Page 5 of An Inheritance of Monsters

“The others arrived early, and have gathered in the parlor.” Mrs. Marsh smoothed the front of her tailored dress and led the way through the foyer, down a long, dark hallway papered in crimson. “Now that we’re all here, I’ll do the introductions before beginning on the history of this home.”

I was on her heels, breathing in the scent of her expensive perfume, when she stepped into the parlor.

My first glimpse was of an enormous fireplace carved with white marble cherubs, and of soft velvet furniture in deep jewel tones, with numerous people lounging on them and chatting quietly.

And then I took in some of the faces.

My lip rose in a sneer before I could stop it.

“Or maybe we don’t need introductions,” Mrs. Marsh said slyly, almost under her breath.

I’d known we were only one of the numerous invitations, but I hadn’t expected several of my mortal nemeses to be in the same room with me right now.

Carson West, creator of the ghost-hunting showDeadspace, was the first to rise, raising his tea cup to me with a broad smirk. His black hair was gelled back, and he wore black head to toe.

On him, it looked like he’d binged too manyMatrixmovies.

His cameraman and associate, Jack Steele—whose name was entirely made up to make him sound cooler, I was almost 99% positive—wore a similar expression on the couch behind him. He looked like a rip-off of Carson, but his beanpole frame meant his motorcycle jacket wore him, instead of the other way around.

“Nice to see you, Juno. It’ll be great to finally go toe to toe withSpirit Squad.”

I offered a tight smile, unable to do much more without leaping across the room and wringing a few necks.

Porter Hudson sat in the armchair opposite them. A rotund man in his late 50s, Porter was a world-renowned paranormal skeptic—and lately, with the advent ofSpirit Squad’s success, he’d taken to posting his own YouVid videos trying to debunk everything we looked into.

But in our last episode investigating an asylum in Ohio, we’d racked up the most viewers to date, and Porter had completely lost it.

In his latest takedown video, he’d called me a ‘freaky-haired Millennial slut who makes up ghosts for attention because she couldn’t get over her dead brother’, crossing the line from amicable animosity into despicable hatred.

If only he could see what I saw. He simply nodded to me, his small, weaselly eyes already scanning me from head to toe.

And finally, there was Eloise Doyle. Sierra made a small noise in her throat as she edged in behind me and caught sight of her.

Eloise was a spirit medium, as well. And she was full of fucking shit.

Unlike Mrs. Marsh, the years had not been kind to Eloise, but I supposed in this case, her outside had finally aged to reflect her insides. And inside her was a fraud who preyed on grieving families.

My family had been taken in by her when I was a child, right around the time I’d started seeing ghosts myself.

“Hello, Miss Weaver.” It was amazing Eloise could bring herself to talk directly to my face, but what the hell did I know about two-faced snakes?

Maybe that was normal for her kind.

Last of all, there was a face I didn’t recognize. A young woman, with a pretty, freckled face and a mass of auburn hair pulled up in a messy bun. She had a pen stuck behind one ear, and raised a hand shyly. “We haven’t met. I’m Rosalie Pearson. I’ve been investigating paranormal phenomena and the Innsmouth cults for my thesis.”

I waved weakly at Rosalie. At least there was one person in here with whom I didn’t have a serious grievance.

“So.” Mrs. Marsh seemed to come out of the woodwork, offering chairs to Sierra and Crispy, who sank into them gratefully. “We’re all finally here.”

Her words seemed to carry a weight, echoing through the newly-silent room. Porter raised an eyebrow, and Rosalie looked nervous for a moment.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for many years now,” the owner continued. “I have lived happily in this house my entire life. Many believe it is a place of horrors—and once, it was. But times have changed, and now—”

“Is there a reason you just now decided to open the doors to strangers?” Carson interjected. Every eye in the room went to him. He gripped a small microphone, recording this like it was an interview. “Perhaps, as your life draws to a close—”

Mrs. Marsh’s lips had thinned. I blinked, wondering if the room had been this dark a moment ago, or if I was imagining things. The shadows suddenly seemed thicker, creeping through the corners.

“I’ve opened the doors because this house has an extraordinary story to tell, and it would be selfish to keep it all to myself.” She gave him a razor-thin smile. “And, after all, if I am going to allow such a small group of people to witness said history… it would be deplorable to deprive you all of the chance to also witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomena while on this island.”

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