Page 12 of Hot Ghoul Summer

“Did you already kill Mr. Cross?” she stops at the landing, glaring down at me.

“Well... Yes. But only to stop him from killing your stepfather.”

“Ex-ste—”

“I know, I know!”

“You’re a murderer. You’re Death. You are the enemy of every doctor and nurse on the planet.” She gives me a look of utter disgust. “I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. Never will.”

With that, she storms into the first room on the second floor and slams the door shut. I hear it lock.

She knows I could pop in there anyway, but she still shuts me out. It’s an act of defiance. Hatred. Disgust.

I groan and put my head in my hands. “This isn’t going well.”

Chapter Four:

Welcome to Stockholm

WHAT I HAVE HERE IS a very fucked up Beauty and the Beast situation, ladies and gents.

Or...It could just be me. No, it’s definitely just me. I’ve locked myself in a room in a beachside mansion with a murdering psycho magician who may or may not be an actual supernatural being. I didn’t even think to bring my purse when I stormed off.

Gahhh.

What was I saying? Right, Beauty and the Beast.

In the lovely fairytale film I grew up with, a kindly old man stumbles into the castle of a hideous beast, angers him by doing absolutely nothing wrong, and the beast imprisons him.

Beauty, the good-hearted, unselfish daughter, searches for her father and nobly offers to stay with the beast in his castle in exchange for her dad’s freedom.

Cue Stockholm Syndrome and the girl being beguiled by talking appliances and a snorting, hairy buffalo-bear-lion-man.

Now, in my version, the scummy sleazeball ex-stepfather lures the overly greedy but well-meaning stepdaughter to the monster’s castle (beachfront property), skips town in a stolen car, and leaves the girl to get killed by the beast, who at least doesn’t look like a hairy horror movie.

If he weren’t a kidnapping killer, I’d say Toby is average to above average in attractiveness, with gorgeous skin, curly hair that reminds me of a younger Benedict Cumberbatch, and a calm, sweet voice with an accent that would delight a host of PBS fans.

But I digress.

I’m trapped. Absolutely trapped. At least Beauty had talking furniture. Also, Beast was just selfish and spoiled. He didn’t kill people. My guy kills people.

I sit on the bed with a thump. No giant springy jaws of death pop out. Spikes don’t come through the mattress. The room doesn’t seem to be booby trapped.

The furniture is clean and natural wood, like a beach resort bed and breakfast would have, not heavy, dark furniture that I thought a Victorian relic owned by Death himself would sport. Even the bed is lined with a thick, fluffy sunset-pink-and-purple comforter. There’s the scent of summer breezes and something faintly floral in the room. It would be relaxing if I wasn’t in mortal danger.

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