Page 16 of Hallowed & Haunted

Cold and darkness close around him as soon as the door to the living room slams shut, and Sander stomps a few steps into the hallway before he falters at the foot of the wooden staircase leading upward.

He lifts his phone to let the sorry beam of its flashlight illuminate the way up, but it isn’t much use. The narrow ray of light barely penetrates the darkness, revealing water-stained walls and a staircase that creaks under his weight with every step. Sander clenches his teeth and goes up anyway.

“Henrik?” His voice creates a weird echo as if he were in a cave rather than a house. “Very funny, you asshole. Come out and—”

The floorboards upstairs creak in response, a slow, deliberate sound that puts him on edge. But it has to be Henrik; no one else in their right mind would camp up there. There’s no serial killer lurking in the darkness, and certainly no ghost. Niillas is just in on this shit, and his other defensemen are probably having the time of their lives watching Sander squirm. Why else wouldNiillas stay in the living room and let Sander wander away on his own?

These absolute fuckers!

Sander reaches the landing and pauses, anger coursing through him, and phone raised like a shield. The ceilings here are lower than in the rooms downstairs, and the decay is omnipresent. Henrik must’ve outright lied about anybody trying to rent this shithole. The roof must be in worse shape than Sander thought. He can feel a cold draft, and it’s absolutely freezing up here, wet and slippery. Under no circumstances would a vagrant decide to camp in this place.

God, he hopes Henrik catches the cold of a lifetime for this stunt.

“Okay, you got me,” Sander calls out, forcing some lightness into his voice. “I’m properly spooked. You can come out now.”

Nothing.

The silence is absolute and oppressive, and Sander’s heartbeat drums in his ears. Why is it so quiet? Shouldn’t Henrik make a sound? Any sound? Shouldn’t Sander at least be able to hear Niillas moving around downstairs?

Damn, this is creepy, but he has to see this through.

Sander takes a look into the first room. The door is slightly ajar, and the small chamber behind is cramped with old wooden furniture. No one’s inside. Okay. Next room. Sander walks further down the corridor, sidestepping a huge wet spot where the floorboards look rotten and swollen with severe water damage. Everything is damp and decaying up here, making even moving around downright dangerous.

This is stupid. No one’s here. The sound of footsteps must’ve come from an animal, because Sander can’t imagine that Henrik has the guts to spend more than five minutes in this desolate place, even if Lars is with him to hold his hand. He should go back downstairs where Niillas is probably sitting by the fire, laughing his ass off about Sander’s paranoia.

He turns to retreat and immediately whirls around again, pulse kicking up.

There’s movement at the end of the hallway.

“Henrik?!”

A pale figure appears in the doorway of the furthest room, barely visible in the light of Sander’s phone. His relief is immediate and sharp.

“There you are, you bastard. Do you have any idea how—”

The words die in his throat.

This isn’t Henrik.

The figure is small, delicate, wearing what looks like a long white dress that moves without any breeze. Her face is turned toward him, but long dark hair hides her features.

“Who—”

The figure tilts her head, and Sander catches a glimpse of dark eye sockets and skin that looks translucent as ice.

“So pretty,” she murmurs, her voice carrying the sound of winter wind through bare branches. “So warm.”

Adrenaline floods Sander’s system, primal and overwhelming, and he takes a step backward without thinking. His heel catches on a loose floorboard, making him stumble, and with asplintering crack, the wood gives in beneath him. Suddenly, he’s down on one knee, his right leg trapped in a gap in the floor.

“Ow!”

Pain shoots through his shin as splintered wood bites into his flesh, and Sander gasps. His phone slips from his hand, clattering across the floor before coming to rest against the far wall, its light now barely a pale glimmer in the darkness.

“Shit!”

Sander tries to pull free, but the floor is slippery and the broken boards have him trapped. Jagged edges bite through his jeans, and he knows he’s bleeding.

“Niillas?”