Page 27 of Your Masked Haunting

Never-ending thoughts of him and what our future could look like consume the rest of my shift, until my paints and equipment are stored in my locker and my apron is folded and stowed.

I haven’t heard from him the entire day, and it’s driving me mad. But I have a suspicion that he’s doing it on purpose, which only makes me want to act out later even more.

Wandering through the house, I bump into Peyton, one of the lead makeup artists for the cast. She’s living my dream, and I’m so jealous.

“Hey, Mona. Have a good day?” Her voice is professional, and her smile is sweet.

We’ve only spoken a handful of times, but this is by far her most eager.

Tucking my phone into my back pocket and my hair behind my ears, I nod. “Yeah. A lot of vampires today. Couple of unicorns.”

“That’s some serious work right there.” She smirks, not mockingly, but humorlessly, like she knows the exact feeling in my chest. But that’s because she does, from a couple of years ago.

“Oh, yeah. Big artist skills needed.” I chuckle, and her smile widens. “I barely pulled off the dinosaur request.”

She genuinely laughs, and pride blooms in my chest that I caused it. “Do you have any interest in learning special effects? We might need an extra hand, and I figured”—she drags the word out, emphasizing the meaning between the lines—“if we need an extra hand for beauty work on the cast, you’ll be there.”

My heart starts somersaulting, backflipping, doing all the damn tricks and flips. “I’d love to. That’d be amazing.”

She grins, satisfied with my answer. “Glad to hear it. Give me your number, and I’ll text you. It’ll probably be voluntary at first. But then I’m sure I can convince Clara to bring you on for a few hours here and there.”

Of course, I agree, and we exchange numbers.

And as I wander up the first flight of stairs to the second floor, I have a new pep in my step. I’m closer than ever at getting to actually work on the main makeup crew, and I want to squeal.

The second floor is almost significantly quieter than the first, and the third is nearly always abandoned, except for a worker trying to sneak away for a break from the chaos in a place that isn’t the staffrooms. I don’t blame them. If I wasn’t so freaked out all the time from a ghost haunting me, I’d find it just as relaxing.

But like many times before, my floor is empty, and I make it to my room, passing the thankfully closed doors, slipping inside the hidden entrance. Whoever designed this place really put a lot of care and thought into it. I mean, who puts a hidden room inside of their house? Granted, I think this place used to be a hotel, but the point remains the same. It’s weird. Cool, but weird.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out as I click the door into place, grinning like a fool.

Spooky Boy: Happy early Halloween. I hope you love it

Hope I love what?

My head snaps up, and I’m suddenly aware of the big dress box on my bed and the packed-full floral arrangement of black calla lilies in a vintage black-and-gold vase on my nightstand, beside Penelope.

“Oh my God.” My mental murmur slips past my lips as I take in the gold-painted leaves.

Rushing over to them, I bend at the waist and breathe them in, my eyes rolling back from how good they smell.

I’m a thousand pounds lighter as I squeal and turn my attention to the decorative box on my bed, surprisingly large for containing a Halloween costume.

Pulling at the black satin ribbon, I inhale and hold my breath, unsure of what could possibly be inside. I lift the magnetic lid, and the air spills from my lungs in a rapid exhale.

I take it all in—from the Scream Ghostface mask to the fake bedazzled blade, to the tissue-wrapped presents underneath. Pulling the mask out, I brush the cheek of the mask and set it on the bed. Then the blade.

I grab the wrapped gifts from inside, and they feel like clothes. I carefully unwrap them, my jaw falling to the floor more and more with each one. A black pleather miniskirt. A new pair of black tights. A gorgeous, delicate, lacy tank top that should hit just above my waistband. The last tissue-wrapped clothing item has a note on top of it.

I thought of you, and I figured you could never have too many stockings.

He is absolutely correct because a girl can never have too many ultra-soft black-and-white flannels, especially when the one I always wear is, like, nine years old with worn holes and frayed edges. But it gives it character, and there’s room for both in my wardrobe.

The box isn’t empty though—far from it. I find a pair of frilly socks, the kind I like to stick out the top of my Docs. And then, speak of the devil, there’s a Doc Marten box with an identical pair of my boots inside—well, minus the years of wear and tear.

Tears well in my eyes, my throat burning as I uncover yet another box inside. It looks like a jewelry box.

This is all way too much. I didn’t need this or want this. I can’t repay this favor in the slightest.