Chapter 9
9
SHILOH
The glossy, black business card mocks me my entire way down the stairs, glaring from the center of my welcome mat like the fucking Eye of Sauron. Nobody should have to face such a harbinger of doom first thing on a Saturday morning.
I know exactly who it’s from without having to pick it up, so I stubbornly choose to ignore it, veering around the banister and heading straight to the kitchen for my caffeine fix. And yet, even through the wall I feel like that dark omen is burning a hole in the side of my face. Only when I drain the final dregs from my coffee mug do I finally decide I can’t avoid it any longer.
The cardstock is thick, embossed with chrome lettering for the contact details of the one and only Dominic Blackwood. I wonder if he has these made from the pulped egos of every poor soul who’s ever had the misfortune of speaking to him.
I don’t like that he knows where I live. I like even less that he would have had to open my front door sometime during the night in order to leave this little gift for me. It sure as hell wasn’t there when I went to bed. And in all the time I’ve lived alone in Avalon, I’ve never worried much about locking my door while I’m in the house. Nobody does.
It might be time for me to start.
“Creepy ass gargoyle,” I mutter to myself, fishing out my phone so that I can save his number to my contacts. No doubt he’s hoping I chuck the card in the trash so that he can complain to Melanie about my reluctance to work together. It’s crossed my mind a few times, but I refuse to be labeled as the difficult one. If he wants to stick his nose in my business, he better buckle up. I’ll drag him around every last Halloween store and pumpkin patch until he’s crying fake blood.
With a mocking snort, I type out a quick text.
Me: Meeting with the caretaker at Fairchild Manor, which is where the ball will be. 2pm. Be there or fuck off back to whatever hole you crawled out of.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it, and then immediately regret the whole thing. What if he actually shows up? What if he doesn’t? At this point, I honestly can’t say which outcome I dread more.
I go through the motions of my day painfully on edge, glancing over my shoulder periodically as if I expect to find Dominic creeping up behind me. Fortunately, I manage to leave the market with all the groceries I need without having my own lucky run-in with my stepbrother like Melanie did.
Not so, fortunately, I find myself checking my phone with embarrassing frequency.
Each time I see zero notifications waiting for me, I’m thrust into a violent battle between relief and fury. I don’t want him to respond. I don’t want him in my town anymore. But I also can’t deny how incredibly irritating it is to know he went to all that trouble of butting into the committee and arranging our partnership , only to ghost me completely.
By the time I’m climbing into my car to head to Fairchild Manor, the fucker still hasn’t text me back and I’m done letting it bother me. This is certainly the better outcome. I don’t want him breathing down my neck and offering snide commentary while I design the entire Ball for the first time. I’ve wanted to be entrusted with this role ever since I started teaching at Avalon High. It deserves my full, undivided attention.
After slamming the door, perhaps a little harder than necessary, I gun the engine and head to the outskirts of town. The quiet drive gives me an opportunity to organize my thoughts, redirect them from Dominic and focus more on how best to bring Melanie’s ‘macabre masquerade but make it sexy’ vision to life. Can’t say the theme is exactly inspiring, but I’ll do my best. I can only hope that my stepbrother’s money makes an appearance, even if his stupid, smug face never does.
As I pull up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of Fairchild Manor, I can’t help but do a little nervous gulp. The place is a Goliath of Victorian Gothic architecture, all sharp angles and looming towers that seem to pierce the overcast sky. Even in broad daylight, it’s pretty terrifying.
An absolutely perfect spot to host an annual Halloween Ball.
The place has always fascinated and frightened me in equal measure. Legend has it, this house was built on the site where several women were burned at the stake during Avalon’s very own witch trials. Almost two hundred years had passed by the time the Fairchild’s purchased the plot, but even so, rumors of strange happenings started before the family even moved into their newly built home. And now, more than a hundred and fifty years after that, townsfolk still whisper that the land is cursed.
I’m almost certain ninety-nine percent of those tales are spread just to keep tourism alive. But still, it’s hard not to be a little creeped out when the house is devoid of hundreds of costumed partygoers. Aside from that one vibrant night a year, Fairchild Manor looms as a perpetual dare for brave teenagers and the occasional troop of ghost hunters.
I’ve never been on either list.
“You’ve got this, Shiloh,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a house. Just a big, creepy, possibly haunted house on some possibly cursed land. No big deal. You’ll be fine.”
With one last compulsive glance at my phone, I clamber out of my car and make my way to the front door. The moment my finger touches the doorbell, I startle backward, nearly falling off the porch. The resounding gong of the damn button seems to echo for miles.
“Fuck a duck,” I hiss, massaging the ache in the center of my chest where my heart is furiously hammering. I glance around to see if anyone else heard–or see my embarrassing reaction.
For what seems like a lifetime, there’s no response. I’m just about ready to retreat back to my car when the door finally swings open with a slow and ominous creak. I brace myself for…
Well, I’m not entirely sure what.
Perhaps Lurch from the Addams Family, or some other monstrous welcome party? What I’m not prepared for is the sheer eyesore that is the caretaker’s eccentric ensemble.
“Well, well, what have we here? Another lost soul seeking refuge from the ghastly land of the living?”
The man standing before me looks like he raided an opera theater’s wardrobe before robbing a cheap gaudy boutique for accessories. His wild gray hair sticks out in all directions, only partially contained by a velvet top hat that’s seen better days. I notice, with no small amount of concern, that his curling leather shoes appear to be on the wrong feet.
“Um, hi, Mr. Prescott? I’m Shiloh Wilson, we spoke on the phone.” He stares down at my offered hand as if I’ve presented him with a dead fish, so I slowly withdraw it again, trying not to let my rising nerves drive me straight off the property. “I’m here about the Halloween Ball?”
“Ah, yes, of course! The grand spectacle of All Hallows’ Eve!” He claps his hands together, a cacophony of clinking rings assaulting my eardrums. “Where are my manners? Cornelius Prescott, at your service.” The strange man throws himself forward in a bow so low I’m worried he might crack his head on the floorboards.
“Thank you for taking the time to show me around today, Mr. Prescott. I can’t wait to get started planning our event.” It takes no small amount of effort to keep from laughing incredulously in the guy’s face, but I have to give him kudos, he’s obviously committed to his role as the weird caretaker in the haunted house.
“Yes, yes, a marvel it will be, indeed. But before we proceed, I simply must cleanse your aura. Can’t have any negative energies mucking up the place, can we?”
Before I can even think of a coherent response to that madness, he’s producing a bundle of garden sage from… somewhere… and clicking open an old zippo lighter. I try not to cough violently as the pungent smoke fills my nose. Cornelius immediately gets to work, waving the burning herbs around me in an elaborate choreography I’d liken to the mating dance of some tropical bird.
“Tell me, Miss Wilson, have you any malevolent spirits attached to you at the present time? Any phantoms we may need to exorcise before I invite you to enter these hallowed halls?”
“N-none that I know of,” I splutter, silently questioning whether dickbag stepbrothers count.
“Wonderful! We shouldn’t have any reason to think our hosts will be disturbed by your presence then!” He ushers me inside with a grand sweep of his arm, seemingly oblivious to just how disturbed I am by his presence. “Let us start with the grand tour, shall we? This old girl has so many wondrous stories to tell, you know. Why, just the other day, I was having tea with the ghost of the Prudence Fairchild in the conservatory, and let me tell you…”
I allow myself to zone out of Cornelius’ no doubt well-rehearsed tour speech as we wander deeper into the slowly decaying manor. Instead, I indulge in the opportunity to explore parts of the house I’ve never seen before. We sweep through room after room, each dustier and more cluttered than the last. Cobwebs cling to crystal chandeliers, and faded portraits of stern-faced ancestors glare down at us from every wall. It almost makes me sad to see such a beautiful microcosm of history fall into such disrepair.
“May I ask, Mr. Prescott,” I interrupt his current ramble about his latest séance with the Avalon witches. “Does the Ball not bring in enough money each year to maintain the place a little better?”
“I’m afraid not, dear child,” he answers wistfully. “Mayor Thornby insists he should be able to host the Ball here each year free of charge, seeing as the property belongs to the town.”
“Figures,” I mutter to myself, utterly unsurprised that Melanie’s purse-pinching father has negotiated such an arrangement. “Is that why we only ever host the event in the ballroom? Because the rest of the house is crumbling down?”
“Indeed, indeed. She could certainly do with a bit of a facelift,” Cornelius titters. “Though the crown jewel of the Fairchild Estate is certainly one ethereal place to throw a party!”
To demonstrate his point, he flings open an ornate set of double doors with a dramatic flourish and beckons me inside. With a few flicked switches, he bathes the cavernous ballroom in a golden glow that almost makes me sigh. The room is stunning, even despite the layers of dust and the slightly musty smell. Baroque moldings frame floor-to-ceiling windows that are draped in heavy scarlet satin, the rest of the wall space dominated by more imposing portraits and deep crimson wallpaper.
“It’s certainly something,” I breathe, my mind whirling with the slideshow of the various ways this incredible space has been decorated for Halloween Balls of the past. A heady excitement fills me when I remember that it’s my turn to bring to life a vision of my own.
“Oh, isn’t it just?” Cornelius beams. “Esmerelda Fairchild used to throw the most scandalous parties once upon a time. I like to convene with her each year to get her thoughts on how our illustrious Ball turns out. No pressure, but she is quite an opinionated spirit!”
“Well, then I hope not to disappoint her.”
“Marvelous!” He claps his hands together once again. “Well, I’ll give you a moment to acquaint yourself with the space and conjure a sparkling premonition for the décor. I myself have some pressing matters to attend to in the spirit realm. You know what they say, “The dead wait for no man!”
Thankfully, I don’t have to conjure an appropriate response to that as he sweeps out of the room in a flurry of velvet and jangling jewelry. I allow myself a quiet chuckle, shaking my head at the bizarre fellow before getting back to the task at hand. I pull out my notebook and start jotting down a few ideas, wandering around the vast space as I brainstorm how to bring it to life in a way that isn’t too corny.
I’m in the middle of sketching out a rough floor plan when I hear a soft creak from behind me. I freeze, pen poised in mid-air while I fight an internal battle over whether or not to turn around.
“Hello?” I manage to call out, the slight tremor in my voice echoing off the walls. “Cornelius?”
No response comes. I shrug it off, dismissing the noise as a regular occurrence in such an old house. Its bones must shift often.
But then I hear it again.
This time the sound is closer. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as if commanded by some phantom General. I turn in a slow circle, my eyes scouring every nook and cranny for a possible lurking guest.
“Okay, you can come out now. Ha, ha, very funny.”
But nothing but mocking silence answers me, yet again.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, I look back down at my notes, determined to finish up my work and get the fuck out of here. Though I’m sure I just have an overactive imagination, there’s no part of me that’s keen to hang around long enough to find out if Cornelius really does have a host of ghostly friends living within these walls.
But just as I’m scribbling down a few more notes, the chandelier above me flickers. My heart kicks into a canter, almost breaking free of my ribcage in the process.
Probably time to call it a day…I can always come back with Jemma another time.
I take a few steps back, more than ready to make a hasty exit when something flickers in my peripheral.
A ragged gasp slips between my lips as I catch sight of a dark figure hovering at the opposite end of the room, half-shrouded in shadows where the dim chandelier can’t reach. Tall, imposing, draped in a black hooded robe that obscures any hint of a face. Before I can even process what I’m seeing, an almost maniacal giggle bursts from my lips.
“I didn’t realize Cornelius employed costumed actors! Well done, you really got me. The flickering lights were a nice touch.”
The figure doesn’t answer. Instead, they raise an outstretched hand clad in a black leather glove. I watch with bated breath, intrigued to see where the performance might go next, because that is what this is… right ? But when they start to move, rushing straight at me, my automatic fight-or-flight instinct kicks in.
“Nope!” I squeal, immediately spinning around to head straight for the door. I burst out of the ballroom, the sound of my thundering footsteps ricocheting throughout the empty hallway. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me my pursuer is not slowing down, so I race on, skidding across the floorboards as I try to remember which turns will lead me back to the foyer.
I can barely huff out a sigh of relief when I spot the front door, my lungs still seized with fear. Just as I’m about to collide with the splintering wood, Cornelius steps out of a room to my left.
“My, my, what’s all this racket?” he asks, one curly, gray eyebrow raised high.
“Cornelius, what the hell? Why would you have one of your employees chase me out of the house when I’m trying to work?”
He looks almost offended. “Employees? My dear, I have no idea what you’re talking about…I work alone.”
“You what? But I–there was…” I sputter incoherently for a solid minute before I resort to just gesturing wordlessly to the corridor behind me.
“Oh ho ho, did someone have their first supernatural encounter?” He claps his motherfucking hands. “How exciting! It’s been so many years since my own awakening, I’ve almost forgotten the thrill of it all.”
I have to make a concerted effort to pick my jaw up off the floor. There’s no way this wacky dude is trying to convince me I just saw my first ghost. Absolutely not. That thing was solid, creaking across floorboards and fucking around with light switches just to scare me.
“You might want to be a little more wary of who’s coming and going in this place, Mr. Prescott. It seems your security is a little lax if any random idiot in a cloak can waltz in and start chasing people,” I grumble to him as I try to smooth down my ruffled hair.
“A cloak?” He’s unfazed by my suggestion. “How bizarre! None of the residents here are known to cavort in a cloak.”
“Yeah, it’s a total mystery.” I roll my eyes, suddenly very irritated by the quirky character I found so amusing only half an hour ago. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Prescott. I trust I’ll be able to work undisturbed next time I visit.”
With that, I wrench open the door and march back to my car, thoroughly sick of being the butt of yet another mean joke. One of these days I’ll stop expecting anything to ever change around here.