. If there’s a single doll, I’m sending a priest.

I smiled. The ice in my coffee clicked against its plastic lid as I took another sip and climbed out of the car. The air felt heavy, and it made me want to look around to see if someone was watching me. Somewhere above, a crow let out a dramatic caw, which felt equally rude and well-timed.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, juggling my keys, tote bag, and notebook. “We’re walking. We’re breathing. We are not getting possessed today.”

My sundress—a lemon print with a square neckline—flared as the wind picked up.

My black combat boots crunched against the gravel.

The enamel pin on my loose, white cardigan read: Read Books, Not Minds.

My earrings—little gold lemon slices—jingled with every step.

I looked like the human embodiment of a lemonade stand that had wandered into a horror movie, and that was exactly the vibe I was going for.

I took the front steps one at a time. The porch creaked. I paused halfway up and considered how many horror films started this exact way.

“It’s fine,” I said under my breath. “It’s just wood expanding with age. Or… warning me. Either way, we’re staying positive.”

A droplet of condensation slid down my coffee cup and onto my fingers. “Gross,” I muttered, wiping it on my dress. The bird overhead cawed again. “Sir, I am not in the mood.”

The door was huge, dark, and ominous, like those you read about in dark fairy tales that required an incantation to open them. My reflection in the brass knocker looked small and nervous.

I inhaled the way my therapist had taught me. Four counts in. Hold for seven. Eight counts out. I set my coffee down on the porch rail and wiped my palms on my dress. Then I reached up, knocked three times, and waited.

Nothing.

I knocked again. Louder. “Hello? I’m the new house sitter. Please don’t be a serial killer. I’m not great at running.”

Silence. I looked over my shoulder, back toward my car. The gravel glinted in the afternoon light. The air felt still again. Stuffy.

“Right,” I muttered. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

I pressed the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside, a faint chime echoed. It sounded distant. I picked up my coffee and waited, pretending not to notice that the front gate behind me had slowly drifted closed on its own.

If this was the opening act of my summer healing arc, the universe had a dark sense of humor.

If this was ever made into a true crime podcast, I hoped the theme music fucking slapped.

June 14th. Woman in overpriced Target dress disappears mysteriously after responding to Craigslist ad.

The door creaked open. “Ms. Yates?”

The man in the doorway smiled as if he had practiced in the mirror and still hadn’t nailed it.

He was tall, thin, and pale in the way that said sunscreen wasn’t a suggestion but a requirement.

His hair was perfectly parted down the middle, his teeth too white, and his hands were clasped as if he was waiting to lead a prayer circle.

“Mr. West?” I asked, but who else would it be?

He nodded, beaming. “Welcome to D’Archeval House.”

Of course it had a name. Creepy mansions in horror movies always had names.

He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. “Please, come in.”

The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of lemon polish and old secrets.

My combat boots thumped against wide wooden planks that groaned underfoot.

The foyer stretched upward into shadows, a chandelier swaying slightly, crystals catching the weak light from the door behind me.

I half expected a pipe organ to start playing by itself.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

“Beautiful is one word for it,” I muttered, clutching my iced coffee like it was pepper spray.

He either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. “I’ll give you a quick tour.”

As he led me through the house, I cataloged every red flag.

The kitchen was updated but too clean, like it hadn’t seen a meal since the Clinton administration.

The appliances gleamed, the backsplash sparkled, and the only thing in the fridge was a single bottle of sparkling water. Good thing I’d brought some basics.

“Very… cozy,” I said, then continued under my breath. “I’ve always hoped that if I ever get murdered, it would happen in a room with subway tile.”

Mr. West blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Love the aesthetic.”