Page 87 of Your Masked Haunting

Ridley heir saves girlfriend from a brutal attack at The Schrader House, a real Halloween horror story.

The article jazzed up a few of the details, dramatically portraying Edgar as if he were Michael Myers. I guess, looking at it from face value—a man who secretly lived in the house, attacks her late at night, chasing her into the corn maze to try to kill her—is terrifying. Okay, maybe they didn’t exaggerate it. Maybe my mind is belittling the accident so it feels less scary.

Regardless, a picture of Casper holding my hand and walking me out of the hospital is at the top of the article. He’s looking right at me, his stare intense and deep, full of so much fear and love.

“Mona,” Peyton murmurs, and I lock my phone, stowing it back in my purse. “Everything okay?”

My body tunes the arena back in—the noise of the fans, the loud announcer shouting into the mic, and the dimmed lights while I try to push the memories of that night away. But it’s not until I hear his name and look up across the ice and see him skate out that I can finally breathe again.

My heart warms because I’m wearing the same jersey. He left it out for me before he had to leave for the arena. Having his name on my back, being encased in his scent—it’s an intoxicating feeling.

He glides across the ice, and I think that he might skate smoother than he walks. His confidence, his aura—he’s at home there. I’m seeing him in a whole new light, watching him in his purest form, and it’s so beautiful.

I’ve never watched a hockey game before, so my knowledge of what’s about to happen is incredibly limited and flawed. But I’m pretty sure the main goal of the sport is to get the flat black rubber … puck—that’s the word—into the net. I might not have watched hockey, but I grew up in Minnesota, for Pete’s sake, so I’ve heard some of the lingo and terms.

The lights turn on, and the fun, pretty ones turn off. The teams meet in the middle. One of the refs throws the puck down between two of them. Our guy is Bates, and theirs is … someone else. Bates gets it, which I think is good, and he swings his stick, pushing it behind him to Casper.

“What have we missed?” Cambrie plops down in the seat beside me, setting her drink on the ledge of the boards. She fiddles with her purse before crossing her leg and grabbing her drink and taking a sip. “God, this is good.”

I giggle, wishing that she had gotten one for me too. But I decided to be responsible and not get drunk tonight. I know I’m fine to have one or two, but I’m still having waves of periodic anxiety, and I don’t know if alcohol will make that better or worse.

I fill Cambrie in as best as I can, which isn’t that great, and Peyton leans her popcorn bucket over so I can steal a handful. Brett fights me as he reaches fully over Peyton.

“You brat!” I scoff, shaking my hand across the top so he can’t grab any. “Wait your turn.” I fill my hand up and pull it away, cradling the buttery goodness above my lap.

“Ooh, Mona.” Cambrie bumps my arm gently, and I look up, locking eyes with Casper as he skates by, the biggest, most beautiful smile on his face as everyone sets up around a red-painted dot. “I think he likes you.”

A laugh tears out of me. “Yeah”—I chuckle—“I think you might be right.”

“Mona!” Caroline slides past the other fans, and she and Casper’s dad, Harrison, sit to Cambrie’s left. “How’s our girl doing?”

“Better,” I answer honestly, grinning from ear to ear, hearing her claiming me in some motherly sense. “How are you guys?”

A puck bounces off the glass right in front of us, and I jump, my head snapping back to the game as Caroline fills me on the aftermath of the accident, from the PR side, and that I’m a part of the family now and will be treated as such. Cambrie shushes her after a while, telling us to watch the game. She’s locked into it, not missing a single play through the entire first quarter—nope, period.

During the intermission, Peyton, Brett, Cambrie, and I run to the restrooms and get more snacks from the family lounge for the second period. Since it’s my first game, I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I’m having a fucking blast. I eat nearly an entire bag of popcorn to myself while loving every second of watching Casper on the ice, as well as his friends, who are quickly becoming my own.

Cambrie tries explaining the game in more detail for me, but I think it’s going to take me a few games before I throw a thousand questions her way. But as the second period blows by, I start to really get into it, jumping up and joining the crowd’s cheers, feeling like I belong.

Peyton and Brett are having just as much fun, cheering and chanting along with us. Brett suggests we buy season tickets, and I think he just loves looking at the players.Which is fair.

Cambrie says I’m picking it up quick, but we’ll see. I think from an outside perspective, this sport gets a bad rep for being too violent, but if you knew why the violence occurred and how it played a vital role in the dynamic of the game, it’d make sense.

Fighting only seems to happen when the scales are tipped heavily one way, like the other team isn’t getting penalized fairly, a player is landing a bunch of cheap blows. I mean, the list could go on for eternity. Regardless of the reason, the scale finds its balance; whether that’s at the hands of the refs or players, it’s an inevitability.

Hockey has its own unique justice system, fit with a jail connected to the ice, but just as in life, not all crimes are noticed and punished; some justice is doled out on the ice.

The third period is slower, but I think that’s because the Sinners are beating the Stars four to one, and there’s only a few minutes left. I think the outcome of this game is pretty much set in stone. Apparently, this was expected, Cambrie told me, as the Stars have been struggling since the season started. If anything, Cambrie anticipated a bigger blowout.

When the clock finally runs out, we jump to our feet, smacking the glass and cheering as loud as we can. I’m going to have to make it a habit of coming to games if it always feels this good.

Casper spins toward us the second the play dies, digging his skates in and racing our way, his white teeth sparkling in the light. He jumps against the boards, and they rattle slowly as he rests his glove against the glass. I put my fist against the same spot, pretending to bump his.

“I’ll be out soon!” he shouts over the noise, and the only reason I can really understand him is from reading his lips.

I nod, biting down on my bottom lip as my cheeks ache with joy.

When he turns around and skates off, Peyton and Brett grab my shoulders and shake me while squealing. I laugh at their excitement for my love life all the way up the stairs to the hallway.