Page 5

Pearl

The truck rattled as I drove down the long stretch of backroad that led to Skull Island. Every bump and crack in the pavement jolted up through the seat and into my spine, but I didn’t dare complain. This was the first solid job we’d had in over a month, and we needed it. Badly.

Dad was counting on me. Hell, the whole business was. And even though I’d grumbled a little when he told me where the job was, I’d thrown my supplies in the back, grabbed my sketch pad, and pointed the truck toward the lake this morning.

“Just a repaint,”

he’d said that morning, sipping his coffee like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Inside and out. Should be enough to keep us afloat through the fall.”

Haunted house. Skull Island. Not exactly a standard Monday morning gig.

Now here I was, windows cracked as lake air seeped in, and the tall trees leaned overhead like they knew something I didn’t. The forest was thicker out here. The sort of place where you could get lost if you weren’t careful, or maybe never found at all.

The bridge came into view. It rose up in a gentle arc over the water. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel as I crossed it. On one side of the bridge: summer lake vibes. Fishermen in faded hats. Canoes gliding through sunlit ripples.

But the moment I passed the halfway point, the energy shifted.

The trees grew denser. Shadows stretched longer. The air chilled, even though the sun was high.

They were good at this.

Really good.

By the time the wheels touched the other side, it felt like I’d driven through some kind of invisible curtain. Normal life behind me. Something darker ahead.

The road narrowed and curved through the woods, gravel crunching beneath the tires. A massive wooden sign arched overhead: Welcome to Skull Island Haunted House and Ghost Boat Tours.

It looked hand-carved and weathered by years of sun and rain. Creepy but charming. Kind of like a Halloween town gone rogue.

There were no other cars in the lot when I pulled in. Not even a staff vehicle. Just rows of cracked pavement and faded yellow lines. I parked near the entrance, turned off the ignition, and sat for a beat.

“You’ve got this, Pearl,”

I muttered.

I grabbed my canvas bag from the passenger seat, stuffed with sketches, color swatches, and paint samples. The strap caught on the gearshift, and I nearly spilled the whole thing trying to yank it free. Classic.

Outside the truck, the quiet was immediate. No birdsong. No voices. Just wind through trees and the distant creak of something swinging. A sign? A shutter? I didn’t know. But it fit.

I looked down at myself.

Paint-splattered shirt with a smiley face sticker I hadn’t removed from my last job. Ripped jeans. Work boots covered in paint splatters. My hair was in a messy braid, and my hands still had a smear of green across the knuckles from the painting I had worked on over the weekend.

Maybe I should have dressed... less like a rogue Crayola box.

But it was too late now.

I followed the wooded path leading into the main attraction area. The gravel crunched beneath my boots. The trees opened into a clearing, and the attractions spread out like a bizarre theme park.

To the left: a crooked concession stand shaped like a witch’s cauldron. The menu boards were made to look like burned parchment, advertising ghost chili nachos and witches’ brew slushies.

Farther up: a fortune teller’s booth. Purple curtains fluttered around a crystal ball. A wooden sign read Madame Doom Knows All.

Across from it was a gift shop with a crooked roof, carved skeletons hanging from the eaves, and glowing red eyes peeking from boarded windows. The door was chained shut.

And finally, straight ahead.

The haunted house.

It loomed at the top of the hill, a hulking two-story monster of a structure. Black shutters. Creaking porch. Real vines clinging to the sides. Thunder rumbled from a hidden speaker as I stepped closer.

“Whoa,”

I whispered.

The photos hadn’t done it justice. This thing was massive. Bigger than any haunted house I’d ever seen.

I took a step toward the porch, and a deep, gravelly voice rumbled behind me.

“We’re closed. Tourists aren’t allowed on the island right now.”

I whirled around, startled.

And forgot how to breathe.

He stood halfway down the path, arms crossed, muscles bulging beneath a black tee that clung to him like sin. Leather cut slung across his shoulders, weathered from wear. His hair was a mess of dark waves, like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a fight. Tattoos snaked down both arms, inked muscle and menace.

But it was his eyes that hit the hardest. Icy and sharp, like he could see right through me and wasn’t all that impressed.

My heart stuttered.

“Doll,”

he said and tilted his head.

“I’m sure you’re disappointed you can’t get your rocks off being scared right now, but you’ve got to go.”

His words hit me a second too late.

I blinked.

“What? No! I’m not getting my rocks off. I mean, I’m not here to.”

He raised an eyebrow, and amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

God help me, he was even hotter when he smirked.

“I’m not here to be scared,”

I blurted, gesturing wildly toward the house.

“I’m here for this. To paint it.”

He blinked once. Twice.

“You’re the painter?”

His tone suggested I’d just claimed to be a dragon slayer.

I squared my shoulders.

“That would be me.”

Anchor

The sensors at the bridge tripped just before the truck rolled into the parking lot and alerted me that someone was coming across. I was already watching the monitors, sipping my coffee, and trying not to think about the body still lying cold in the cellar.

I had figured it was the painter.

What I expected was some rolly-polly dude in overalls, maybe with a pencil behind his ear and a thermos of gas station coffee.

What I got was her, and I figured she was looking for a scare or coming to try and sell me something.

She stepped out of the truck and paused, scanning the grounds. Short and curvy, with a thick build that did dangerous things to my concentration. She had long hair braided loosely over her shoulder, a face that was way too pretty for this line of work, and legs for days tucked into worn jeans ripped at the knees. Her shirt was covered in paint splotches, some bright as candy, others faded like battle scars. She tugged a bag from the cab, something bulky and canvas, stuffed with what I figured were sketches and supplies.

Push hadn’t mentioned that the painter was a woman. Definitely hadn’t mentioned that she looked like that.

I didn’t answer right away when she said she was the painter. Instead, I took another long look—her paint-stained boots, her confident stance, the way she didn’t fidget or smile just to fill the silence.

She stuck her hand out to me.

“I’m Pearl.”

I looked down at her hand.

“I’m Anchor, doll.”

Her eyes darted to the patch on my cut.

“Yup, I kind of figured that out. Nice having your name on your chest.”

I wasn’t sure if she was shooting straight or maybe making fun of me. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and figured she was just shooting straight.

“Let’s take a look inside,”

I said finally.

“Push didn’t mention you were... you. But we’ll see what you’ve got.”

I opened the front door, the old wood groaning like a horror movie cue, and let her step inside first.

She turned a slow circle in the entryway, and her eyes scanned the walls, the warped staircase, and the massive chandelier that rattled any time someone slammed a door.

“Okay,”

she said.

“So, starting here, we could rework the lighting to highlight that chandelier. Maybe add a flicker effect to make it feel unstable. Paint-wise, a cracked plaster effect could really sell the age.”

She moved from room to room, rattling off ideas like she lived in them. The crypt room? She wanted moss texture and water stains like it had been leaking for decades. The butcher’s hallway? She suggested layers of peeling red and brown that looked like dried blood without needing props. The nursery? She wanted to stencil faint ghostly childlike handprints behind peeling wallpaper.

I found myself nodding. More than once.

We climbed to the second floor, where she gestured toward the fake asylum room.

“We could make the walls look like they were scratched from the inside out. Layers of claw marks, stained tile... It doesn’t feel scary right now.”

“Things change in the dark,” I said.

She shivered. Not dramatically. But enough.

She turned and looked at me, and for a second, I forgot she was just here to paint. Something about her—sharp but soft, tough but wide-eyed. I didn’t know what the hell it was, but it pulled me like a hook under my ribs.

She was an outsider. I reminded myself of that. She wasn’t part of this world. She didn’t know about the tunnels, the meetings, or the body we were still trying to identify.

Still.

When we stepped back out onto the front porch, I didn’t want to tell her to leave.

She looked up at me and shielded her eyes from the sun. I liked that she had to tilt her chin to meet my gaze. She was at least six inches shorter than me.

“When can you start?” I asked.

She blinked, surprised.

“I passed your test?”

I shrugged.

“Didn’t expect much. Got more than that.”

Her lips curved slightly, like she was trying not to smile too big.

“We’ll need to work early mornings and into the day,”

I added.

“The haunted house opens at night. Gotta have things cleaned up enough so tourists don’t notice fresh paint drying under the fog.”

She nodded.

“That works for me. Though... I’m not exactly a morning person.”

I grinned.

“You’ll survive.”

She tilted her head.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah. There are two cabins behind the clubhouse. You and your crew can stay there while you work.”

Her brows shot up.

“Seriously?”

I shrugged again.

“Only commute you’ll have is walking from your cabin to the haunted house.”

She hesitated. Just a second. Like the idea of staying here unsettled her, but not enough to make her back out. Smart girl.

“When can you start?”

I asked again.

She squinted up at me, eyes sparkling.

“Tomorrow?”

I nodded, slow and deliberate.

“Perfect, doll.”

And just like that, she was staying. On Skull Island. Under our roof.

What the hell could go wrong?