4. Mona
Something’s clinically wrong with me. That’s the only explanation. Or he drugged me somehow and is manipulating me under some kind of persuasion. Because there’s no rational reason that I should be this into a man who’s stalking me. Right? Right.
But …
Maybe for once in my life, I shouldn’t fight something just for the sake of defiance. At least until he gives me a good reason to. It’s not that I intentionally face the world with my fists drawn. It’s just my automatic defense mechanism.
Given the track record for people entering and exiting my life, it’s not a wild assumption that he will inevitably be yet another disappointment.
Like my parents, like any man I’ve ever opened up to or let in physically and emotionally.
Like any friend I’ve ever kept. All relationships inevitably end, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure that I’m the reason why.
Not to pity myself because I know who I am and how I come across, but I think that’s the truth.
I don’t hide my emotions, and I certainly don’t cater to others.
But it’s part of what’s kept me safe all these years.
Living out of your car is dangerous, especially when you’re a young woman or a seventeen-year-old girl in high school.
There were many times I had to escape uncomfortable or predatory situations.
Thankfully, I was able to slip away each time.
I think part of that reason is because of my shell.
It’s not going to fall away easily, not until I’m certain in my soul that I don’t need to run anymore.
In the meantime, I’m grateful to the Halloween gods for giving me this delicious, spooky treat. I haven’t even had a taste, and I know it’ll be good and sweet.
My timer goes off on my phone, and I groan, knowing that I have to head downstairs for the morning meeting. And that hours of painting bratty kids’ faces will follow.
I kill the repetitive noise and see I missed a text from my mystery man.
Spooky Boy: Good morning. Have a good day. Tell me if I can make it better ;)
I heart the message with a stupid smile on my face and tuck my phone into my chest bag, along with my lipstick and wallet.
On the rare chance that someone other than me and my masked man knows this room is here, I want to keep my absolute necessities on me.
The only thing I’m leaving are my car keys, but I have them hidden, so I think it’ll be fine.
“Bye, Pen. I’ll be back later,” I tell my girl Penelope before I press the release button next to the invisible door.
My mystery man made good on his word about providing for my little girl. When my Spooky Boy texted me, I went to pick up a delivery downstairs. Some assistant with the world on his shoulders gave me a box of goodies. The present had everything I could need and then some.
A misting bottle to spray in her marble shell. A hygrometer. Mealworms. Tweezers so I don’t have to touch them. And a printout receipt of an enclosure he ordered on Etsy, of all places.
Of course, no identifiable information was on the paper, but honestly, it already told me everything I needed to know about him.
Not once did he bat an eye at the mention that I had a pet spider. Instead, he provided everything I’d need to keep her safe. He cares about the small creatures of the world, too, and that tells me a lot about his empathy and who he is.
I don’t hear anyone after a moment passes, so I pull the door back and slip into the well-lit hallway, ready for work. My room sits at the very end of the east wing, and I make sure the door is secured behind me before I spin on my heel.
As I stroll down the long hallway, the old floor creaks beneath my boots, and a breeze hits the side of my neck. Not once since I moved in here have I felt wind on the third floor.
In a split second, I’m incredibly aware of everything around me. The two doors on opposite sides of me that have been locked since I moved in. The dark wallpaper with glowing golden lights, positioned on the wall beside the doors.
Everything is the same to my left. Not a speck of dust out of place. The same crown molding, the same large oak door—they are as they should be. But as I glance across the hall to my right, my blood runs ice cold, because something’s different ...
The door isn’t locked anymore. It’s not even latched.
My breathing hitches, and my body angles toward the dark inch gap in the door. Maybe it’s a storage room, and someone needed to get in this morning, and they forgot to shut it. That’s easily explainable.
Maybe my masked man is hiding inside. With flowers and another one of those cards that I’ve come to love.
Maybe it’s a ghost, and this place is really haunted.
“Mona.”
The voice comes out of nowhere, and I jump ten feet in the air, every hair on my body standing on end.
But my fears are instantly calmed when my brain processes who’s now standing a few feet away at the top of the staircase. My eyes are forever grateful to see that it was Shelly, one of the managers, calling out to me.
“Whoa. Are you okay?” she asks nervously, and then a playful smile drifts onto her face. “Careful, creeping around up here. People say this is the most haunted floor.”
Great. That’s super reassuring.
“I’m f-fine.” I run my hands down my hair, smoothing my anxiety and the waves. “The door was …” I glance over, my words dissipating. My head straightens atop my spine. No fucking way. With absolute disbelief and a breathy whisper, I continue, “The door was open.”
Shelly giggles like I’m playing a joke on her, and I really, really wish I were. “I doubt that. I’m pretty sure it’s full of old furniture from when this place was a hotel. It’s been locked for decades. I don’t even know where we’d find the key.”
My body is crawling, like a thousand maggots are burrowing under my skin. And I suddenly have a desire to sleep in my cold car tonight rather than wander back up here alone.
Trying to appear like I’m not losing my mind, I try to play it off. “Right. That makes sense. I must’ve imagined it.”
But the unsettling feeling of fingertips trailing down the back of my neck doesn’t leave me as we walk downstairs together. Not during the staff meeting. Not during the six hours I spend painting faces and helping around the festivities, avoiding retreating to my room.
Not when dusk falls, and I have no choice but to face my fears if I want to sleep somewhere warm tonight.
I’ll be fine. I’m sure I just worked myself up over nothing, and now I’m making myself paranoid.
“Shit,” I whisper as I wrap my hand firmly around the wooden railing, my stomach climbing up my throat with each thumping second.
My skin is humming, each nerve standing on end as I try to anticipate what’s to come. I take my first step, trying to swallow my fears.
“It’s fine,” I whisper nervously to myself.
My voice turns internal as I ascend the tall staircase step by step to the second floor.
If I’ve avoided being caught by people thus far, I can avoid a possible ghost. Besides, ghosts aren’t real, right? Okay, I think they’re real, but they’re not real here. This is an off-limits area. No ghouls allowed.
If there is a real ghost here, it’s probably a super-nice one who totally isn’t trying to scare me. What if it just wants a friend? Someone to chill with? Maybe I should sing it a song. Selflessly, of course, for the ghost and not to give me some ounce of comfort.
My mind is blank, and I rack it for any song I can.
The second my brain latches on to one, the words are already flowing from my lips.
Hopefully, the spirit likes “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton because that’s what they’re getting.
The normally upbeat tune sounds stressed and squeaky, coming from my whispered voice as I reach the second floor and turn to go up to the third.
The light from the second floor gradually fades away, and by the time I’m halfway up the staircase, I can’t see a foot in front of me.
My heartbeats pulse heavily in my ears, the swooshing blood somehow heightening my paranoia.
It’s so quiet up here that the silence almost has a droning noise of its own.
Each breath is faster than the last as I tiptoe across the hardwood floor in the pitch-black with my hand on the wall—my only navigation tool. The wallpaper is soft beneath my fingers, guiding me along the curve to the opening of the hallway, with my hidden room at the very end.
Ten more steps, and I’m there. Maybe a few more than ten, given how short my current strides are.
I trail my hand over the wooden oak door of the room I thought was open earlier, and thankfully, I find it closed.
“Oh, thank God.”
Maybe I really imagined it. A lot of changes have happened in my life lately, and maybe this is how my brain is coping—by creating a narrative about this spooky house. I need it to get itself worked out because I’m over it.
A wave of relief washes over me, and my shoulders gradually relax as I take another step into the void. My body senses the danger before my mind, freezing in place as a wooden creak sounds behind me.
My bones rattle, and my breath halts mid-inhale.
I’m just imagining this. It’s not real. That would be ridiculous. There’s no one or nothing behind me—
“Leave,” a deep voice echoes down the silent corridor, the eerie sound snaking its way around my entire body and tightening around my throat in a deadly threat.
Another creak groans from the floor, closer than before.
“Leave.”
My steps fall heavily on the wooden floor as I race blindly toward the end of the hall, my instincts kicking in. I fumble for the button hidden on the sconce, but all I can feel is the stupid metal backplate.
“No, no, no.” I’m panting, completely out of breath and terrified in a way I didn’t know was physically possible.
Gripping the winding arm of the light, I follow it back to the base, searching for the flush button that sits above it. I don’t feel it, but I must’ve hit it because the door clicks out of place.