Page 5 of Scary In Love

Jenna

Peter squeezes hard as the door creaks open and we step into a musty, old drawing room.

Houses of this age are so big, most rooms have several doors through which to enter and leave. It makes them perfect for haunts because visitors can follow a loop through the property without ever seeing any other guests. Though that doesn’t mean you won’t hear their screams.

I’ve been to enough of these houses to know the scare actors always come from behind you, usually while you’re distracted by something, or someone .

As soon as the door closes, I’m glancing at the shadowy spaces for hidden figures, or curtains that drape so low they could definitely conceal a figure or two.

Some houses build fake walls with hidden doors for actors to hide behind, poised and waiting to strike.

There are plenty of spots in this room, and I have to find a balance between anticipating the scares and relaxing enough to let it unfold around me.

It’s not as much fun when you’ve predicted everything that will happen.

This room is enormous, and I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. Maroon walls and ceilings, with gilded cornices I’m sure once gleamed in the sunlight. Brass wall sconces cast soft light down the walls, but the rest of the room is in darkness, save for the blazing fire .

Two sofas face each other, with a low table between them. We appear to have walked in on afternoon tea, but Peter and I are completely alone, which means someone will leap out on us at any second.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

A record crackles from an old gramophone in the corner.

“Now, we wait. Are you okay? Are you enjoying—”

A door at the opposite end of the room opens, and a woman with elegantly coiffed hair and a corseted dress interrupts us. Her face is powdery white, cheeks heavily rouged. She appears to float in with a tight smile on her face.

Peter shifts behind me. It was a stupid question. He’s obviously not enjoying himself, but I am.

“Guests!” the woman cheers, clapping once and clasping her hands at her chest. “Oh, beloved guests. Welcome, please do come closer. Won’t you join me for tea by the fire?”

“Nope,” Peter says, popping the P.

Palming the small of his back, I guide him over to where the lady awaits, her smile just a smidge too wide. I take a seat on the sofa, tugging on his sleeve until he does the same.

Another man might shuffle closer because he can’t bear to be even three inches away from me, but Peter scoots right up close because he’s a wimp.

His thigh presses against mine, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but not because of him. Every nerve in my body knows that sitting on a sofa in the middle of the room means someone is going to approach us from behind.

They might barge in screaming, or sneak up in silence, but either way, I’m ready. I fold my hands in my lap and settle into the scene.

“Goodness, it’s been so long since we’ve had visitors,” she says, her posh British accent hitting all the right notes.

“I had a strange feeling this morning that we’d be receiving visitors.

I couldn’t tell if it was a dream or a premonition.

I said as much to my husband, the good Mr. Miller, upon waking. ”

With a soft hum, her excitement wanes, shoulders sagging as the flames draw her attention. She is silent for a long moment, her breath hitching before she speaks again.

“He scolded me for indulging in such fantasies, of course, and I paid the price. But afterwards, I had Sally prepare a few treats for us to enjoy, just in case. It really has been far too long.”

So Mr Miller is a villain in all of this. I make a mental note to give him my best death stare when we meet him.

Lady Miller hums softly, leaning forward to lock eyes with mine. “How have you been, my dear?”

“I have been well,” I tell her, playing along.

“Your new companion is most handsome.” Her nose wrinkles, and she taps her fingertips together excitedly.

“Me?” Peter croaks.

“Oh yes. Jenna’s previous acquaintances have left rather a sour taste.” My back stiffens. “It is Jenna, isn’t it? My memory isn’t what it once was.”

I nod politely, wondering how on earth they’ve managed to keep track of our names, and Peter’s head snaps towards me.

“Do you know this woman?”

“No, I’ve never been here before.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Miller snaps, her booming voice sucking all the air out of the room. “Why would you tell such filthy lies, girl?”

“I’m… sorry?”

I’m not sorry. I’m fucking delighted at being told off. Her tone sends a humiliating thrill up my spine .

“You will be,” she mutters, her top lip curling in disgust before she fixes her smile back in place. “Tea?”

Peter and I speak at the same time.

“Yes, please.”

“No, thank you.”

At least he’s remembered his manners.

“You’ll drink my tea,” she says, her voice so stern it makes me pinch my lips closed.

Thin brown water pours from the teapot. I watch for steam, a sign that it’s authentic and hot, but I imagine from a health and safety perspective that’s not possible.

“Milk.”

It’s not a question. She raises the jug, tilting it just so. Thick, creamy clumps of rancid slop land in the cup, splashing tea over the side.

My throat closes up, and beside me, Peter almost loses the contents of his stomach, retching over the side of the sofa.

I stifle a laugh and catch Lady Miller’s eye. To her credit, she remains in character, frowning in disgust. She sets the teacups and saucers down, and lifts a three-tier cake stand from beneath the table, setting it in front of us.

Beyond the fact that the contents are inedible, there’s a mutual understanding we won’t actually interact with her props.

“Do help yourself. Everything was baked fresh this morning. Just for you.”

Lady Miller’s true title should be Queen of Bullshit. We lean in closer to see her ‘fresh’ cakes are covered in green fluffy mold, I assume not real.

“Is something wrong?” Her smile is saccharine but deadly. “You wouldn’t offend me by refusing my fine fare now, would you? Take a scone, dear.”

I lift one to find it teeming with maggots. Peter gags into his hands and slumps against the back of the sofa.

The whole thing is perfect, and I’ve been so thoroughly absorbed in the scene, I don’t notice a figure approaching behind us until he roars between our faces.

“The Lady said eat!” he roars.

It all happens so quickly. I drop the scone on the table, make my apologies and stand, ready to head for the next room. Peter leaps up, but the next thing I know he’s on the floor, kicking and screaming like an upturned bug. If I didn’t already have the ick, I definitely do now.

I look down to see an arm reaching out from underneath the sofa, shackling his ankle as he thrashes around. He’s so loud I have to cover my ears, but when I stoop to help him up, his eyes shut so tightly he doesn’t understand it’s me.

“Leave me alone,” he cries, his feet kicking out as he tries to escape the actor’s firm hold. One connects with my knee, sending searing pain shooting through it.

“Motherfucker,” I yell, hopping on the other leg before toppling backwards onto the sofa. Would be more apt if it were a Victorian fainting couch.

“Oh shit,” Lady Miller says, dropping her accent as she rushes to my side. Peter scrambles towards the door we first came through.

“Get out of my way,” I hear him yell, leaving me alone with three actors whose shocked expressions are definitely not part of the act.