Page 18 of If I Stopped Haunting You

Pen frowned, forcing herself to focus on the groundskeeper.

“There are different versions of the legend,” Fanny continued. “Locals stopped coming here in the nineties after an incident involving a local youth, but my pa used to tell me of the weeping maiden trapped here. He said she was a young noble lady who’d died alone and heartbroken, having murdered a boy. Her family shunned her, and she was left to waste away in her room, looking out wistfully over the grounds for someone to take her away.”

Storm cleared his throat. “Well, that’s depressing.”

Fanny laughed, winking. “Our legends are milder than others. Ye should take one of those haunted tours in Edinburgh. It’s nay dubbed the City of Ghosts for no reason.”

Pen shuddered as she pictured the dark crypts under the city, the soft, echoing sound of heavy boots. There was a part of Pen that was beginning to think staying in this castle was a bad idea, and not because Storm was here. If she was that scared down in the vaults beneath Edinburgh, how could she spend an entire week in a supposedly haunted castle?

Stepping to the left of the staircase, Fanny tapped a wall, making Pen jump to attention. “This here is the cellar. I dinnae suggest going down there unless ye have a death wish.”

“What’s wrong with the cellar?” Pen regretted having asked it immediately.

“There’s said to be an angry spirit down there. Mostly sticks to the shadows, ye ken. A wee little thing. My pa said it was the maiden’s brother, protecting her and ridding this place of any wrongdoers or some sort.” She patted the wall fondly. “Should be fine if ye keep out, though. Ghosts willnae hurt ye unless ye give them a reason to.”

Pen and Laszlo shared a look of horror.

“Anywho!” Fanny motioned them to the stairs, ignoring their dubious expressions. “Much of the castle is easy to navigate,” she promised, crossing to the staircase, “but let me show ye the upstairs level where the bedrooms are.”

Pen fought another shiver. Something about this place and that painting felt off. She met the woman’s gray eyes before reluctantly tearing her gaze from the painting and hurrying up the plush steps after the group.

It seemed much of the castle had been renovated over the years. Wooden steps and banisters had been put in place, dating back no more than a hundred years, Fanny told them as they trailed behind her. While much of the décor was faded, there were copies of paintings hung in golden frames that caught the light, and the wallpaper was newer, only peeling in small, dark corners.

There was a peculiar, almost earthy scent lingering in the halls, growing stronger the higher they climbed. No matter how much Pen tried to focus on it, she couldn’t quite place the scent. As they ascended the staircase, she ran her fingers over the smooth wood of the banister, taking in the small details, the gathering dust, the paintings and curtains leached of color. If Pen didn’t know they were in a haunted castle, she would have assumed as much from the décor alone.

Fanny led Pen and the others up to the second landing, and though she was speaking, Pen could not focus on the groundskeeper’s words. She kept imagining the portrait below, a woman with a knowing, unwavering stare. She had expected paintings andstatues and strange old props set about the castle. After all, they’d wanted the haunted experience, hadn’t they?

But that painting of the woman… Even the thought of it sent a shudder through her.

It feltalive.

“This is the east wing, where ye’ll be staying. And that”—Fanny gestured to their right, eyes wary—“is the west wing. The west wing and any locked doors or passageways throughout the castle are strictly off-limits.”

Pen peered down the darkened hallway. “What’s wrong with the west wing?” Pen asked.

Fanny paused. Pen swore she saw something there, a twitch of her lips, a furrow of her brow, something close to fear reflected in her tired eyes, but it was gone just as soon. Clearing her throat, Fanny turned toward the east wing, toward the light.

“Unless ye want to be sleeping with the ghosts, I’d suggest following me.”

Pen decided she didnotwant to sleep with the ghosts.

Chapter 6

PEN

Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, Pen moved on reluctantly, a strange coil of dread tightening in her gut. There was almost a feeling of being pulled, a string tied tight around her center, yanking her toward the darkness. It took everything in Pen not to immediately follow the urge and tiptoe over that invisible line.

As if sensing Pen’s reluctance, Storm paused and turned back to her. “You okay, Skinner?”

She stared past him, taking in the darkened corridor, a contrast to the lit hall of the east wing. Was she imagining this feeling? Were they all oblivious to it? It was the same sort of foreboding she’d felt on the tour in Edinburgh, the same sickening trepidation.

“Are you?” Pen asked. “Does none of this bother you?”

He looked over her head as if he was drawn there, and Pen followed his fixation down to the space where the darkness somehow soaked up the light that seeped in from the east wing. A sponge, hungry for the slithering shadows.

“I don’t know how much I believe in these things,” Storm said, his voice low and velvety smooth. It seemed to dip down Pen’s front, pooling between her legs. She clamped her thighs together, disbelieving.

What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?she chided.It’s Storm.