Clutching the urn to my chest, I frown at the worn path leading to the gap between the broken gates. Each gate stands at an odd angle, barely upright from years of neglect.
Weeds have grown around the chain I bought in a fruitless attempt to secure the manor from college kids and squatters. There’s trash everywhere, and the stone fence is decorated in graffiti that definitely wasn’t there when I lived here four years ago. It’s too dark to make out what any of it says, but I can only assumeFRAUDis on there somewhere.
ProbablyTHIEFtoo.
“Assholes,” I mutter, squeezing through the gap. I narrowly miss slipping on an empty beer bottle.
I focus on my footing as I trudge up the path to the house, scowling at the rubbish littering the ground. Apparently, my childhood home has turned into party central every Saturday—and things can only be worse now that the manor is on the national list of haunted houses.
Maybe we should have checked it once or twice, or at least fixed up the entrance to stop people from coming in, but neither Ella nor I wanted to face the evidence of our past.
Moonlight trickles through the canopy of skeletal branches above. The trees arch over the concrete driveway on both sides before breaking away to lead to a small lake and the sprawling hills beyond, which are surrounded by forest.
My stomach turns as I close the distance between me and the house that’s been at the forefront of all my other, non-Ella-related nightmares. Vines snake up the moldy walls, and weedsgrow along the edges of the building. The once bright marble sculptures are a patchwork of deep greens and blacks.
The day I lost everything started within those walls. I used to think the building was larger than life. But now the red-brick manor looks like a place dreams go to die.
My boot slides against the moss covering the steps leading up to the front door. The broken lock gives with the slightest push, and the wood creaks loud enough to be audible from an acre away.
Taking a deep breath of musty air, I step inside, using the torch on my phone to guide the way.
The moon’s glow seeps through the torn gauzy curtains and blankets the floor, which is covered in trash left by the police and every other person that’s desecrated the manor that’s been in my family’s name for over five generations.
It’s only been a handful of years, but beneath the mildew and dust, it smells like decay. And booze. With a dash of nicotine and weed.
Coming here was a bad idea.
I hug the urn tighter. It’s worth a shot. It probably won’t do anything, but Ella believed in this sort of crap. She’d sooner grab a crystal before taking an Advil. I just… I blow out a breath. I wish I didn’t have to step into this godforsaken place. I would have been happy to never see it again.
After the police or the FBI or whatever commandeered anything of value and drained my parents’ bank accounts, we couldn’t afford the upkeep of the manor. With the value sinking into the drain with each passing day, I’ll probably die before I pay off all of Ella’s medical debt, let alone get this place to the point where I can sell it for what it should be worth.
Pushing up the millwork stairs, I train my sights straight ahead, refusing to see the level of damage that’s been done to the property.
Unshed tears are stinging my eyes by the time I get to Ella’s old bedroom.
My parents did a lot of stupid shit in their life, but the smartest thing they did was transfer ownership of the manor to Ella the day she turned eighteen. Since the title change happened so long ago, not even a judge could force a sale to repay all the money my parents stole.
And now that Ella’s dead, her will makes this shithole mine.
Turning in a slow circle, I shine the light around the room. At least it’s relatively untouched, though it’s not like there was much left after the police had their field day. Just a bed, dresser, vanity, and random, worthless junk Ella didn’t want to keep.
The plastic bag rustles when it hits the floor, and I place the wooden box and Ella’s urn beside it in the middle of the room. I then find the spell in the grimoire that I attempted when Ella first died. It didn’t work a year ago, but it’s different now. It has to be.
I have the dagger, Ella’s most prized possession.
I set my phone down and grab the chalk from the bag to draw the symbols from the book. The alcohol is making them harder to get right.
The room shifts as I squint at the page, trying to draw the symbols as correctly as possible. I cringe at the wonky circle and the less than clean lines on the dusty floor. Ella’s ghost won’t give a shit if it isn’t pretty, right?
We found the spell—or incantation, or ritual, or whatever the fuck people call it—when Grandma first gave Ella the grimoire. The book is at least two hundred pages, and half of it isn’t in English. I thought it was another quirky family heirloom, but Ella acted like she’d been given the Necronomicon.
I’m not wasting my time with a Ouija board again. Nothing happened when I tried it with Ella when she was still alive, or alone after her funeral.
Out of everything, the only faith I have in any of this succeeding rests in a centuries-old book.
Once the summoning circle is as good as I can get it, I rock back onto my heels and grab the salt shaker, bottled water, and the scented candles we bought before she died. I position the five candles around the circle, lighting each one as I go.
Carefully, I open the wooden chest. Every ghost-summoning article said that I’d need a place and an item that the deceased had a strong emotional connection with. This dagger was the only thing that came to mind, and I thought it was in police custody.
