And maybe I’m falling harder than I thought, because when she looks at me like that, I find myself saying, “Okay, fine. Pick something out for me.”
Her grin breaks free, wide and unfettered. “Really?”
I’m smiling, too, at her sheer delight, despite trying to look stern. “You’ve worn me down.”
She holds my gaze for one beat, two, before turning away, continuing to walk in the sea of people. I follow after her.
“Aren’t you going to pick something?” I gesture at one of the boots beside us. A local goat farmer selling handmade soap.
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not sending you away with soap, Jeffrey."
I roll my eyes at the name, but she continues on.
“It has to be something good. Something you’d really like. It will take me time to pick it out.”
“So what do you want to do now, then? Get your fried corn on the cob and funnel cake?”
She shakes her head, coming to a stop in the middle of the closed off street. She turns, pointing at one of the houses. It’s decorated for Halloween like all the rest of the houses on the street. They’re all old, mostly Craftsmans, Victorians, and Colonials. This one is Victorian, painted a deep purple with white trim and shutters. And in the yard is a sign thatsaysHaunted House, $5 entry.Fake cobwebs string from the windows, and behind one of the shutters, a light flickers ominously. Creepy piano music is playing from a speaker in the yard. Someone in a grim reaper costume is collecting money from the people lined up in front of the door.
“Really?” I ask, looking down at her.
She nods. “I’ve always wanted to go with my parents, but they were never interested.”
“The last time I went to a haunted house, I peed my pants.”
“How old were you? Six? Nine?”
“Fourteen.”
Laughter rockets out of her, and she grabs me by the arm, pulling me up the concrete steps leading to the walkway. “Come on, you can hold onto me if you get scared.”
And suddenly, the haunted house doesn’t seem too bad.
We pay the few dollars for our tickets and move past the grim reaper through the fog pouring out the front door. It’s dark in the house, with only flickering candles in the chandelier illuminating the foyer. They must have the air conditioning on, too, because the air is much more frigid than it was outside.
Beneath my feet, a floorboard creaks, and as soon as I look down, the closet door beside me opens and a woman in a long white nightgown, her hair falling in greasy, black clumps around her shoulders, pops out and screams in my ear.
I jump, heart racing, and reach instinctively for Stevie, my arm a band around her middle, pushing her behind me. “Shit,” I breathe, as the woman disappears back into the closet as if she never appeared.
Behind me, Stevie repeats, “Shit.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. In the dim light, her eyes appear black, wide. “You good?”
She nods. “Just took me by surprise.”
My mouth hitches in a smile. “I think that’s the point.”
Her hand is gripping my bicep, and I realize I still have one on her hip, so I let go. Put enough space between us to let my heart rate return to normal. Turn back toward the doorway we were about to walk through when the woman popped out from the door. “You ready?”
“Ready,” she says. And then I feel the warmth of her body coming closer to mine. If I’m not mistaken, she grabs a handful of fabric on the back of my jacket, too.
We walk through the doorway and into a parlor. The walls are full of vintage portraits, solemn looking people with eyes that feel like they’re following us. The furniture is covered in heavy, dusty sheets. Off-key music is playing from a gramophone in the corner, something haunting and scratchy. Everything is still safe for the rocking chair in the corner that’s squeaking with each rock. In the chair sits a little girl, brushing the hair of a ratty doll. She looks up at us as we pass, smiling as she sings along to the music. It would be less horrifying if her face wasn’t painted to look like half of it was missing.
A shiver runs down my spine, and Stevie shuffles closer to me, her grip tightening on my jacket.
When we slip into the next room, she whispers in my ear, “Well, that was horrifying.”
Her breath is warm on the back of my neck, and the music in this room is so loud that she has to speak directly into my ear, her lips pressed against the curve of it. It sends a very different kind of shiver across my skin, and I wonder if she can feel it.
