Page 2 of Spooked
Wolfe Marsden in the flesh.
He’s big, maybe six-five, with shoulders that crowd the doorframe. Dressed in black from head to toe, it emphasizes the white half-mask molded to the left side of his face. The mask glints silver at the temple where it connects to straps vanishing into thick dark-blond hair. His right side is striking…sharp jawline, intense green eye, and an expression that could freeze-over hell.
"The roads are dangerous in this kind of weather," he says, his voice like whiskey poured over gravel. Behind him, I catch glimpses of a grand entryway—dark wood, antique furniture, and what looks like vintage Halloween decorations that blur the line between seasonal décor and museum-quality artifacts. "You should leave. Now."
I straighten my spine. "Look, Mr. Marsden, I apologize for arriving early, but I wanted to get a feel for the place and scout some locations before our session. The magazine deadline is tight, and?—"
"Not my problem." His eyes narrow. "The manor is closed to visitors today."
The wind wails through the iron gate in the distance.
I huff. "I'm not a visitor. I'm a professional photographer here to do a job." I lift my camera slightly. "A job you agreed to."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Tomorrow. But I can always change my mind about doing it at all."
Crap. I purse my lips. “Okay, okay.”
Lightning cracks across the sky, followed instantly by a boom of thunder that I feel in my chest. Fat raindrops begin to fall, quickly transforming into a downpour.
"At least let me wait inside until the storm passes," I say, shivering as the cold rain trickles down my back.
For a moment, I think he might actually close the door in my face.
Then a voice calls from inside.
"Wolfe, for god's sake, let her in before she drowns."
His expression darkens, but he steps aside.
I hurry past him, acutely aware of his body as I brush by.
The place really is impressive, with high ceilings, an ancient chandelier covered in cobwebs (that I’m not sure are real or not), and wooden floors that gleam despite their age. Ornate sconces cast flickering shadows across walls covered in deep crimson wallpaper, and a massive staircase curves upward, its banister intricately carved with scenes from classic horror stories. It smells of lemon polish and something else spicy with a hint of musk. But I think those last two are Wolfe, not the house.
A slim person with an undercut hairstyle and subtle blue highlights approaches, hand extended. They're dressed in a stylishly tailored outfit that somehow manages to look both professional and artistic against the Gothic backdrop.
"Devin Zhao," they say with a professional smile. "You must be the Ash Vaughn. I’m the business manager. We talked via email." Their gaze flicks to Wolfe, then back to me.
I shake their hand. "Good to meet you in person. And yes, thought I’d get some ideas for shots before tomorrow."
"Without permission," Wolfe growls from behind me.
Before I can respond, the mansion trembles with another thunderclap. The lights flicker ominously.
"This is going to be a bad one," Devin says, glancing toward a window where rain now lashes sideways against the old glass. "The creek might flood."
"Then Ms. Vaughn should leave before the bridge goes under," Wolfe says pointedly.
A new figure appears from a side corridor—a tall man with close-cropped black hair and watchful eyes. He moves with eerie silence for someone his size, emerging from beneath an archway adorned with elaborately carved ravens.
"Too late for that," he announces, his voice deep, but surprisingly soft. "Just got a call from Lee. Mudslide took out part of the bridge already. No one's going anywhere tonight."
Wolfe goes completely still, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
"Looks like you're stuck with us, Ms. Vaughn," Devin says with a slight smile. "Welcome to Marsden Manor."
Another crash of thunder, and the lights go out completely, plunging us into darkness. When they flicker back on seconds later, Wolfe is directly in front of me, so close I can see the edge of his mask where it meets scarred skin. A vintage grandfather clock in the corner chimes ominously, its sound reverberating through the cavernous space.
"Let me make one thing clear," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "You're here by circumstance, not invitation. No unauthorized photos or I'll personally escort you out into the storm. Understood?"
