What really drew out a “what thefuck“ from Bo was the absolute lack of recent records for the place. No taxes, no new owners, no deaths or inheritances. Nothing, except the Ladies of Skyler petition to commandeer the house. Just horses, drownings, and abeautiful person–probably a man, per the gossip–who sometimes appeared in one of the upstairs windows, described as “ethereal, with long dark hair and sad eyes.”
Who the fuck used the word “ethereal?”
Fuck’s sake.
Bo made a note to hire some actual fucking researchers, people who knew how to do this shit professionally. Maybe ask some other ReelSelf friends about their teams. He spent too many nights sitting up at nearly three AM with his laptop burning his retinas.
“Important things come in threes,”Bo’s mother’d always said.“Three’s the witching hour,”his dad added without fail. And Bo, the little sucker, believed them.
A quarter ’til found Bo with the laptop off and curled under his covers. He sprawled when at home, but this wasn’t that. Strange places meant curled up and blankets pulled close, cheek mashed to unfamiliar pillows.
Tomorrow, he’d look at the spooky pony place and check out the neighborhood. Go eat at a local restaurant, be polite to the waitstaff, say something abouthere for the sights and ghost tours.It wouldn’t even be a lie. He’d go on a ghost tour, take in the scenery.
Day after that, back to the house at dawn, camcorder in tow. He’d make his way in, moldy wood and all. And he’d find nothing. Just like every other fucking place he trespassed on.
Because this shit wasn’t real. It’d never been anything like true.
“I wish it were,”he said every time someone asked.“Maybe one day. I’m not holding my breath, but I’m crossing my fingers.”
2:50 AM.
Bo closed his eyes and tugged the blanket up to his ears. He fell asleep as the clock hit 2:59.
“Good morning, dreamers,” Bo,the consummate professional, yawned. “It’s a little before sunrise in Skyler, Virginia. For those of you not prone to crawling through the northern bits of EST, that’s roughly half past six in the morning. I’m currently trying to not trip over underbrush-fuck–bleep that–I’m currently trying to not trip over underbrush and failing miserably.”
He spoke in hushed tones as he made his way through the trees, bag of supplies over his shoulder and phone in hand, recording. People liked the found footage vibes. So didBo. It just meant he faced a substantially higher chance of tripping over his feet or a rogue tree root.
“Weather said it might rain today, which would suck. I don’t think the … holy fuck.” Bo slowed, his head tipping back to get a proper look. “Turns out it’s a lot closer to the road than we thought.”
Only a half mile from a beaten side path to the winding drive. Overgrown, like most places he checked out. Bunches of rust-colored plants with wide, rough-looking leaves dotted the foundation, the lawn grown wild. Very spooky. Super haunted. Probably a lot of creaky floorboards and busted windows.
Vines twisted up the sides of brownstone walls and columns that used to be white. No cracked windows. Just ivy and the red-brown not-quite bushes against a backdrop of oak trees, reds and golds like he’d seen from the road.
The house itself was handsome, maybe three stories if someone counted the attic. There was fuck all for layouts online. Bo guessed purely by its design; while it had the same concave, boxy roof that other buildings from the time period did, it didn’t have the same reach.
“You know the drill, kids,” he said after a long pause, his eyes on the mansion. “Today’s just a sweep to see if it’s safe to walk in, check the stairs, not get arrested, make sure there’s not a hundred-year-old homeowner in there. Tomorrow is the interesting stuff.”
Interesting meaning revealing nothing lived in there but rodents or that aforementioned hundred-year-old homeowner. Whatever. If he aimed the phone a bit higher and squinted at the upstairs windows, he was allowed. For science.
Not his fault that the only sketch he’d found of the pretty ghost made it look like every stereotypical codpiece buster known to man.
“Wish me luck in finding a hot ghost with great hair to make eyes at.” Still laughing, Bo ended the recording. Hoodie: up. Gloves: on, mitten bit pinned back, fingers free. Camcorder: charged, connected, recording, and in hand. Phone: charged, in pocket.
Time to go knock on the door and see if anyone answered.
Chapter three
Everil
By the ninth day,Everil was too tired for dread. Drained and soulsick, he sat on the parlor settee, watching as the ceiling spun gently above.
Not much longer, now. Dawn poured its watery light through the windows, and Protocol gave them until midnight. Midnight. Then Nimai’s messenger would arrive to take them back to Faerie. Everil would be bonded to Nimai again. His tattered, starving soul would give him no choice. They would swear their oaths to Talia, and Everil would settle back into the life he’d fled.
“Eritrea,” Talia said, her voice interrupting Everil’s pathetic self-pity. “We could go to Eritrea.”
It wasn’t her first suggestion. She seemed determined to believe this a fairy tale in the mortal style, complete with a last-second rescue.
Powerful or no, Talia wasn’t fae. Being fae meant recognizing the old stories as lies. There were no heroes, no hidden secrets that led to happily ever after. Rumpelstiltskin did not chant his name to the air for all and sundry to hear.
