Page 5 of Spooked
"That was Howie's animatronic werewolf, not me," I protest, but I'm fighting a smile now.
"Keep telling yourself that, boss." Ghost claps me on my shoulder as he passes. "Seven o'clock. Try to wear something that makes it look like you have a pulse."
“I am not going out of my way to impress her!” I roll my eyes and head for my workshop in the basement. It's where I create the masks and props that make Marsden Manor infamous.
And it’s my sanctuary.
As I descend the stone steps, worn smooth by generations of feet, the temperature drops noticeably. The familiar smell of latex, paint, and wood calms my nerves.
Until I remember those big brown eyes looking up at me without flinching. With her camera and her sharp tongue and her complete disregard for my rules.
I've spent years crafting my isolation, perfecting the art of keeping people at arm's length. One determined photographer isn't going to change that, no matter how good she looks in the twilight.
The workshop embraces me with its organized mayhem. Half-finished masks line the shelves, hollow eyes staring from featureless faces. Worktables covered in tools and materials fill the space, illuminated by bright overhead lights that contrast with the gloom of the rest of the manor. I run my fingers over a gargoyle mold, my mind already shifting to the task at hand. This is where I belong, creating monsters, not socializing with beautiful women who gaze at me like I'm a puzzle to solve.
I lose myself in work for the next hour, shaping and molding until a crash of thunder shakes dust from the ceiling. The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
The emergency lights kick on, bathing the room in a mystic blue glow. Not the backup generator—that would restore full power. This is the battery system that ensures no guest is ever trapped in total darkness.
Unless they're in the blue room, which runs on a separate circuit.
Errrgh.
I curse under my breath, reaching for the flashlight I keep under my workbench. Ash won't know about the manor's quirky electrical system. She's probably fumbling around in the dark right now.
Not my problem.
Dev or Ghost will handle it.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and grab the flashlight, heading for the stairs. Just to make sure she hasn't hurt herself in the unfamiliar surroundings.
It’s common courtesy.
The main floor is dim but navigable with the emergency lights. I take the grand staircase two steps at a time, my boots nearly silent on the aged wood. The blue room is past the gallery and the music room.
As I approach, I hear a muffled curse and something that sounds suspiciously like a camera shutter.
I press myself against the wall, a habit from my military days.
The door to the blue room stands ajar, a faint glow emanating from within.
Another click of a shutter confirms my suspicion.
Anger rises hot and fast. I push the door open without knocking.
Ash stands by the window, her camera raised, capturing the lightning that illuminates the mountains beyond. She spins at my entrance, nearly dropping her equipment.
"Jesus Christ!" she gasps, one hand pressed to her chest. "Make some noise when you move, would you?"
The beam of my flashlight catches her face—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, that stubborn chin lifted in defiance despite being caught.
"I told you no photographs," I say, my voice dangerously low.
"Of you,” she says, not backing down. “I'm not photographing you."
"You’re still in my home. And these are not authorized.”
"The lightning against the mountains is incredible," she says, turning toward the window. Behind her, rain streams down antique glass, creating watery patterns on the hardwood floor. "Look at that composition. Nature's own Gothic masterpiece. I couldn't resist."
