Page 70 of Knot Baked Out For This
Fuck.
I'm in so much trouble.
But for the first time in three years, trouble feels like the beginning of something instead of the end.
CHAPTER 12
Screams And Sweet Touches
~HAZEL~
Willow Creek Manor: where architectural nightmares go to die and apparently where I volunteer to traumatize children with baked goods.
The October wind howls through broken shutters as I pull into the manor's gravel drive, my car's headlights catching the building in all its decrepit glory. Three stories of Victorian revenge, complete with turrets that lean at angles geometry never intended and windows that look like eyes that've seen too much.
Perfect place for a children's event. Nothing says "fun Halloween" like potential tetanus and structural collapse.
My pastry boxes stack in the backseat like sugary soldiers prepared for war—witch hat cookies, "bloody" red velvet cupcakes, ghost-shaped marshmallow treats that took four hours and most of my sanity to perfect. Because apparently, I can't just volunteer like a normal person. No, I have to turn it into a production that would make Martha Stewart weep with either pride or concern.
The manor looms against the dying light, October painting everything in shades of rust and decay. Someone's strung orangelights along the porch, but they flicker erratically, less "festive Halloween" and more "electrical fire waiting to happen."
"HAZEL! You made it!"
Sarah Chen, PTA president and professional volunteer guilt-tripper, materializes from the shadows like a suburban specter. Her clipboard catches the light—of course she has a clipboard—and her smile could power a small city.
"Wouldn't miss it," I lie, hauling my boxes from the car. "Where's the witch's bakery station?"
"Second floor, old music room! It's perfect—creaky floors, suspicious stains, and a piano that plays itself sometimes!"
A piano that plays itself. Sure. That's normal and not at all terrifying.
"Great," I manage, balancing boxes while navigating porch steps that've seen better decades. "Nothing says 'eat these cookies' like paranormal activity."
The inside of Willow Creek Manor is worse. Better? Worse. Both. Cobwebs drape from every surface, and I can't tell which ones are decorations and which are just... residents. The air smells like dust and mildew and something sweet-sick that might be rot or might be someone's potpourri attempt gone wrong.
Volunteers scatter throughout the rooms, transforming decay into family-friendly horror. Someone's testing a fog machine that immediately sets off three smoke detectors. The shrieking is atmospheric, at least.
"Hazel!"
I turn to find Levi Maddox bounding toward me like a golden retriever who's spotted his favorite person, except golden retrievers don't usually wear sheets with eyeholes cut out.
"Nice ghost costume," I deadpan.
"I'm going for 'friendly specter,'" he says, the sheet rustling as he strikes a pose. "You know, approachable undead. The kind of ghost you'd want to have a beer with."
"Ghosts don't drink beer."
"Ghost discrimination. We're very evolved now. Very inclusive of phantom dietary choices."
He reaches for my boxes, and even through the ridiculous sheet, I can smell him—honey butter and vanilla chai mixing with the manor's musty air like sunshine fighting through storm clouds.
"I can manage," I protest.
"I'm sure you can, but my mom raised me right. Dead or alive, I carry boxes for pretty bakers."
Pretty. He thinks I'm pretty even when I'm frazzled and covered in flour and probably have frosting in my hair.
We navigate the manor's questionable stairs, each step groaning like it's personally offended by our weight. The second floor is marginally less terrifying—someone's actually swept, and battery-powered lanterns create pools of almost-warm light.
