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AUTUMN

T he fog curled thick and low through the trees, like it had something to hide.

Autumn Sinclair tightened her grip on the steering wheel of her ancient Subaru and leaned forward, squinting at the winding mountain road ahead.

Somewhere between the faded GPS signal and the whispering pines, the town sign came into view—weathered wood carved with ivy-scrolled letters: Welcome to Celestial Pines – Population: Who’s Asking?

She huffed under her breath. “Charming.”

The engine sputtered like it, too, had opinions, but the car held together long enough to coast into the heart of town.

Celestial Pines looked like a postcard from a witchy lifestyle blog.

Everything about it was a little too quaint, a little too still, like even time knew not to mess with this place.

Mist clung to crooked rooftops, chimneys puffed lazy smoke, and a row of glowing shop windows blinked to life just as her tires pulled into a parking space beside an overly enthusiastic lamppost.

She stepped out, the mountain air crisp and alive with something not quite definable. It smelled like rain-soaked cedar, a hint of burnt sugar, and—beneath it all—that familiar electric charge of old magic.

Autumn hoisted her duffel over one shoulder and shut the car door with her hip.

Her boots crunched on gravel as she scanned the buildings.

The Spellbound Sip stood directly across from her, its windows fogged with warmth, a chalkboard sign proclaiming: Today's Mood: Cautiously Hopeful.

A faint laugh escaped her lips. At least the coffee had a sense of humor.

But she wasn’t here for mood lattes or mystical ambiance.

Her eyes drifted upward to the looming silhouette just past the town square. Briar Hollow Inn. Even from a distance, it looked like it knew too many secrets and wasn't inclined to share.

Her new… employer lived there. Or worked there. Or haunted it himself, depending on who she’d talked to in her very short email exchange.

She adjusted the strap of her bag, muttering to herself, “In, cleanse the house, collect the check, and get out.”

“Planning a quick escape, are we?”

Autumn startled. The voice had come from behind her, deep and smooth and entirely too amused. She turned.

There, standing like he’d been plucked straight out of a lumberjack-themed daydream, was a man with dark brown hair tousled by the breeze and eyes the color of golden hazel, all warmth and mischief.

He was tall—too tall to be casual about it—and broad across the shoulders in a way that made her spine go straight.

His sleeves were rolled up, flannel open over a thermal shirt that didn’t hide a damn thing. And he was smiling. Of course he was.

She blinked. “Let me guess. Dorian Hawthorne.”

He gave a mock bow. “At your service.”

“You’re… cheerier than I expected.”

“You were expecting brooding and ominous?” he teased.

“You’re the guy who owns the haunted mansion,” she deadpanned. “I figured ‘melancholy’ came with the deed.”

That made him laugh. It was a rich, full sound, the kind that settled somewhere under your skin.

“Fair,” he said. “But I’m trying to lean into whimsical instead of tragic. Tragic’s overdone.”

Autumn studied him for a second. He didn’t look like a man tangled up in ghost stories and family curses. He looked like someone who gave out too many hugs and made the local diner staff blush. And his eyes—those flickering, almost-glowing hazel eyes—kept lingering on her a little too long.

She cleared her throat. “You know, you left out some details in your email.”

“Did I?” he asked, flashing that too-easy grin that looked like it belonged on a cinnamon roll more than a real person.

“You made it sound like a routine cleansing job. And this place…” Her eyes drifted past him to the looming silhouette of the inn just beyond the town square. “It doesn’t feel routine.”

He didn’t deny it. Just shrugged, casual-like, and nodded toward the winding trail that cut behind the shops. “Come see it for yourself.”

The walk to the inn was short, but not silent. Wind stirred through the pines, carrying scents of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. A crow cawed once, low and rough, then flapped off like it didn’t want to be involved.

With every step, the atmosphere thickened. Not oppressive, but aware. Watching.

Briar Hollow Inn sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its peaked roof and curling ivy looking like something out of a forgotten fairytale.

It was beautiful, if your idea of beauty included ominous charm and a strong possibility of mild possession.

The porch sagged in places, creaking under its own memories.

“Did it just… sigh at us?” Autumn muttered as the boards groaned beneath her boots.

“It does that,” Dorian said, clearly amused. “Especially when the weather shifts. Or people with strong energy show up.”

Inside, the scent changed. Old cedar, honeysuckle, and something else—thicker. A sorrow that clung to the wallpaper, threaded through the floorboards.

Autumn stepped into the foyer, dropping her bag near an umbrella stand shaped like a dragon skull. Her fingers brushed instinctively against the small charm in her coat pocket—a smooth river stone etched with a grounding sigil. She never went into a haunted place without it.

“You feel that?” she asked softly, scanning the ceiling with narrowed eyes.

Dorian hesitated behind her, then said, “Like stepping into someone else’s memory?”

She turned her head, just enough to catch the edge of seriousness in his voice. For a man who smiled like warm cider and wore dad flannel unironically, he suddenly felt… familiar. Like he understood.

“It’s heavy,” she said.

“It gets heavier upstairs,” he replied. “Want the tour?”

“Lead the way.”

He moved with a confidence that was somehow both easy and careful, like he knew the walls might shift on a whim.

She followed, notebook in hand, eyes cataloging the details—a cracked mirror in the hallway that reflected candlelight though none were lit, a painting that seemed to frown when she passed.

“The sitting room,” he said, gesturing to a parlor with wingback chairs and a fireplace. “Sometimes the fire lights itself. No one’s ever figured out why.”

She nodded, noting it silently.

He continued, pointing out a dining room with a grandfather clock that ticked backward on Tuesdays, and a library where the books reportedly rearranged themselves alphabetically by emotion.

Autumn let the information wash over her, half listening, half absorbing the house itself. There was grief here. But also yearning. The kind of energy that clung to joy once, and didn’t know how to let go of its shadow.

As they climbed the staircase, Dorian asked, “So, why ghost whispering? Seems like a tough gig.”

She hesitated. Most people didn’t ask that. They either recoiled or romanticized it.

“It wasn’t a choice,” she said finally. “Spirits find me. I help them pass on. Better that than being haunted by stories I can’t finish.”

He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was softer than she expected.

“That’s… kinda beautiful.”

“It’s a job.”

He gave her a sidelong smile. “Still beautiful.”

They reached the top floor. Dorian stopped at the last door on the right, pushing it open gently.

“Welcome to your haunted home-away-from-home,” he said with a wink.

Autumn stepped inside.

The room was surprisingly warm. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, pooling on the floor like spilled honey. The bed was made, simple but inviting. A faint scent of lavender clung to the air.

She crossed to the window, running her fingers along the sill. They paused on a faint, scorched etching—an old protection rune, partially rubbed away. Her brows furrowed. Whoever lived here before had tried to keep something out. Or in.

Behind her, Dorian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes unreadable for once.

“You good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot to take in.”

“I’ll give you some space,” he said, but didn’t move. His gaze lingered, not in a way that made her feel exposed, but like he was trying to memorize something soft and fleeting.

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t spook easy,” she said quietly, still facing the window. “But this place… it wants something.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It wants to be heard.”

She turned back to him, studying the man who should’ve felt like a walking contradiction—too open, too earnest for a place like this. And yet, somehow, he fit.

He finally pushed off the frame, flashing her a smile. “I’ll let you unpack. Holler if the bed tries to eat you or the curtains whisper secrets.”

“Noted,” she said, voice wry.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the room fell quiet.

She crossed to her bag, unzipped it, and pulled out her cleansing kit. Vials of black salt. Charcoal. Candles etched with runes. She lined them on the dresser in practiced motion, but her hands weren’t as steady as she wanted them to be.

The room wasn’t oppressive. But it wasn’t at peace either. And somewhere beneath the floorboards, or maybe deeper than that, something was watching. Waiting.

Autumn closed her eyes, taking a long breath.

She’d come to banish ghosts. But it was the living man with the golden eyes and smile like sunlight that was already haunting her.