Page 10 of Spooked
We continue the tour, the tension easing. As we walk, Ghost occasionally drops small insights about Wolfe…how he personally carved all the woodwork in the Library of Shadows, how he stays up for days when creative inspiration strikes, and how he donates a significant portion of the manor's profits to veterans' organizations anonymously.
A picture forms in my mind of a man far more complex than the brooding beast he presents to the world.
We're examining an elaborate mechanical raven in the Edgar Allan Poe room when a distant crash echoes through the manor.
"That'll be Howie testing something," Ghost sighs. "I better check to see if he needs help. The gallery's just through there if you want to look around. Stay on the main path, though."
He disappears the way we came, his footsteps fading until I'm alone in the dimly lit corridor. The gallery he mentioned is visible through an arched doorway ahead, and I can't resist the urge to explore.
The room is stunning—a long, narrow space with a vaulted ceiling and walls lined with artwork. Gothic landscapes, macabre still lifes, and unsettling portraits create a visual journey through the darker side of artistic expression. In the center of the room stands a glass case containing antique Halloween decorations. There are carved pumpkins made of wood, papier-mâché skulls, and delicate paper witches from the early 1900s.
I lift my camera, unable to resist capturing the play of shadow and light across the historical pieces.
"You just can’t follow rules, can you?"
I nearly jump out of my skin at Wolfe's voice behind me. “You really should wear a bell or something,” I say, turning to face him. “I’m just taking pictures of the artifacts."
"Those are private family heirlooms." He moves closer, his bulk somehow even more imposing in the narrow gallery. "My grandfather collected them."
"They're beautiful," I say sincerely. "The craftsmanship is incredible. They belong in a museum."
He clears his throat. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely. The artistry, the historical significance—" I gesture toward a particularly intricate paper skeleton. "Look at the detail on the joints, the way they captured movement in something so fragile. That's skill."
He studies me, seemingly searching for mockery and finding none.
"My grandfather used to say the same thing," he admits. "Halloween was different back then. Not just commercial plastic junk, but handcrafted pieces that families passed down for generations."
"May I?" I ask, raising my camera again. "Just for reference?"
He hesitates, then nods once. I snap several shots of the collection, acutely aware of him behind me. When I lower the camera, I find him standing closer than before, examining a mechanical fortune-telling witch whose crystal ball illuminates with a hidden mechanism when approached.
"My grandmother's favorite," he says softly. "She'd bring it out every October and tell our fortunes."
"Does it still work?" I ask, intrigued by the delicate craftsmanship of the witch's painted face and crystal ball.
Wolfe hesitates, then reaches into the case, carefully lifting it. "Let's see." He winds a small key on its base, and the witch's head begins to move slowly from side to side. The crystal ball flickers to life with a pulsing red glow.
"Ask it a question," he says, softly.
I lean closer, aware of his warmth beside me. "Will I find what I'm looking for at Marsden Manor?"
The mechanical witch's eyes seem to focus on me as hidden gears click and whir. A small drawer at the base pops open, revealing a yellowed card. Wolfe retrieves it, his fingers brushing mine as he hands it to me.
"The seeker shall become the sought," I read aloud. "What hunts in darkness yearns for light."
"Cryptic," Wolfe murmurs.
"Your turn," I say.
He winds the key again, the crimson lighting up his mask. "What does the future hold for the Beast of Marsden Manor?"
The witch's head tilts, her crystal ball pulsing brighter. Another card emerges. This time I reach for it, reading: "Truth lives not in what is hidden, but what is revealed."
Our eyes meet, as if trying to piece together both fortunes.
Then Wolfe clears his throat, quickly returning the fortune teller to its case.
