“Stick around,” I told her. “You said you’re bored. Consider this your front-row seat.”
I hadn’t come here looking for a fight. But if this was how things worked in Eternity Falls, then maybe I’d fit right in. For the first time since arriving here, I felt something click into place. My life was still haunted—both literally and metaphorically—but this?
This I understood.
Chapter
Four
ISADORA
“So,” Thorne said as we turned onto my street, “is it too soon to ask for a tour of your haunted abode, or should I wait until your ghosts have had their coffee?”
I chuckled. “Sure, why not? Just don’t blame me for their bad manners.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, dah-ling,” Thorne said, laughing.
We stopped in front of the bar, which—bless its decrepit soul—looked even more tragic by daylight. The siding was less ‘shabby chic’ and more ‘abandoned railway station.’ The awning sagged as if it, too, had given up on its dreams. And a rogue vine had claimed the left-hand shutter like it was preparing to star in its own gothic romance.
“Wow,” Thorne said, eyes wide. “It’s even worse than I remember.”
I smiled serenely. “Isn’t it just dreadful? I feel like I should rename it Wuthering Pub. The ambience certainly matches.”
“It looks like it might collapse if someone breathes too hard near it,” Thorne whispered, as though afraid she might offend the building itself. Who knew, maybe she would?
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I intend to transform her. We won’t even recognize her when I’m finished. She just needs a glow-up.”
Thorne stepped inside, then froze just past the threshold.
I couldn’t blame her. I’d slept here last night and even I was still a little shocked by the state of the place. It certainly didn’t help that the weather had cleared, too. Now the grimy windows were lit from the outside, highlighting every sorry detail inside.
There was so much to fix in this place. Cracked plaster. Warped floorboards. A stain in the center of the room that I’d deliberately chosen not to investigate for the sake of my sanity. In one corner, a broken barstool lay belly-up like a dead bug. Next to that, a door—possibly storage?—hung crooked on its hinges, and swayed back and forth with zero encouragement from us.
The place was a disaster wrapped in a catastrophe.
“Oh my gods,” Thorne whispered.
“Right?” I said. “You can practically smell the despair.”
“No, I mean—seriously. Is that…blood on the wall?”
I peered at the dark smear near the corner booth. “Hard to say. Could be blood. Could be wine. Could be a deeply unfortunate jam accident. We may never know.”
Thorne made a face but continued her inspection.
Above us, the chandelier gave a dramatic, wailing groan and began to sway with theatrical menace.
I sighed. “That’s Bernard.”
Thorne stared at the swaying fixture, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “You named your chandelier?”
“No. I named the ghost who haunts it. I met him last night. But he refuses to show himself or tell me his name. He just…moans. So, I named him Bernard. It felt appropriate. He didn’t complain, so.”
She squinted. “You’re serious.”
“As death.”
The chandelier gave an extra creak, as if in agreement.
