Page 31 of If I Stopped Haunting You

Chapter 10

NEIL

There was something off about Skinner. Her usual snarky comments were gone, seemingly drained away since the cellar. Had she really seen something? The groundskeeper had spoken briefly of the spirit that guarded the cellar, but he’d thought nothing of it. Neil didn’t believe in ghosts, and he found it difficult to believe there really was something in this castle.

But her reaction had been so…visceral.

Neil paused in the hall between their doors. As if out of instinct, he took a step toward hers, his footsteps silenced by the rug. He took another and reached out a hand to graze her door before settling his palm against it. He’d stay outside her door if he thought it would do any good, but she was safe in her room, they were safe in this castle, and nothing was going to get them.

With a small shrug, he turned and retreated into his room, closing the door tightly behind him. He wasn’t tired, not mentally. Physically, his muscles ached and the space between his eyes throbbed, but it was simply too early to sleep. Kneeling before the fireplace, he built a small fire in his room, the warmth of the lapping flames spreading through the room and filling all the crevices until he stopped shivering.

Castles, he decided, were cold, harsh places.

Try as he might, he kept picturing the look of terror on Skinner’sface down in that cellar. She didn’t look like she was lying; she’d been visibly shaken.

Sighing, he crossed to his suitcase and threw open the lid. Neil changed into sweats and a T-shirt before plopping into the chair beside the hearth. He ran his fingers over the worn leather armrest as he propped his laptop on his legs and stared blankly at the screen.

As much as he hated to admit it, he hadn’t been lying when he told Skinner that he was struggling, that he should have pushed back all those times with his editor and publisher, that he could have made choices that sent him on another path. But he’d chosen this one. Neil had made a lot of terrible decisions over the years, and those were only the tip of the iceberg. The instigators, so to speak.

Chewing on his thumbnail, he pulled openthatdocument. Neil hadn’t dared to look at it in ages, but he couldn’t stop himself from scanning it once more. After he’d sent it to Tabitha and she’d sent her editorial letter in return, he’d made some changes. It was the process, and Neil had trusted the process. He rewrote a better part of the novel, and by the time he’d made it through revision after revision with his editor, it had been transformed into the published version ofFor What Savages May Be.

The original storyline ofFor What Savages May Befollowed a young woman on a reservation looking for her sister’s killer. He’d thought it was heart-wrenchingly perfect, and Neil had never been prouder of one of his books. A Southern gothic in its original state, it was everything he’d ever dreamed of. He’d used experiences from his own family, did research on the reservation, and even visited it. He studied the conditions of the Choctaw Nation, read about his ancestors, and spoke to a few Elders, and when he was good and ready, he’d drafted up an outline and sent off his manuscript.

“It’s hard to stomach,” his editor had said in an email. “We want you to tone it down.”

Hard. To. Stomach.

What the hell did that even mean? Were people not willing to read horror about Missing and Murdered Indigenous People? Was it toorealfor them? But he was hellbent on writing this story. He didn’t have to write the book, but Neil had known the minute he’d started drafting that there was no turning back.

So, he’d changed it. He’d followed his editor’s suggestions to a T before sending it back, but it had only been shredded further. And Skinner was right; it was a sellout book. It held none of the heart of the original work. The main character was transformed into a man, the missing sister into a long-lost mystery in cowboy country. It was full of gore and stereotypes, scared women and villainous men, and Neil hadn’t known how to turn it around.

The new version, his publisher’s vision, was a classic horror in every regard. And that was the problem. There was nothing new, nothing original within its pages, nothing groundbreaking, and Penelope Skinner, who’d put her heart and soul intoThe Lies They Told Us,had every right to be angry. And not once during the entire process did he say no.

Angry, betrayed, confused, and heartbroken, he had erased everything he put down on the page with a vengeance, because none of it was good. Skinner had pulled the plug on his confidence, and he’d never doubted his storytelling more.

Fuck, here he was complaining about Skinner standing up for something he knew was wrong. Hadn’t she just wanted him to listen? Hadn’t she wanted him to hear her out, to understand where she was coming from?

Neil went to close the document but paused, and before he could second-guess himself, he reached into the small pocket of his messenger bag for a spare thumb drive, copying and pasting the file there with a hopeful smile.

After quickly scribbling on the thumb drive with a Sharpie, he went to his door. Pressing an ear to the wood, he turned the handle, the hinges squealing as he pulled it open. Neil peered past the lit lamps and glowing pedestals of the east wing. Everything was still and silent in the night, the dim lighting making it eerier. Laszlo and Daniela must have gone to sleep sometime since he’d slipped into his room. No sound could be heard but his own breathing.

Neil shivered as he crossed the hall to Skinner’s room. This place creeped him out, and although he hadn’t seen whatever Skinner was screaming about in the cellar at the top of her lungs, he was almost willing to admit there might be more to their world if it would just give him proof. Neil was open to being wrong if a ghost would pop out and yell, “Boo!” He’d never encountered the paranormal, never had any reason to believe there was something more out there, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t.

Reaching out, he slipped the thumb drive with “Sorry” written across it beneath her door. Maybe this would ease some of the tension between him and Skinner, bridge the gap after the pain they’d caused each other. If she only knew what he had given up to be here…

There was a creak in the hall. Neil jumped in surprise, nearly falling face-first into Skinner’s door. He pivoted on his heel to scan the wing.

“Hello?” he called.

This was ridiculous. There was nothing else in this castle save for him and the other writers. So, then, why was he scared? Why did he want to pack up and leap out his window, feeling safer in the expansive woods than in this place? With a ragged exhale, Neil took another step down the hall, hesitating, his hands outstretched.

Then he smelled it. Rot and decay. It flooded his senses all at once, and Neil banged back into the door, his other hand going to the wall to steady him as he covered his nose and mouth.

“Oh god,” he gagged, the whiskey in his stomach threatening to bubble up.

Neil wedged himself as far back as he could and searched the hall, his eyes tracing over framed paintings and busts and sconces. The lights flickered as something white swept into a room down the hall, and Neil froze. Oh, there wassomethingall right, but he wasnotsticking around to see who or what it really was.

He turned and yanked open the door behind him, slamming it closed with a gasp. He leaned against the wood and squeezed his eyes shut, trembling hands gripping either side of the doorframe as his heart slammed against his ribs.