12. Ghost Story
Courtney
Igrab a blanket for each of us and quickly boil some oat milk to make chai teas, doing my best to be an amiable host.
“I appreciate your hospitality but I don’t want to impose.” Finn protests again as I pour steaming milk over the chai mix.
“I can’t let you leave in good conscience. Hasn’t anyone told you about the dangers of sinkholes?” I offer him a simper as I hand him his mug. Ardor twinkles in his icy irises as he accepts his drink. He returns my smirk but says nothing as he follows me into the living room.
“Right,” I remark in a whisper as I scan the vacant room. “No couch.”
“The floor is perfect.” Warm breath tickles the back of my neck, causing every hair on my body to stand at attention. Finn’s closeness overwhelms me; every cell in my body is on high alert, hyper-aware of his presence behind me. The electric current between the two of us flows freely, pulsing and rushing and dizzying my head. I want to turn around and climb him like a damn tree; he’s so fucking intoxicating. I want to show him just how perfect the floor can be when we put it to good use.
A soft hand on my lower back calls me to action. I jolt forward and take a seat on the cold hardwood. Finn follows suit, taking a seat across from me just as the rain outside picks up its intensity. Focus on the rain, nympho. I try to redirect my thoughts, choosing to pay attention to the downpour outside of my window as opposed to the one in my underwear.
I’ve never seen such crazy rain in my entire life, which solidifies my decision not to let the mayor drive in it. Besides, I’ve never been completely alone with Finn before, without any friends or audiences nearby, and this is my chance. For what exactly? I didn’t know.
Now that I had allowed some of my emotional walls to crumble, I had spent the entirety of dinner wondering what it would be like to be with Finn in every regard. His confidant, his lover, his friend, his girlfriend, is any of that even possible? I’d admitted my feelings to myself but could I admit them to him without knowing how he felt about me in return?
Only now, entirely alone and confined inside together by the storm, can I feel the full force of the undeniable electrical hum between us. Only now, without my attention being divided by the prying eyes of the public, can I properly hear our energy crackling and popping dangerously loud, just like the fierce lightning outside my windows. I allow my gaze to rake down his toned form, with his full lips and firm body so close to me the temptation I’m feeling is practically a physical being between us.
My hand juts out as I pass the mayor his chai. The movement is choppy and robotic from nerves, almost causing the tea to slosh over the edge of the mug. Finn gives me a wary look but accepts the drink with a polite “thank you.” The instant the steaming cup is secure in his grip I pull away, doing my best to ignore the way his healthy veins rope along the back of his hand.
I clear my throat, the taste of French nut wine still prevalent on my breath as I pull my blanket tighter around myself. The very same infernal wine that had convinced me that Finn staying over would be a grand idea despite having literally no furniture and no way to entertain him. Each second that ticks by has me simultaneously rethinking my hospitality and fighting the urge to plant myself in Finn’s lap.
“Are you alright?” Finn’s pale blue eyes study me, his words guiding me out of the fog of my conflicting thoughts. His posture is rigid as he watches for my reaction, intuitively sensing and bracing for the battle happening within me.
“Yeah,” I respond a bit too overzealously, shaking the haze from my head as I attempt to appear casual.
Finn had warned that the storm would likely tamper with the power, so we had lit the fireplace as a precautionary measure, but the sight of him once again bathed in beautiful firelight did little to silence my desires. The flames cast half of his handsome face into shadows, highlighting his sharp brow and the high ridge of his nose, my mind straying to how he might look wearing nothing but firelight.
“Know any ghost stories?” I quirk a brow at him, eager to offer myself a distraction. Finn’s concerned expression deepens into one of confusion as he tries to follow my train of thought. Before he can verbalize his confusion, I speak again. “Crazy storm, warm fire, seems like the perfect setting to tell one,” I explain, shrugging my shoulders to release some of my pent-up energy.
Finn tips his chin towards me, his perfect lips molding into a knowing grin, seemingly placated by my explanation.
“A few,” he admits, his voice much too baritone for his own good. “I’d love to hear yours first.”
“Well, the scariest thing I’ve seen in Havenwood so far,” I drop my voice to a serious tone, “is the lack of alternative milk.” Finn releases a booming laugh that originates in his belly, the pleasant resonate draws an unconscious smile to my face as I relish in its sound.
“I would argue that your inability to process dairy is equally as frightening.” Finn flattens his tone back to a falsely serious one, causing me to giggle. He sips from his mug, his mirthful eyes remaining on me.
“Lactose intolerance, it’s a thing. Google it. Do you have Google here?” I tease, ticking my head to one side in playful curiosity.
“You’ll have to educate me on that later.” His devilish smile melts, giving way to a more somber expression, piquing my interest. “I could tell you about this one time..”
“Do it,” I insist, tightening my grip on my chai and scooching closer to the tall, dark mayor. He looks down at me hesitantly, wondering if I’ll judge him for the story he’s about to tell but seemingly decides on telling me anyway.
“By now I assume you’re familiar with the history of Martha Brant?” He confirms.
“Lived in Havenwood in the 1690s, was accused of witchcraft during the witch trials, died. Now she’s some sort of urban legend around town, Elsie’s terrified of her.” I recite, searching the ceiling to jog my memory. Finn grins pridefully at me, seemingly proud that I picked up on the history of Havenwood so quickly.
“Well done,” he compliments before continuing with his story. “Before we knew for certain what had become of Martha’s remains, Milo and I had several hunches. All of which never panned out. Accused witches weren’t allowed to be buried on church grounds and often found themselves buried in unmarked graves. Making it extremely difficult to locate her body.
“A few months ago we decided to check a random location on a whim, below a very old oak tree that dated back to Martha’s time. The two of us set out and began digging, and thirty minutes later, our shovels hit something wooden.” Finn’s blue orbs are locked on mine, pulling me deeper into the story with each word. I take note of him being an inept storyteller, his eyes and eyebrows moving concisely with his words.
“We had gotten as far as we could with our shovels, so we bent down and dusted the dirt from the wood, and just as we had suspected, it was an unmarked coffin. We took only a second to share a look of excitement before we got to work hauling the box to the surface.” Finn gives me one more deciding look before hitting the climax of his story.
“We were quick to crack the lid open but as soon as fresh air touched the inside of that coffin the wind began to pick up around us and swirl like we were trapped inside a cyclone, just the two of us. I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees like that,” he snaps his long fingers. I jump at the sound, completely entangled in his story.
“Worst of all came this awful, unnatural banshee shriek. The sound felt like ice in our blood. It was horrible. Then, it all stopped at once and everything returned to normal as if it never happened. The wind slowed, the screaming ceased and it wasn’t freezing anymore. Neither Milo nor I can explain what happened; if you ask him about it, he likely won’t talk about it; his scientific mind has a hard time processing this kind of thing.”
I blink at him in skeptical disbelief. Finn had yet to give me any reason not to believe him, and he looks unsettled as he recounts the event to me. However, his story is so far-fetched that my logical side has a hard time giving in.
Finn breaks the silence, chuckling despite himself when he sees my saucered eyes.
“I promise you, I’m telling the truth,” his smile is alluring, mirth evident in his icy eyes. His amusement calms once again as he tacks on. “Kids would claim to hear Martha wailing as she wandered the streets late at night. Most of us assumed it was just some story our parents told us to make us go to bed on time or be home before dark. But since that day, almost everyone in town has heard her cries.”
I open my mouth to speak, unsure of what exactly will come out but am abruptly cut off by a loud, haunting feminine lament echoing throughout the house. Finn and I meet each other’s surprised gaze, fear paralyzing me in place.
“Are all your windows shut?” He demands, jumping into action mode almost immediately. A brief look of terror flashes across his face as I force my head to shake itself. I raise an unsteady hand, pointing upstairs.
“The bedroom,” I inform him in a whisper. Jesus fucking Christ, had talking about the witch’s ghost summoned her here?!
Finn shoots me a wavering look of false confidence before breaking himself free from the safety of his blanket. He stands to his full height, taking in an unsteady breath before heading for the stairs.
“Wait!” I interject before I have a chance to change my mind. “I’m coming with you.” Finn doesn’t protest my company but issues a protective, “stay behind me.”
I nod and we ascend the staircase together.
As we take the steps one by one my knees almost clatter together comically and I fully regret asking to exchange ghost stories, who even does that? I’m too terrified even to attempt to comprehend how Finn intends to defend us against the ghost of a witch who has been dead for 300+ years. Finn is a tall man standing at about six foot and seems well built under his nice clothes but even I know he’s probably pissing himself right now. What is brawn against the supernatural?
We reach the second-floor landing, my darkened bedroom now directly in front of us. We enter the room cautiously, with Finn still in the lead. I slip my hand into his for moral support, the electricity buzzing between our palms keeping us somewhat grounded through our fear.
The room is coated in darkness, save for the thin strips of moonlight shining in through my open window, making it nearly impossible to determine what is right in front of our faces. I had opened the window after my shower in an attempt to let some of the steam out and had forgotten to shut it, something I was deeply regretting now. My eyes are glued to the window as I anticipate another spine-tingling howl to be carried in through it.
I watch through the dimness as Finn reaches his free hand towards the nearest wall, rubbing over the smooth surface in search of the light switch. As soon as he locates it and I hear the click of the switch shifting into the on position, another piercing screech erupts. As the overhead light illuminates the room, a shrieking black mass charges us, nearly smacking us in the face.
“Fucking Christ!” Finn exclaims as he raises an arm defensively, shielding his head. I instinctively begin to duck as well, but once the light exposes the creature, all the fear dissipates from my body, quickly being replaced with annoyance.
“Olive!” I reprimand, straightening my posture. Finn slowly lowers his raised arm, taking in the situation and watching the little bat flutter around the ceiling, squawking in her displeasure at the light. He looks at me with a raised brow; under his gaze, I realize just how crazy I must look at this moment. We both take note of his arm wrapped protectively around my middle. At what point had he let go of my hand and wrapped it around me instead? Most likely when Olive had launched her blitzkrieg and sent the two of us into flight or fight, either way, I’m glad for it.
“Often keep rodents in your bedroom?” Finn jests as he clears his throat, walking over to the window and locking it shut.
“Normally, I make them take me on a few dates first,” I joke back, watching his back muscles as he closes my bedroom window. I watch those same muscles tense as he comprehends my joke, is the mayor upset at the thought of me letting other men in my bedroom? If he had been, he’d fixed his face by the time he turned around, and there’s no hint of any evident disdain.
“I guess I’m an exception,” he offers a shy smile. I open my mouth to tell him yes, you’re so much different than any man I’ve met. You’re sweet and compassionate and not a selfish prick. You’re perfect. But it doesn’t come out; there’s still that part of me holding back, waiting for him to give me a sign of reciprocated feelings.
“She normally lives in my attic,” I change the subject, awkwardly fidgeting with my sleeve. I flick my eyes to Olive, who is nestled into the corner of my room, glaring at Finn for turning the light on.
I pause to contemplate that sentence as realization hits me over the head like a log. I knit my brows together and retreat a few steps into the hallway. Sure enough, the door to the attic is open, barely cracked enough for Olive to squeeze through but still ajar. The sight sends a shiver down my spine. That door was closed when I came upstairs earlier for our blankets and Olive sure didn’t open it herself.
I decide not to mention it to Finn. I’m not sure exactly why, but I keep it to myself, not wanting any more weird distractions for the night.
Finn helps me wrangle Olive back into her domain, and I ensure the door latches shut before retreating downstairs to collect our blankets. Both of us are ready to end the night and forget about our tense, almost paranormal encounter.
Now came the most nerve-racking part of the night, sharing one bed.