And so, our date began with dinner. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry, the date didn'tendwith dinner. What little faith you have in me…
We dined at his favourite Korean restaurant, sharing a large bowl of tteokbokki with cheese and noodles, the red sauce bringing tears to my eyes. I had to scull two glasses of water before braving the sticky fried chicken, Nathaniel laughing at my low spice tolerance.
There was a photobooth next door and even though I despised the way I looked on camera, I dragged Nathaniel inside and puton whatever silly hat he wanted me to. The silly hat he selected was a strawberry that he clasped under my chin, a single curl falling over my forehead while the others remained confined beneath the red and green head piece.
"Cute," he grinned, snapping a photo of me with his phone before slipping on an identical strawberry that was, indeed, quite cute.
We posed for several photos, with and without props, but the old lady minding the store watched us with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, so we only paid for two sessions before fleeing with our photo prints.
"How are you so damn photogenic?" I complained, glancing down at the four poses Nathaniel nailed whilst I looked like a fish that had fallen into a shark tank.
"Shut up, you look adorable," he nudged me, "I'm hanging these up in my room."
"Gay."
"Don't pretend like you're not obsessed with me," he teased, "I've seen the photo you set as your home screen."
A cool breeze caressed the back of my neck as I reached for his hand, snuggling closer to escape the cold. In a matter of seconds, his coat was around my shoulders, not a word exchanged. We walked in comfortable silence, hand-in-hand, until we reached his car, Nathaniel opening the door for me with a warm smile brightening his rosy cheeks.
"Here," I said, returning his coat, "you're cold too."
"I don't mind the cold," he insisted.
"It's fine, I promise."
"Augustus Saint." His tone was firm, though his hands were gentle as they cupped either side of my face. "I would rather freeze to death than have you uncomfortable for even one millisecond. Wear the damn coat."
And wear the damn coat I did before climbing into the passenger seat, smiling to myself as the scent of his vanilla cologne infiltrated my nostrils.
"Where to now? The night is still young."
"It's a surprise," I grinned before giving him the address to an eighteenth-century building owned by an elderly woman named Beverely White.
Mrs White did not live in the two-storey house with brown bricks smothered in ivy, front steps warped by decay, and tall windows stained with centuries of soot, mold and neglect. It was too haunted, she claimed in a BBC interview six years prior, she didn't want to live alongside the dead. The home was rented out to ghost hunters and television programs, as well as people like me who wanted to take their horror-loving boyfriend to a 'real' haunted house.
"What is this place?" Nathaniel asked as we pulled onto the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The house glared down at us, a welcome sign swaying weakly from a single hinge as though waving us to come in or run away.
"The most haunted house in the United Kingdom," I recited from the booking website, "where the living meet the dead."
"For real?" Nathaniel asked, eyes widening.
"I guess we're going to find out."
We climbed out of the car and ascended the front steps, wood wincing beneath our feet. A maroon door with a rusted '109' awaited us at the top, a blackened window on either side watching us like a predator watching its prey. The instructions stated the key was under the pot plant on the right of the door, which I made Nathaniel retrieve since my gaze was locked on my reflection staring back at me in the window to the left. The Devil winked. And then he was gone. But the damage was done, his presence tormenting me even at my happiest.
"So, what's the story with this place?" Nathaniel asked as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, reaching blindly for a light switch.
"The lights don't work," I sighed as I moved to step past him, "Mrs White doesn't want to pay for electricity. There are supposed to be torches on the—oh, yep, here they are."
Handing him a torch, I flicked on my own, its light cutting a narrow path through the suffocating darkness of the first floor, crumbling wallpaper unveiling cracks along the walls. A thick dampness smothered the air, dust crawling into my nostrils, a set of sneezes drowning out the darkness. Cobwebs dangled like curtains from the high ceiling, exposed beams crawling with spiders.
"The story," I sniffled, clearing my throat, "is that in the mid-eighteen hundreds, two young women were murdered. One body found on the staircase, the other on the second floor, both covered in blood."
"Are you making this up?" Nathaniel asked as he shone his light into the living room, floral wallpaper looming behind dust-covered furniture and crooked photo frames.
"No." Oak floorboards creaked with every step, a symphony of the aches and pains of an old house. "I read about it on the website."
"Oh. Well, carry on."
