Page 11 of Spooked
“It’s pretty silly,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze.
I'm about to respond when a high-pitched whine cuts through the air, followed by a loud pop.
Suddenly, thick fog begins pouring from vents in the floor and ceiling, rapidly filling the gallery.
"Damn it, Howie!" Wolfe growls, reaching for my arm. "We need to get out before?—"
A mechanical clank echoes through the room, and I hear something heavy sliding into place. Wolfe curses again, more creatively this time, and pulls me toward where the door should be. But when we reach it, we find it sealed by a metal security shutter.
"What's happening?" I ask, trying not to panic as the fog grows denser.
"Safety system malfunction," he explains through gritted teeth. "If the effects trigger without the proper sequence, the room goes into lockdown to prevent fire spread."
"So we're trapped?"
"Temporarily. There's a manual override, but I can't see it in this fog." He fumbles along the wall, his large form becoming increasingly blurry through the thickening mist. "Stay where you are. The floor drops about ten feet at the north end."
"Seriously?" My voice rises. "You have actual pitfalls in your house?"
"It's a haunted attraction," he reminds me. "And it's usually clearly marked when we're open."
I stand frozen, aware that I have no idea which direction is north. The fog is so thick now I can barely see my hand in front of my face. It seems to be getting colder, too, and I shiver.
"Wolfe?" I call, fighting the edge of panic in my voice.
"Here," he answers, closer than I expected. "Take my hand."
I reach out blindly, connecting with solid muscle before finding his outstretched hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and safe.
"The override switch is behind a panel near the entrance," he says, his voice surprisingly steady. "I need to find the wall first."
He guides me slowly through the fog, one arm extended to find obstacles while keeping me close to his side. I can feel the heat of him even through our clothes, a stark contrast to the rapidly cooling air.
"Why is it so cold?" I ask, my breath now visible in front of me.
"Part of the effect. The fog chills as it spreads." His grip tightens on my hand. "Here's the wall. Stay close."
We edge along the perimeter, Wolfe's fingers tracing the wainscoting until they find what he's looking for, a small panel that slides open to reveal a keypad. He punches in a code, but nothing happens.
"Power must be out to this section," he mutters. "There's a manual crank behind the Dorian Gray portrait."
We continue our careful journey through the fog, which has taken on an eerie bluish glow from emergency lights I hadn't noticed before. Shapes loom and dissolve around us like specters, the artwork transformed into ghostly apparitions by the swirling mist.
Suddenly, Wolfe stops. "Here it is."
I can just make out the outline of an ornate frame. Wolfe releases my hand to feel around the edges of the portrait, then pulls it forward on some kind of hinge. Behind it is a metal crank, which he begins to turn with considerable effort.
"This should...restart the...auxiliary power," he grunts between turns.
A grinding mechanical sound fills the gallery, and the fog begins to disperse as hidden fans activate. I can see Wolfe more clearly now, his powerful body bent to the task, muscles straining beneath his sweater.
Sweat beads on his brow despite the chill, and as he gives the crank one final, forceful turn…his mask shifts.
It happens in an instant.
The strap catches on the edge of the portrait frame, and the mask slips partially free, revealing the left side of his face before he can react.
I glimpse what he's been hiding: a battlefield of thick scar tissue, deep furrows and ridged areas where the skin has healed unevenly. The damage extends from his hairline down his cheek and jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater.
