Page 1 of Scary In Love
1
Jenna
TheMillermansionsitsfar back behind imposing gates, high on a hill on the edge of our boring little town. It’s run-down and creepy, and I fucking love it.
In a place like Crowmorne, where nothing ever really happens, everyone has a story about Old Man Miller. And since I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve heard them all.
Some people say he was a wizard. Or a hermit. Or a criminal hiding out, keeping close guard of the millions he’d stolen in a bank heist that left him a wanted man. Some people say he had half a face, or eleven fingers. Some people think he was running a meth lab and a drug empire behind closed doors, and I thinksome peoplehave seen too many movies.
Truth is, nobody really knows a thing.
When we were kids, my brother, Marcus, and I would hold our breath when we drove past the house, a superstition passed down by our parents. When we got older and bolder, we’d lurk by the gates with binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of a figure in one of the many, many windows. We never did, and to this day, we’re still not sure what he looked like.
Nobody knows exactly when or how Old Man Miller died, either. Only that one day a private ambulance was spotted leaving, the gates were chained shut, and they stayed that way for years.
Until this past January, when the locked chains disappeared. A white transit van was seen coming and going at all hours, and gossip was rife.
“A famous director bought it, and they’re shooting a film up there,” Mum said. She knows everybody’s business, so this was the most sensible theory by quite some stretch.
“It’s a footballer and his supermodel wife,” said Dad.
“It’s neither,” Marcus chimed in, nose buried in his cryptocurrency app. “An illegitimate son inherited the house and all the land that comes with it. Lucky fucker. Must be worth a fortune.”
Over the summer, an advert in the newspaper invited locals and students at the nearby drama school to audition for a‘unique project’. Mum doubled down on her film director story, but nobody, myself included, saw the place being turned into a tourist attraction.
A month ago, a banner appeared out front, and all became clear.
“Will You Survive The Miller Mansion?”
A link took me to a website promising a night of unprecedented access to one of the scariest houses in Britain. I bought tickets on the spot, and finally the night is here.
The enormous iron gates have been opened to the public after years of intrigue, and with spotlights illuminating the house from below, it looks creepier than ever.
The group of guys ahead of us in the queue squeal, and shriek, and whip each other into a frenzy. I’m just thrilled to be here.
Unfortunately, my date has yet to stir the same reaction.
Peter is a thirty-two-year-old tax advisor from nearby Bramwell. We met on a dating app a week ago, after I got bored and reactivated myaccount for the umpteenth time. His profile was all beige-flags; works from home, loves dogs, looking for someone to enjoy long walks in nature and pub lunches with. Average stuff, but it’s a sad state of affairs out there and the dating pool is small. At this point in my life, if there are no red-flags, and I don’t scare them off, I’ll give them half a chance.
We had a drink in theSun and Starspub and the obligatory ‘getting to know you more’ chat before making our way up the road out of town. Apparently, he studied medicine at university before something‘utterly revolting’made him pass out, then drop out. He’s been in finance ever since.
This juicy tidbit was the first interesting thing he’d said, but no amount of needling would make him reveal what it was. Which is a real shame, because‘utterly revolting’is kind of my whole vibe.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been drawn to the creepy and weird. The spooky and unsettling. The deplorable and taboo.
My parents used to find me sneakily borrowing library books about ghost sightings and true crime on my Mum’s adult-lending card. Or in the woods behind our house, rooting around in the dirt, lifting rotting logs, and hunting for bugs. Or digging up my pet rabbit to study the various stages of decomposition.
Okay fine, I will accept that one is quite weird.
As a teen, I was interested in death and anatomy, the history of the occult, voodoo, and ritual ceremonies.
‘Why can’t you be normal?’Mum used to despair, but thiswasnormal to me.
The fox’s head was the final straw. I was keeping it in a bucket of water in the back garden, waiting for Mother Nature to do her thing and leave me with a beautiful clean skull to add to the collection on display in my room. I already had a few birds, and a rat, but I wantedthat fox so badly. Dad puked in Mum’s dahlias, and she hit the roof and sent me to a therapist.
After three months of sessions, she concluded there was nothing wrong with me. I was simply a curious child who should perhaps consider a future career in taxidermy or forensics.
Thanks, Hilary. You’re a real one.
