Page 13 of Spooked
I open the door and he pushes past me into the room.
"What happened in the gallery?" he asks.
"Howie's system malfunctioned," I reply flatly. "And he better fix it before someone gets hurt."
"Not what I meant." Ghost leans against the bedpost and crosses his arms. "Something happened between you and Ash."
“Why, did she say something?” The desperation in my voice sounds pathetic even to my own ears.
His expression is almost amused. “It’s just a hunch.”
I turn away, moving to the window where rain continues to lash against glass. Lightning flashes, illuminating the sea of mud below. "My mask slipped."
Ghost is silent for a moment. "And?"
"And nothing. She saw my face. End of story."
"Then why did you run off?"
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. "I didn’t run off."
"Could've fooled me." He drops into a leather armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me anyway."
"I think you're more afraid of her not being horrified than you are of her being disgusted."
The accuracy of his statement hits like an arrow through the heart. I turn to face him, jaw clenched, and lie. "That's ridiculous."
Ghost raises an eyebrow. "You've built your whole identity around being the Beast of Marsden Manor. What happens if someone you have feelings for sees past that and doesn't run screaming?”
Feelings? "She's a photographer," I say dismissively. "She's…trained not to react. Doesn't mean anything."
"Keep telling yourself that." Ghost rises from the chair. "Power's still out in the west wing and the storm's getting worse. Lee says we might lose the main generator soon."
"I'll check the backup systems," I say, grateful for the change of subject.
"Already did. We've got a limited amount of emergency power if the main goes." He pauses at the door. "But you should take her around yourself while you can. Show her the place through your eyes."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you want to." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, then he leaves before I can argue.
I stand there, Ghost's words echoing in my head.
Then I head for the blue room. I tell myself I'm just being a decent host, but something deeper, something I've kept buried for years, whispers a different truth.
I knock sharply on her door. No answer. I knock again, louder.
"Ash?" I call, an unfamiliar nervousness creeping into my voice. "Are you there?"
Still nothing. Concern overrides hesitation as I try the handle. The door swings open to an empty room. Her camera bag sits on the antique writing desk, but there's no sign of her.
Does she ever listen?
I move through the manor with the casual ease of someone who knows every creaking floorboard, every hidden passage. The main areas are illuminated by emergency lighting, shadows sliding over lavish wallpaper and priceless antiques. I check the gallery first, then the library, then the music room. No Ash.
A scream cuts through the stillness, followed by a crash. I break into a run, following the sound to the conservatory—a room we've transformed into the "Greenhouse of Dr. Moreau" during the season. In the dim emergency lighting, the hybrid plant-animal sculptures Howie created look disturbingly alive.
