The house creaked again, low and drawn out. It sounded almost… deliberate.
The playlist switched to a cheerful love song, and the absurdity of it made me laugh. “Okay, if a ghost wants to crochet, they’re welcome to join,” I said, setting my wine down. “But they need to bring their own hook. I’m not sharing my ergonomic one.”
The silence that followed was too quiet, like the house was thinking about it.
“That’s what I thought.”
For a moment, I considered being sensible—curling up with a book, maybe starting one of those steamy romcoms where the heroine owns a bakery and never sweats. Then I thought about the towering shadows, the ancient staircase, the mysterious locked door I wasn’t supposed to open. The fact that all of it pulled me in instead of scaring me probably said somethingabout my judgment. I decided not to look too deeply at that. I could only handle one self-improvement project at a time. Ignorance seemed easier.
“Being sensible is for people with emotional stability.” I grabbed my glass. “Let’s make some bad decisions.”
The stairs creaked under my weight as I started my little midnight tour, each step moaning a complaint over my invasion. The banister was smooth but cold under my palm, and the air carried that old-house smell—dust, polish, something faintly floral that made me think of forgotten perfume. Or funerals.
Halfway up, the light from the hallway flickered.
“Not today, Satan,” I whispered.
I passed the locked door to Mr. West’s bedroom and gave it a suspicious glance. I kept going, wine sloshing in the glass, the hem of my dress brushing against my knees. My reflection followed me in the framed paintings that lined the corridor—women in lace collars, men with stern faces, a child clutching a doll I was sure had been cursed.
“This is fine,” I told myself. “Totally normal vacation behavior. Who needs spa days when you can risk possession?”
A sane person would have turned around.
But I wasn’t that person.
Chapter 2
Nadia
Ibalanced my wineglass, phone, and bundle of nerves with questionable coordination. The phone was recording, because if I ended up murdered by a colonial ghost, someone should at least get a good podcast out of it.
“Update,” I whispered into the mic, stepping into the main hall. “The house definitely has needs-a-priest energy. But like… in a sexy New England way.”
The place was absurd. A massive mahogany staircase curved up the center, dramatic and unapologetic. Stained-glass windows glowed faintly even in the dark, all of them featuring angels who looked vaguely like they’d stab you for fun. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, swaying just enough to groan with each whisper of wind from the open window. Cobwebs glittered in the corners. Dust floated lazily.
And the umbrella stand? A full-on griffin. Because why settle for normal furniture when you can own something that looks like it guards cursed treasure?
I sipped my wine and pushed open a pair of double doors.
“Oh my god.”
It was a library, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ladders on rails. Dust rose the moment I stepped in,disturbed after what felt like centuries of silence. I spun slowly, clutching my glass, heart pounding with the thrill of discovery. This was the exact reaction I always hoped to spark in my students.
“This is… everything.”
I climbed halfway up the ladder, scanning the titles.
Boston’s Hidden Tunnels: A Cartographer’s Obsession.
Folk Healing and Herbal Lore of Eastern Europe.
Silence Is a Weapon: A Guide to Stoic Communication.
“Okay,” I said to the phone, “whoever owned this house was either an academic or a warlock.”
The ladder squeaked, and I nearly spilled my drink.
Leaving the library was like walking away from my soulmate, but I forced myself to keep exploring. I ended up in a fancy parlor straight out of a murder mystery. Velvet armchairs. Heavy curtains. A fireplace with scorched stone, and portraits of people who all looked like their lives had been hell and death couldn’t come soon enough.
