Page 71 of Love at First Fright

The stairs blurred beneath my feet. One flight. Two. My shoulder slammed into the corner of the landing. Pain flared. Didn’t matter. Kept moving.

The walls pressed close. Too close. The house watched me flee, amused by my panic.

Down. Down. Down.

Portraits leered from their frames. The grandfather clock ticked its disapproval. A door slammed somewhere above me, echoing through the stairwell like a gunshot.

Ground floor.

The front door loomed ahead. Massive. Oak. I hit it at full sprint, scrabbling for the handle. My sweaty fingers slipped once, twice, then caught. The bolt scraped. The door swung open.

Cold air hit my face.

I burst into daylight.

The gravel drive crunched under my feet. My breath came in ragged gasps. Don’t look back. Don’t think. Just run. Run through the mess of a garden.

The gate rose ahead. Iron bars. Closed.

Of course it was closed.

I reached it, hands wrapping around the cold metal, rattling the bolt. My chest heaved, my breath coming in horrible, ragged gasps.

“Wait!”

The voice rang out behind me. Male. Youngish. Desperate.

I spun, back pressed against the gate.

Nothing.

Just the manor. The overgrown garden. The gravel drive stretching empty between me and the house.

“Wait, please. Don’t go. Please.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “I need to explain.”

My head whipped left. Right. Nobody. Nothing.

Panic clawed up my throat. I twisted back to the gate, fingers scrabbling at the bolt again. Maybe if I climbed—

“Please!”

Closer now. Right behind me.

I lurched away from the gate, stumbling backwards into the garden. My heel caught on something. I caught myself before I fell, arms flailing.

“I won’t hurt you.” The voice said. “I would never hurt you.”

“Something in that attic just tried to kill my colleague!” The words burst out of me, shrill and breathless.

A pause. Then, “Oh, he’s fine.” The tone shifted. Less desperate. Almost… annoyed? “Don’t worry about him. He deserved it after he touched you like that.”

My brain struggled to process the words. The voice. The empty garden.

“That was…” I swallowed. “That was you?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t want him dead!”