Page 12 of Hallowed & Haunted
“No.” Niillas’ gaze is burning now, and Sander is drowning in the depth of his eyes. Not for the first time either. “Idiots can’t help what they are. Reckless people choose to ignore consequences.”
The words sting, especially because Sander isn’t sure what they’re talking about anymore. Probably unstable buildings? Hungry forest spirits? Lacking ice hockey tactics?
“I’m not ignoring anything. I just don’t believe in ghost stories.”
“What about bear stories? Wolf stories?”
Sander frowns.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Eriksen. No cell service, as you might have noticed, no neighbors for kilometers. If something goes wrong, if you get hurt, or lost, or if we encounter something dangerous, we’re on our own.”
Sander hasn’t checked his reception, and now he’d feel foolish pulling out his mobile.
“I’m a forestry student,” he says instead, managing to sound only vaguely petulant. “I know how to spend a night in the woods. Also, please tell me you aren’t worried about an indoor bear attack.”
Niillas gives him a very strange look.
“Any number of things can kill you in the wilderness. And you didn’t even think to bring a sweater or a flashlight. I bet you didn’t even think to check the weather forecast. That’s not bravery, Captain. That’s just foolish.”
The criticism lands hard, partly because it’s accurate. Sander had been so focused on the social dynamics of the bet, on proving himself to the team, that he hadn’t considered the practical implications of spending a night in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere.
“Fine,” he says, suddenly too tired to keep arguing. “Point taken. I should have been better prepared. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Niillas says dryly.
They lapse into a silence that feels as cold and unfriendly as the abandoned house.
That’s when Sander hears it.
A scratching sound, faint but persistent, like claws dragging across wood. It’s coming from somewhere above them, from the upper floor they haven’t explored yet.
“Did you hear that?” Sander whispers.
Niillas tilts his head, listening. The scratching comes again, followed by a soft thud, as if something has been dropped.
“Probably just mice,” Niillas says, but his posture is alert in a way that reminds Sander uncomfortably of a predator scenting prey.
“Big mice.”
The sound moves across the ceiling, from one end of the house to the other.
Footsteps.
Definitely footsteps.
Sander’s heart rate kicks up, and he scoots closer to Niillas without thinking about it.
“Maybe someone else is squatting here,” Sander suggests, though the story sounds unconvincing to his own ears. Who would camp out here? “Someone who doesn’t want company.”
“Maybe.”
But Niillas doesn’t sound like he believes it either.
The footsteps stop, and the silence that follows is somehow worse than the noise. Sander strains his ears, trying to catch any hint of movement, but there’s nothing except the crackle of the fire and his own rapid breathing.
“We should check it out,” Sander says, though the idea of going up there in the darkness makes his skin crawl.