Page 3

Chapter

Three

H ayes looks at me, his expression full of sympathy. “Yeah, he’s planning to propose to Marissa. He told us about it a few weeks ago. Guess he didn’t think you’d be here when he did it.”

My heart clenches painfully in my chest. Fantastic. He must really love her.

“You seriously had no idea?” Hayes’s brows furrow deeply.

“Not even an inkling,” I respond, as we make our way down a long, dim hallway.

Hayes touches my arm, and little electric sparks dance up to my shoulder. I’ve always imagined his hands on me—long, thick fingers, rough, warm palms.

He seems to read my mind because he gives me a wolfish smile.

Heat spreads across my chest. And great, now I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. Perfect.

“Seriously, though. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said it so?—”

We pass an elevator and find a back stairway. “It’s fine.” It isn’t really, I feel like a joke has been played on me and I don’t understand the punchline.

“The way he just talked to you isn’t fine.”

“Oh, I know. He’s being a dick. I was just trying to understand what happened.”

Hayes leads the way down the narrow steps. The air grows cooler as we descend, the sounds of the group’s voices echoing faintly below us. Just as I catch a glimpse of the passageway, Agatha appears, gliding by with a carafe of coffee in one hand and a large plate of sugar-frosted cinnamon buns in the other.

As we enter the room, Agatha nods to us, but her expression is distant, troubled. It’s only then I realize she’s not actually looking at us but past us, her gaze fixed on the darkness of the stairwell. Her eyes narrow, as if trying to pierce through the shadows to see something that isn’t there—or something that is. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing but shadows.

“See, they caught up with us. Now, please, Agatha, tell us the rest of the story,” Tessa urges, her voice whiny and impatient.

Agatha places the pastries on the table between the group, her hand lingering on the plate as she looks over at me and Hayes. There’s a hesitation, a weighing of our worthiness to hear whatever dark tale she’s about to unfold. Honestly, I’m just here for the cinnamon buns.

I glance at Jonathan. He’s focused entirely on his coffee, one hand wrapped around the steaming mug, lazily licking cinnamon sugar frosting from the fingers of his other hand. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as we step into the room.

Agatha clears her throat, the sound sharp and wet. “Well, the story you’re asking to hear was all over the newspapers in 1985. Oh, I was about fifteen at the time. I guess that’s why it stuck with me then.” Her voice is low, serious.

I take a seat in one of the empty chairs, and Tessa slides me over a freshly poured cup of coffee. The rich aroma fills the air, mingling with the sweet scent of the cinnamon buns. I help myself to two and place them on the plate in front of me. Jonathan always hated when I indulged in anything unhealthy, constantly warning me that I’d lose my figure. Defiantly, I stuff a whole bun into my mouth, chewing noisily.

Jonathan continues to ignore me.

Marissa, however, seems to be watching me. Her eyes flicker between the buns and the sad wedges of cantaloupe on her plate. She’s probably trying to convince herself that the bland fruit tastes as good as my sticky, sugary roll of heaven. I make a show of licking each finger with exaggerated relish, savoring every last bit of sweetness—just like I used to do with her boyfriend’s cum.

Marissa’s eyes widen, a mix of horror and envy flashing across her face before she quickly looks away. She pretends to become engrossed in her fruit, even adding a few blueberries for a walk on the wild side. Griffin and Hayes exchange amused glances. Griffin raises an eyebrow and grins at me, clearly impressed by my unapologetic indulgence. Hayes just shakes his head, chuckling softly as he mutters something about “living vicariously through breakfast treats.”

“This place was vacant back then. Rundown and neglected,” Agatha begins, her voice dropping to a near whisper, drawing us all in. “When Harold’s mistress finally died—ending her own life in one of the bathtubs upstairs?—”

Her words hang in the air, and I nearly choke on my bun as nervous chuckles ripple through the group. Agatha’s tone, however, remains serious, a hint of sadness lacing her words. “The entire estate went to the town. There was no one left to care for the place, and the town… well, the cost of maintaining an estate like this was beyond what the town of Everwood could afford.”

Agatha’s hands twist nervously at the bottom of her apron, her eyes distant as she continues, “No, the town could only afford to employ two security guards to keep out trespassers. You can imagine how well that worked.”

I sip at my coffee and listen intently, the warmth steadying me as I listen.

“In 1985, one of the security guards who worked here was named Phillip Mosely, and he became well known for giving illicit tours through the estate and the park. They were mostly for young high-school-aged kids. College kids. Mostly girls, many he’d coerce into paying for the tour by sexually explicit means.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Tessa whispers.

“That was the eighties,” Agatha replies. “Anyway, two beautiful high-school freshmen snuck out of their house on a cool, crisp October night.”

Of course it was October. If it was January right now, I bet the story would take place in January of 1985.

“That night they met Phillip Mosely just inside the front foyer. He incapacitated both girls, stripped them naked, and tied them to the radiators of two separate bedrooms. Their names were Melissa and Jolene. They were only fifteen.”

“Melissa sounds a lot like Marissa, no?” Griffin teases.

“What the fuck am I listening to?” Hayes asks me under his breath.

Agatha continues, her tone dropping lower. Almost sinister. “Phillip Mosely started with Melissa. Sexually assaulting her and stabbing her dozens of times. Then he dragged her into the closet, wrapped the iron’s cord around her neck, and hanged her from the clothes rod until the life drained out of her.”

“Seriously,” Hayes mutters again, his shoulder pressing firmly against mine. “What the fuck am I listening to?”

I turn toward him and smile. His eyes are a brilliant sparkling steel gray. “She’s probably making it up. The scary stories, the creepy vibes—it’s all for us tourists. I bet it’s what keeps this place in business.” But even as I say it, thoughts of Lyle and the hazy, drunken stories he told me last night creep in. The guy has to work here, or maybe the whole town’s in on the charade during Halloween season.

“What happened to the other girl? Jolene?” Tessa asks. She’s chewing on her fingernail again, nibbling it down to nothing.

Agatha’s voice continues in a somber tone. “Jolene was in the next room, forced to listen to everything that was happening to her best friend.”

Tessa shakes her head, her voice barely a whisper. “How horrible…”

“However…” Agatha continues, her eyes glinting with a mix of intrigue and darkness, “Jolene escaped. Untied herself and ran down the back stairwell, straight into the gardens.”

“Let me guess,” I cut in, half expecting the cliché. “She ran through the woods to the old amusement park.”

Agatha gives a small nod, acknowledging my interruption. “You’re absolutely correct. She hid in the funhouse, trying to stay as quiet as she could.”

“Please tell me he didn’t find her,” Tessa groans.

Agatha pauses, savoring the suspense. “Unfortunately, he did. And he took all night to torture her,” she says dramatically, then stops, her gaze sweeping over us, gauging our reactions. It’s clear she’s waiting to see if we’re sufficiently horrified by the tale.

“What happened to him? Did he get caught?” I ask, leaning forward. Part of me expects her to say he’s still out there, living in the abandoned park, waiting for groups like us to terrorize after all these years.

“Oh, sure,” Agatha sighs wearily, the weight of the story pulling at her voice. “You can Google him. He’s still in prison, still maintaining his innocence. Claims he must have gone momentarily insane. Possessed. Doesn’t remember any of it.”

“And now the place where all that shit went down, you’ve turned into an escape room?” Griffin asks in disbelief.

Agatha’s lips curl into a wicked smile.

“What a way to monetize misery,” Griffin mutters, shaking his head.

The rest of us remain silent, waiting to see if there’s more to the story, something lurking beneath the surface. I can’t help but sneak my phone out under the table, using my thumb to quietly type "Philip Mosley Everwood Mansion 1985." A second later, the search results pop up, and my stomach drops. Every gruesome detail Agatha’s been spilling is right there, documented in black and white. It’s all true.Why the hell would Tessa book a place like this?

Agatha moves toward the coffee machine in the corner, her footsteps almost eerily soft on the floor. She pulls out another carafe of coffee, the rich aroma briefly cutting through the tension. “Over the years, so many poor souls have died here, whether by violence or sickness,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “Most folks around here say the place is full of spirits, just wanting to tell people their stories.” She replaces the empty carafe with the new one, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. “Or,” she adds, her tone taking on a haunting edge, “to pay back the evil that’s been done to them.”

Her words settle in the air like a low, thick fog, seeping into every corner of the room, sinking into our very bones.

A heavy silence blankets us, the kind that feels almost alive, pulsing with unspoken thoughts.

“I have a question now,” Marissa suddenly says, her voice slicing through the quiet.

“Oh, of course, dear,” Agatha replies, her lips breaking into a genuine smile, the heavy atmosphere momentarily dispelled.

“How far are the outlets from here?”

When I look up from my book, it’s only because someone is knocking on the wall. I slide my ‘ Killer Reading Vibes’ bookmark onto the page to keep my place and hold the book to my chest. The rapping sounds continue—muffled, strange, almost like a distant echo. Someone in the next room must be trying to get my attention.

I listen for a moment longer, hoping the noise will stop. I open my book again, trying to ignore the banging, but they grow louder and faster. Ugh, I don’t want to stop reading. I was just about to get to the dirty part.

But the knocking grows louder, more insistent, as if whatever or whoever is on the other side is losing patience. The rhythm picks up—harder, faster, almost frantic. Okay, this is starting to piss me off. I slam my book down on the small table next to the bed and sit up, my patience officially at zero. “What?!” I yell, my voice sharp with irritation.

The thumps falter for a brief second, then resume with a relentless, rhythmic thud, thud, thudding. The sound pulses through the walls, more persistent than ever.

I peel myself off the bed, huffing in frustration, and stomp into the hallway. I glance one way, then the other. It’s probably Hayes telling me they’re back. Or Griffin, maybe. Why can’t they just text like normal people?

Maybe they’re all irritated at me for skipping out on the shopping trip to the outlets after this morning’s tour and horror story time. But honestly, I needed a break. I was exhausted from last night, and after hearing what Hayes said about a pending proposal, I needed some serious self-care. A scalding-hot bath and a few of the mini bottles of whiskey I’d tucked away in my bag did the trick. I’ve been reading in bed ever since, enjoying my buzz and the quiet, until now.

I pad silently down the long hallway, reach the next room, and pound on the door. “Quit it, fucker!”

The pounding intensifies, louder and quicker, like whoever is behind that door is desperate for me to come inside.

I lift my hand to knock again but freeze mid-motion. What if it’s not Hayes or Griffin? What if it’s Jonathan and Marissa?

What if they’re…?

Ew, gross. I immediately regret even thinking it.

I pull my hand back, skin crawling with the mental image, but I still find myself sliding closer to the door, pressing my ear against it to try and listen.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! The pounding is suddenly against the door itself, the force of it exploding in my ear, startling me so badly that my heart zings in my chest, sending a fire through my veins. They must see me through the peephole—those idiots. This has Hayes or Griffin written all over it, playing some stupid prank.

I squint at the peephole, folding my arms across my chest in a defiant stance. “Come on!” I shout over the noise, frustration lacing my voice. It feels like we’re back in the dorms, messing around like teenagers.

But then, something else catches my attention.

From down the hallway comes a strange, low humming, followed by a soft buzzing. Muted laughter trickles through the air, followed by a loud electronic ding!

The elevator doors slide open, and all my friends spill out into the hallway. The loud rapping on the door abruptly stops.

I quickly count my friends, naming them in my head as they emerge. Jonathan the asshole. Marissa, the asshole’s new girlfriend. Tessa. Griffin. Hayes, bringing up the rear. They’re all bundled in knit beanies and thick, warm hoodies, their arms weighed down by dozens of shopping bags. They’re just returning from the outlets—not in the room next to me, pounding on my wall.

What the hell?

Tessa holds up her bags and smiles a big toothy smile at me. “I bought so many things. Tori, I’ll go back with you if you want this weekend.”

“That’s okay. I’m good,” I reply, though my voice wavers. Am I good? I try to convince myself it’s just the booze messing with my head, but the uneasy feeling lingers.

“Okay,” she squeezes my arm as the group passes. “We’re going to relax a bit, clean up, and meet for dinner in an hour, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer, my voice barely above a murmur.

“Hey,” Hayes says, catching my attention as he opens the door I’m standing in front of. “Everything all right?” His tone is gentle, but there’s a knowing edge to it—a question you ask someone who doesn’t look all right. It’s the kind of question meant for the person who doesn’t realize they’re causing concern. Which, more often than not, seems to be me.

I take a deep breath and smile as I exhale. “Yeah, it’s…something weird just happened.”

He nudges the door open wider and rests his hand on the small of my back as we walk inside. He looks down at me with a smile that makes his eyes sparkle—a look I’ve seen men make often toward me, right before they remember they left the stove on or have a girlfriend.

Inside, the room is still and silent. Hayes tosses a shopping bag down onto the large king-sized bed and unzips his hoodie. The sound of the zipper cutting through the silence is almost jarring. I slowly scan the room, my eyes darting to every corner, searching for any sign of who—or what—could have been pounding on the walls and door. But there’s no one here.

“Tori?” Hayes calls, pulling me back to reality.

“Mmm,” I respond, dipping my head to peer under the bed. Nothing. No one. I slide open his closet door, revealing only empty space.

“What’s going on?” Hayes asks, his expression shifting to one of concern, the worry etched into the lines of his face.

“I was just in my room, reading,” I explain, my voice tinged with unease. “Next door to yours, and someone was banging on the walls.”

The corner of his lips turn up into a smirk. “And what have you been drinking?”

Shit, can he smell it on me?

Before I can answer, a soft thudding sound starts up again, this time seeming to come from my room. My eyes widen as the noise grows more insistent, but just as quickly, it fades into a rhythmic, almost tired thumping. It’s as if whatever is causing the sound is growing tired of not being answered.

“ That would be the pipes in an old place like this,” Hayes says, his tone casual. “Is that what you heard?”

My shoulders relax a bit, and a shaky laugh bubbles out of me. Pipes. Just pipes and too much whiskey. I cling to his explanation like a lifeline, trying to convince myself that’s all it was.

Yeah, let’s go with that for now. I attempt a smile, but it feels brittle on my face.