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It took effort to tug the gate open. The rusted iron needed to be convinced after years of neglect, enduring rain, snow, and sun. Dragging it through the thick carpet of wet leaves required gumption, and the tired hinges whined and complained at decibels that sang through my teeth and shivered up my spine.

Loud enough to wake the dead, I thought.

Back in the Jeep, I cranked the heat and followed the driveway through several more turns before the historic mansion materialized out of the darkness like a colossal monument to the devil himself.

“Fuck my life. Look at that place.” It could have fallen right out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

I parked close to the front entrance, next to the remains of a crumbling fountain, and killed the engine. Leaning forward to peer out the windshield, I took in what I could of the monolithic structure in the dark.

Several windows were boarded up. The ones that weren’t presented as ominous, impenetrable pits. What lay beyond was a mystery for my imagination. Creepers swallowed much of the stone façade. I knew from photographs that the exterior was in rough shape, but the night camouflaged a lot of the damage.

The fountain had once featured a cherubic angel, but part of his outstretched arm and face was missing. Under the beam of my headlights, I spotted a bird’s nest sheltered against the angel’s shoulder and neck, a coating of shit beneath it suggesting it had once been a popular loft.

I had so many questions. Did the guy who bought this place intend to fix it up and sell it? It was the only logical answer. No one in their right mind would live in this dump. He must be some kind of millionaire if he paid for it outright.

The time on the dash read ten to eight. The least I could do was turn the lights on so it would look welcoming. It wouldn’t hurt to get a general idea of the floor plan before Mr. Ashenvale arrived too, so I didn’t look completely incompetent giving a tour.

Killing the engine, I got out of the Jeep and aimed for the stone stairs leading to the main entrance. An iron knocker hung below a narrow window, darkness beyond. A curtain of cobwebs filled the nook, along with a pile of windswept debris that filled the corner.

The hair on my nape stood on end as I fumbled the keys.

This was stupid. I wasn’t a child. There were no such things as ghosts or evil spirits.

The lock had been replaced in the past decade by the look of it, so the key slipped home and turned without trouble. I muscled open the heavy wooden door and was greeted by a tomb of darkness that might have led straight to the gates of hell for all I knew. Stale, musty air hit me in the face.

I stepped blindly into the room and felt along the wall, seeking a switch. The listing said there was electricity, so it was there somewhere. Fumbling my phone from a pocket, I found the flashlight app, turned it on, and was greeted by a bare foyer: dusty, pitted wood floors with a scattering of insect carcasses, peeling gold-embossed emerald-green wallpaper above an intricately carved walnut boiserie. Rusty nails hung at intervals, suggesting pictures had once decorated the walls. Those items were long gone.

I found what I was looking for behind the door and turned on the light. Pale yellow bulbs inside four ornate brass sconces flickered to life. They lined the hall to my left, ending at a solid wooden door two dozen or so feet down the corridor. It wasn’t enough illumination to chase away the shadows, but it was better than darkness.

On the right, a few feet along, a pair of carved French doors stood open, the room beyond a yawning black hole—an unwelcome sight if I ever saw one.

Pulling up my big-boy pants, I entered the abyss, found another light switch, and discovered what might once have been a lounge or parlor. A few pieces of antique furniture remained, all of it pushed into a corner. A settee, a matching chair, a sideboard, a piano, and several low tables stacked on top of one another. The built-in bookshelf near the far wall was stuffed with water-damaged leatherbound tomes, most of them wrinkled and scattered haphazardly.

The settee’s brocade showed signs of rot and wear, torn in places, spilling discolored stuffing. One of the tables had a splinted leg. The iron grate over the cracked stone fireplace sat open, showing the ashy remains of a long-extinguished fire. Dusty cobwebs in abundance decorated the corners and hung lace-like over most surfaces. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any signs of rodents, but a thick layer of grime covered everything.

I backed out of the room and eyed the door at the end of the hallway, but I couldn’t shake the chill from my bones and decided I wasn’t ready to venture deeper unless I had company. I would wait outside for Mr. Ashenvale. We could explore the house together… or not at all.

Was it a cowardly decision on my part? Absolutely. Did I care? No… ish? Perhaps a tiny nugget of shame itched my conscience, especially since my favorite pastime included exploring scary dungeons for quests and going face-to-face with all sorts of mythical creatures. Heck, my favorite genre of books was horror, and I took pride in having read Stephen King’s entire catalog.

But this was real life. I didn’t have a tank or healing potions to protect me, and the big man upstairs had not granted me supernatural powers that I was aware of. I was as tragically human and vulnerable as they came. Although I knew, logically, undead beings didn’t exist, I couldn’t find enough nerve to keep going.

Besides, I doubted Mr. Ashenvale would be any more inclined to tour the place after dark when it was obvious he wouldn’t be staying the night. Who in their right mind would? The mansion was unlivable in its condition. If the gentleman wanted to view the property before signing the paperwork, fine. I would find him comfortable accommodations and offer to come back in the morning when the sun chased away the evil spirits.

The eerie sense of foreboding followed me outdoors. Silence and impenetrable shadows crept in from all sides. I scanned the surrounding forest, wondering what kind of beasts might lurk within.

The key ring for the mansion contained a third key of unknown origin. Since there was no sign of Mr. Ashenvale, I walked the length of the mansion to the far corner—a good forty or fifty yards away—and shone my flashlight along the side of the building, seeking signs of an outbuilding or shed.

The mansion and its property were immense. My phone didn’t illuminate far enough for me to get a sense of distance. I paced a while along the side of the mansion, avoiding broken tree branches and protruding rocks that threatened to trip me up. My coat snagged on an overgrown prickle bush, and it took a second to get free without tearing a hole in the fabric.

I’d gone thirty or so yards without coming to the next corner when the distant howl of a coyote stilled my advance and turned my blood to ice. I panned the wooded area to my right, heart knocking, before hustling back the way I’d come.

Fuck this bullshit. I had no intention of becoming an angry dog’s next meal. He could probably smell my fear.

Picking up my pace, I rounded the front of the mansion, flashlight aimed at the ground so I didn’t break my neck on forest debris. It wasn’t until I nearly reached my destination that I glanced up and came to an abrupt halt.

A man stood beside the Jeep, neck craned as he peered at the upper reaches of the mansion.

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