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At least, that’s what the placards said in the foyer.
They keep this place running by telling ghost stories about flickering lights and cold touches, so I wondered about its history. Thought it was interesting. I heard Kinney say it’s “definitely haunted” but it’s not as well-known as places like Eastern State Penitentiary and Pennhurst Asylum. So I’m thinking ghosts have taken a backburner on this one.
A lot of people mill about the Frey Manor. All living.
The attendance sheet is all familiar faces to me. Family members, significant others, a few trusted friends of Lo’s, production crew from We Are Calloway (not to film), some party planning staff, and the security team—it’s a highly secured location. What Akara said in our security briefing for this event.
With temps covering entrances and exits, Akara made us aware that we could join the party as guests or we could work. Price apparently gave the same option to the Triple Shield bodyguards, and only a few guys from both firms have clocked in to be on-duty for the event.
I thought about volunteering for the job. To take the money. I do need it. But I didn’t like the idea of missing out on a night with my friends.
Mainly her.
So I said screw it and I put on a sparkled button-down with matching black slacks that I found at a thrift store yesterday. Reminded me of a star-blanketed night sky. I also found a purple galactic-swirled belt, looped that shit through my belt loops, and I look and feel like a million Cobalt diamonds.
In the parlor, I’m surrounded by vintage furniture and lit, waxy candles dripping on a fireplace mantel as I finish telling my Halloween doodle story. Farrow blinks. “Man, that story isn’t funny.”
“You laughed the first time I told it,” I refute.
“I did not.”
I shrug and sip from a champagne flute.
The bartender is concocting Halloween specialty drinks, and I told him to surprise me. He handed me a champagne flute of inky black liquid. Tastes like blueberries and champagne. Since I’m not looking for anything more than a buzz, I’m lucky he didn’t give me anything stronger.
Hopefully not the only luck you’ll have tonight, Paul.
I take another sip.
Farrow eyes my head again.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t recognize an alien when you see one?” Accompanying my black starry night sky and purple belt attire is a headband with two silver bobbling antennas.
Farrow gives me a look. “He’s not an idiot. You dressing up like an alien is going to make him ask questions.”
I shrug. “I’ve got answers.”
“You know I’m all for it.” He bounces Ripley on his legs, his son giggling in a purple dragon costume and looking up affectionately at his papa. Farrow studies me for a second, though. “I just didn’t think you wanted to test him.”
“Maybe I’m getting angrier about it,” I say in thought, staring at my boots. “Maybe it’s becoming harder to tell myself I can’t be with her, I dunno. I’ve never felt like this…” I stop myself short, then look up at him.
He nods, getting it. “You’re not on an island. Whatever happens, he can’t isolate you from me. If he says he can, it’s just bullshit.”
“Is that why you didn’t go after those father-in-law brownie points?” I smirk at his plain black outfit, topped with a Ravenclaw scarf from his mother-in-law. And he can’t say he doesn’t own a superhero costume that’d appease Loren Hale. A Winter Soldier costume is hanging up in his closet.
Farrow tilts his head, considering. “I’m in protest.”
I grin and make a heart with my hands. “I heart you too, man.” I tease him enough that he rolls his eyes.
Especially as Oscar slips into the parlor and bats his lashes at Farrow. “We love you, we really fucking do.”
“Great, join the line,” Farrow says, nearly smiling.
“Behind me,” I quip.
“And just like that I’m out of the line,” Oscar says.
We all laugh.
Oscar slumps on the loveseat beside me and drops his plastic Thor hammer. “Jack’s getting drinks. I came to see what this is all about.” He motions to us. “And to remind you two that cell service is spotty. We’re all using comms.”
I check the radio on my waistband. On. I fit my earpiece in, no one chatting on comms yet. “You think it’s the ghosts screwing with the cell signal?”
Farrow arches his brows. “I thought you said this place isn’t haunted.”
“Didn’t think it was,” I tell him. “But I don’t fuck with ghosts in PA.”
“One thing me and Donnelly agree on,” Oscar says.
Farrow looks at us like we’re both on something strange. “Here in reality, it’s most likely because we’re in a remote town.”
“But it could be the ghosts,” I say seriously, just fucking around, and Farrow laughs with the shake of his head.
“Uh-oh.” Ripley says to the Thor hammer on the ground. Like it fell. Oscar did drop it. But purposefully.
