Page 23 of Girl, Deceived

Jasmine Crowther.

Jason Barber.

Then the name she wanted leaped out at her, scratching at her eyeballs.

Jessica Owen.

‘Got him,’ Ripley said.

‘Got him,’ Ella confirmed.

Her pulse quickened, threatening to explode from her wrist. The connection was undeniable. Every intuition, every professional instinct she had honed over her years as an investigator, screamed that they were on the right track. She checked the time. Too early for a haunted house to be open, but that didn't mean Mark wouldn't be there.

‘Ready to visit a haunted house?’ Ella asked.

Ripley grabbed her brown jacket and checked her pistol. ‘First time for everything.’

Ella was ready, new adrenaline driving her. ‘Come on. Let’s end this story before act two even starts.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ella steered her car into the empty parking lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The large sign up ahead, with its letters covered in fake blood, was impossible to miss: Killing Fields.

The entrance was a facade of a decrepit mansion; crumbling walls, tattered curtains, ghouls and hanged mannequins decorating the windows. Ella felt a pang of unease, a world away from adrenaline-driven determination she had felt back at the precinct. There was something about monsters hiding in plain sight that spoke to her core.

‘Pretty deserted out here,’ Ripley said from the passenger seat.

They’d left the heart of the city behind and were now in the grisly underbelly of Maywood. Traffic had thinned on the journey here, replaced by a vast stretch of empty road. Abandoned warehouses, graffiti-covered buildings, and forgotten structures had composed the scenery. At the end of the stretch was this haunted house – the perfect location for such a place.

‘It’s off hours,’ Ella said. Perfect time for an ambush.’

‘You think this Brewer guy might be inside?’ Ripley asked.

‘It's possible,’ Ella replied, her hand instinctively moving to the holster at her side, ‘if he's working on setting things up for tonight or practicing his routines.’

‘One way to find out,’ Ripley said.

They exited the car and approached the mock mansion, with its spires reaching into the overcast sky like skeletal fingers. In every direction, there were chilling details meant to unsettle visitors: from the wrought-iron gate groaning softly on rusted hinges, to the mock graveyard set a bit off to the side, complete with tilting tombstones and statues of winged angels with their faces worn away.

They walked up the cracked path, flanked by dead, twisted trees and overrun with crawling ivy. Every so often, Ella could hear soft mechanical whirring as some hidden device detected their approach, setting off a random spook—a banshee’s wail, a shadowy figure darting between windows, or a ghostly whisper brushing past her ear.

The main entrance was a set of grand double doors, slightly ajar. A sign beside them declared: Enter At Your Own Risk.

Ella pushed one of the doors open, revealing a dimly lit foyer filled with dust and cobwebs. She stepped inside with Ripley, hand pressed to her pistol. She noted the ticket booth to her left, concealed in a blend of cobwebs and frosted glass. Chandeliers overhead were adorned with severed heads and specks of fake blood. An antique grandfather clock stood against one wall, its pendulum swinging lazily, the soft ticking the only sound in the otherwise empty foyer.

Then Ella heard the rustling of footsteps nearby. The movement came from behind the ticket booth.

‘We don’t open until eight,’ a voice said. A face emerged behind the glass; a youngish man with slick black hair, bloodshot eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. A modern-day vampire.

‘Then maybe you should lock your doors,’ Ripley said.

The man kept a distance. ‘Open doors aren’t always an invitation, but something tells me you’re not here for a scare.’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Ella.

‘Badges and guns, for a start. Who are you?’

Ella flashed her badge. ‘We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for an employee of yours named Mark Brewer. Is he here?’

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