Page 46 of Your Masked Haunting

“I should … like, apologize, right?” I break the silence, unable to restrain the nervous laugh from slipping free. Anxiety traces lines down my neck. “And hope that he hasn’t already started processing termination paperwork?”

Brett scoffs with a smirk, nothing but bad thoughts in his mind. “I think there’s a lot of things you should do to, with, for that man.”

Peyton elbows him. “I mean, he hasn’t fired you yet. Maybe he appreciates not being recognized and treated like a normal client.”

“Oh, yeah. Because I’m sure he’s absolutely fine with the thought of me cursing out and flipping off everyone who comes to my booth.” I throw my hands up, panic starting to gnaw at my skin. “I’m going to apologize the next time I see him. And hope that I don’t get fired in the meantime.”

That’s my plan. I’m not going to go out of my way to try and meet with him. I’m not going to hunt him down and make him take my apology. If he lets me go before then, I’ll figure it out.

Yeah, like living out of your car again and being forced to find another job.

Yeah, well, I don’t like it either! I shout back into my own mind.

Arguing with myself is a skill I’m not sure everyone has, but I excel at it. I chalk it up to keeping to myself my entire life, avoiding people like the plague.

It’s eight p.m., and I haven’t heard from my masked haunting in over two hours. Ugh.

Throwing my head down against my pillows, I roll on my side, facing the door, my gaze landing on Penelope. “Hi, sweetie.”

I wonder what she’d say if she could talk. I imagine a thousand snarky comments about my current life situation as I mist her enclosure through the wire mesh cutouts on the sides.

Her abdomen is still nice and full from her last feeding, so the mealworms in my fridge are safe … for now. Their sacrifice is always appreciated to keep my girl alive.

She seems to be loving domestic life. Food and water always provided. A safe enclosure, where nothing can hurt her and she can’t fall too far to injure herself. It’s perfect.

I wish I knew how old she was though. A female jumping spider’s lifespan is longer than a male, which I have confirmed from my intense late-night research. She’s a regius jumping spider. Tan, almost orange. With purple fangs that shimmer in the light. I think it’s incredible that nature can make something so beautiful.

I’ve been noticing things like that a lot more lately. The color changes in the trees. The brightness of the full moon. The ivy leaves that encase a corner on the back side of the house, fading with the season. A thousand shades of oranges, reds, and yellows consume the property. I think the world is prettier in fall.

The cooler mornings have me craving apple cider and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. I want to do all the fall things, but I don’t want to do them alone. Nor do I live in a situation where I can bake cinnamon rolls in my kitchen. There is a café downstairs that serves treats, but I’ve already consumed so many of them. I need something else.

Maybe I could bake them at Mr. Masked Man’s place. But eventually, I want to go on dates, to a pumpkin patch or even attend a night of the festivities here, without the face covering. I love it, and it’s fucking hot, but it can’t stay on forever.

“Where art thou, Mr. Masked Man?” I sing, rolling my head back and staring straight up at the ceiling.

He said he has meetings and his travel is picking up a lot, but I’m really feeling the weight of his absence. I mean, even the ghost in the house has taken a pause in scaring me. I’ve heard creaks and found the same framed image on the ground as usual. Thankfully, it hasn’t tried to grab or threaten me lately.

I was even brave enough last night to venture out of my room well past midnight. I needed a spoon for a pint of ice cream that I had in the freezer part of my mini fridge. I was terrified at first, and I couldn’t help but sing the first song that came to my mind—“Party in the U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus. My ghost must’ve been happy with the choice because he didn’t terrify me at any point during my outing.

Maybe we’re finally becoming friends—or at the very least, civil roommates. My mind wanders for a few minutes, concocting stories and lives for the ghost, trying to put a make-believe name or face to an unknown entity. Then I feel crazy for even seriously considering the ghost to be real. Paranormal concepts make my brain feel fuzzy sometimes. For one second, I’m certain that the ghost is real, and then the next, my brain is trying to convince me that I’m overreacting. It’s confusing.

What’s even more confusing than contemplating the existence of spirits is the attachment I have toward a certain masked man. One, I’m starting to wonder if he’s been kidnapped or if he’s avoiding me because if I don’t hear from him soon, I’m going to turn into the stalker.

You’re being obnoxious.

He’s busy, clearly a very important asset to whatever the hell he does for work. He will get back to me when he can.

Is he watching me on the cameras right now? I’m half tempted to see how long it’d take to respond if I pretended to be on the phone with some other guy.

I grunt, flopping onto my stomach, my face buried in the pillows. I’m not that type of girl, nor do I want to risk anything with his job. His work seems important to him, so it’s important to me.

Mentally, I make a quick list of things I need to figure out.

His name.

His occupation.

His age. I can tell he’s close in age to me, if not a few years older.