“What a way to monetize misery,” Griffin mutters, shaking his head.
The rest of us remain silent, waiting to see if there’s more to the story, something lurking beneath the surface. I can’t help but sneak my phone out under the table, using my thumb to quietly type "Philip Mosley Everwood Mansion 1985." A second later, the search results pop up, and my stomach drops. Every gruesome detail Agatha’s been spilling is right there, documented in black and white. It’s all true.Why the hell would Tessa book a place like this?
Agatha moves toward the coffee machine in the corner, her footsteps almost eerily soft on the floor. She pulls out another carafe of coffee, the rich aroma briefly cutting through the tension. “Over the years, so many poor souls have died here, whether by violence or sickness,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “Most folks around here say the place is full of spirits, just wanting to tell people their stories.” She replaces the empty carafe with the new one, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. “Or,” she adds, her tone taking on a haunting edge, “to pay back the evil that’s been done to them.”
Her words settle in the air like a low, thick fog, seeping into every corner of the room, sinking into our very bones.
A heavy silence blankets us, the kind that feels almost alive, pulsing with unspoken thoughts.
“I have a question now,” Marissa suddenly says, her voice slicing through the quiet.
“Oh, of course, dear,” Agatha replies, her lips breaking into a genuine smile, the heavy atmosphere momentarily dispelled.
“How far are the outlets from here?”
When I lookup from my book, it’s only because someone is knocking on the wall. I slide my ‘Killer Reading Vibes’bookmark onto the page to keep my place and hold the book to my chest. The rapping sounds continue—muffled, strange, almost like a distant echo. Someone in the next room must be trying to get my attention.
I listen for a moment longer, hoping the noise will stop. I open my book again, trying to ignore the banging, but they grow louder and faster. Ugh, I don’t want to stop reading. I was just about to get to the dirty part.
But the knocking grows louder, more insistent, as if whatever or whoever is on the other side is losing patience. The rhythm picks up—harder, faster, almost frantic. Okay, this is starting to piss me off. I slam my book down on the small table next to the bed and sit up, my patience officially at zero. “What?!” I yell, my voice sharp with irritation.
The thumps falter for a brief second, then resume with a relentless, rhythmic thud, thud, thudding. The sound pulses through the walls, more persistent than ever.
I peel myself off the bed, huffing in frustration, and stomp into the hallway. I glance one way, then the other. It’s probably Hayes telling me they’re back. Or Griffin, maybe. Why can’t they just text like normal people?
Maybe they’re all irritated at me for skipping out on the shopping trip to the outlets after this morning’s tour and horror story time. But honestly, I needed a break. I was exhausted from last night, and after hearing what Hayes said about a pending proposal, I needed some serious self-care. A scalding-hot bathand a few of the mini bottles of whiskey I’d tucked away in my bag did the trick. I’ve been reading in bed ever since, enjoying my buzz and the quiet, until now.
I pad silently down the long hallway, reach the next room, and pound on the door. “Quit it, fucker!”
The pounding intensifies, louder and quicker, like whoever is behind that door is desperate for me to come inside.
I lift my hand to knock again but freeze mid-motion. What if it’s not Hayes or Griffin? What if it’s Jonathan and Marissa?
What if they’re…?
Ew, gross. I immediately regret even thinking it.
I pull my hand back, skin crawling with the mental image, but I still find myself sliding closer to the door, pressing my ear against it to try and listen.
BOOM, BOOM,BOOM!The pounding is suddenly against the door itself, the force of it exploding in my ear, startling me so badly that my heart zings in my chest, sending a fire through my veins. They must see me through the peephole—those idiots. This has Hayes or Griffin written all over it, playing some stupid prank.
I squint at the peephole, folding my arms across my chest in a defiant stance. “Come on!” I shout over the noise, frustration lacing my voice. It feels like we’re back in the dorms, messing around like teenagers.
But then, something else catches my attention.
From down the hallway comes a strange, low humming, followed by a soft buzzing. Muted laughter trickles through the air, followed by a loud electronic ding!
The elevator doors slide open, and all my friends spill out into the hallway. The loud rapping on the door abruptly stops.
I quickly count my friends, naming them in my head as they emerge. Jonathan the asshole. Marissa, the asshole’s new girlfriend. Tessa. Griffin. Hayes, bringing up the rear. They’reall bundled in knit beanies and thick, warm hoodies, their arms weighed down by dozens of shopping bags. They’re just returning from the outlets—not in the room next to me, pounding on my wall.
What the hell?
Tessa holds up her bags and smiles a big toothy smile at me. “I bought so many things. Tori, I’ll go back with you if you want this weekend.”
“That’s okay. I’m good,” I reply, though my voice wavers. Am I good? I try to convince myself it’s just the booze messing with my head, but the uneasy feeling lingers.
“Okay,” she squeezes my arm as the group passes. “We’re going to relax a bit, clean up, and meet for dinner in an hour, okay?”
