Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

I t’s October, and the crew is getting together for the first time in what feels like forever, even though it’s only been a year. Me, the cheaters—Marissa and Jonathan—along with Hayes, Griffin, and Tessa. Ellis and Sullivan bailed at the last minute, as always. I should have done the same, but no, I’m here, stuck for the next four days in this Halloween tourist trap during peak fall foliage season in the Northeast. Yay me.

“What do you think?” Tessa asks, placing a well-manicured hand on my forearm. “This time of year, it’s always so hard to book something. It’s very exclusive, though. They only allow one group of guests stay here at a time.”

So, definitely no more hook-ups for me this weekend. Wonderful .

“It’s great, Tess. The drive up was beautiful too,” I say, forcing a smile. I quickly look down at my shoes and shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie before my face betrays just how much I’d rather be anywhere else. I can’t help but compare this trip to last year’s—Maine, where Jonathan and I first kissed.Now he’s standing about three feet away from me, Marissa pressed into his chest like some new cancerous growth.

Tessa pulls a thick brochure out of her bag and unfolds it. She points to a cascade of vibrant leaves and a labyrinth of topiary carved into strangely, twisted shapes. “The website said this place has become a byword for all things macabre. It’s the number one spot to celebrate Halloween in the U.S.”

Our October getaways have always been a big deal—every year, without fail, since freshman year in college. It started while we all lived in New York and drove up to Salem for the weekend when we realized all of our birthdays fall around Halloween. We started doing one wild weekend bender to celebrate all of us. We even tried to come up with a name for it: the Boo Crew, the October Club, the Misfits. Nothing ever stuck. That first trip was a hot mess, but hey, we were freshmen, some of us flying solo for the first time. Back then, messy was expected—almost a rite of passage.

Five years post-graduation, we’re still doing it—picking a different state every year, hunting for the spookiest spot we can find to celebrate the season. The season of us, or whatever.

Everwood is a picturesque town. Small and charming, its residents seem to take pride in transforming the place into a hauntingly cozy haven. Vibrant leaves in reds, oranges, and yellows paint the landscape along the cobblestone streets. Victorian-style houses, draped in ghostly cobwebs and adorned with flickering jack-o’-lanterns, line the sidewalks where skeletons lean lazily on century-old wrought-iron fences, and what I think are ravens caw ominously from atop blackened roofs.

Tessa and I walk down a wide hallway that opens into a large, dreary sitting room. The room is dark, gloomy. The whole place seems like that. Even as we stand by a window, the sunlight seems to mute on the inside, darkening thickly in the corners.

Through the window, you can clearly see the gray prongs of a Ferris wheel and the first dip of a rollercoaster, weathered from years of rain and neglect.

“Creepy, right?” Tessa says, standing beside me by the window, a forced smile on her lips.

“An old abandoned amusement park? Yeah, that’s creepy as hell,” I reply, keeping my voice low. It feels awkward standing here with her—maybe because we haven’t spoken in so long.

“I thought it would be. It’s all part of the Halloween experience here. It’s actually an elaborate escape room,” she says, her tone overly cheerful, almost as if she’s trying too hard.

“Oh, wow, really?” I attempt to sound interested, but my voice comes out more awkward than I intended.

“Yeah, it’s in the brochure,” she sighs, as if I should have known.

“Are we doing the escape room?” I ask, trying to mask my unease with a casual tone.

“I’d like to. I think it would be fun,” Tessa replies, her enthusiasm doing a lousy job of masking the weird tension between us.

She touches my arm again and lowers her voice to a whisper, “How have you been? I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable with Jonathan. I didn’t think you were coming.”

I glance down at her hand, noticing the slight tremor in her fingers. “I’m fine. You know I never miss one of our getaways,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I could swear I emailed her about coming.

“Well,” she pauses for a moment, “it’s…good to see you,” she murmurs, her eyes darting away. “I was worried things might be...awkward.”

“I’m fine, no worries,” I lie, because if I say it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I want to tell her not to worry about me—she tends to overthink everything, often to the point of getting herself sick. But the way her eyes scan my disheveled appearance, she wouldn’t believe a word I say. Her gaze softens with pity, and I can almost hear her thoughts: How much worse could I look? Is there anything she can do to help?

I have to look away. Stare out the window for a beat.

“You know…if you need anything…” she says softly, trailing off.

“I’m fine, really,” I say just as softly. Nothing another drink or three won’t fix.

Jonathan and Marissa saunter over to the window to join us. They’ve finished checking in, so I suppose I should make my way up to the desk. But I don’t want to move just yet. I don’t want it to look like the minute they come over I need to walk away.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as they greet Tessa with tight hugs and warm smiles. Tessa’s eyes dart between me and them, and she starts babbling nervously about the brochure and weekend plans, chewing her thumbnail down to a nub. It’s like watching a squirrel on caffeine.

I sigh and pull out my phone. It’s a text from Jonathan. Seriously? I’m standing right in front of him, and he’s texting me like some middle school kid too scared to talk in person.

Jonathan: I didn’t think you were coming.

I punch out a long answer full of anger and accusations. I write about how pissed off I am for him lying, for his audacity to show up here with her like I never mattered. I accuse him of being a cheater and a liar and a loser and a coward. And then I delete the entire message and shove my phone back in my pocket.

It’s heart-wrenching to give someone the best parts of yourself, only to watch them choose someone else. Sharing yourself with someone and then—it’s just that…sometimes, I wish I could take back all my secrets, everything I ever told him, everything we ever did. Nothing is more humiliating than knowing he understands me in ways he never deserved to.

“Hello, Tori,” Marissa says, her smile sharp and cold as she pulls me into a limp, half-hearted hug.

I stumble forward, my arms hanging stiffly at my sides, fists clenched.When she finally lets go, Jonathan leans in to brush a quick, insincere air kiss to my cheek. “Hey, Tori. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s everything?” His casual tone feels like an open-handed slap.

I take a step back, biting down the urge to scream. Don’t pretend I meant nothing to you. I was there. I saw the way you looked at me! But I stay silent, because his expression remains indifferent, as if I’m some random acquaintance he once knew, and not someone he shared intimate moments with. And that’s when it hits me—I'm waiting for an apology that’s never coming, from a version of Jonathan that probably only ever existed in my head.

His eyes slide right past me, as if I’ve already faded into the background.

Fine, whatever. I guess what happened between us was nothing. Just a figment of my imagination. Now all I feel is disgusted with myself, and the sight of him is making me a little nauseous. “I’m great,” I reply, mustering a smile. In two months, he’ll do the same thing to Marissa that he did to me. I’ll be there for both of them when it happens—to laugh my ass off.

The mood shifts as the rest of our friends burst through the front doors: the loud, obnoxious Griffin, announcing his arrival like he’s the star of the show, and the gorgeous Hayes, with his smile that lights up a room. They lift me off my feet and take turns spinning me around.I belt out real laughter for the first time in what feels like months.

“Wow, you came!” Griffin exclaims, eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“Yeah,” Hayes adds, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Tessa said you were a no-go.”

I plaster on a smile, trying to ignore the tiny stab of doubt. “Well, here I am,” I say, injecting a bit too much fake cheer. “Surprise!”

The awkwardness lingers as Tessa clears her throat. “We just…haven’t spoken much lately,” she mutters, barely audible.

I shake off the uneasy feeling, pushing down the urge to hop back in my car and head straight home. Instead, I pull Griffin and Hayes into tight hugs. Hayes’s hug is particularly comforting because he’s just so…Hayes.

The first time I met Hayes, I crashed into him coming out of my dorm bathroom, with one of my towels wrapped around his waist. It was freshman year, the first week of school. He backed two steps away from me and froze. “Hey,” he said, looking at me with a pair of strikingly gorgeous gray eyes.

My brain was doing a weird ping-pong between How far away is my pepper spray? and God, I wonder how smooth that large expanse of his chest feels? “Um…hi?” I managed to say, talking directly to his chest.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m naked in your room right now, huh?”

“You’d win that bet,” I replied, trying to suppress a laugh.

His broad shoulders were still glistening from the shower, water tracing down the perfect lines of his muscles. He clutched the towel tighter around his waist and I had a sudden urge to try and rip it off him. Make him chase me around the room for it. Tackle me to the ground. Pin me there.

“Casey,” he said, breaking through my thoughts. It was the name of my very unpleasant roommate.

“Casey?” I echoed, trying to connect the dots.

“I’m dating her…Casey,” he clarified, his lips curving into a beautiful, disarming smile. And while Casey and I only shared that shoebox of a dorm room for another two weeks before she dropped out, Hayes and I stayed close. I met the rest of the gang through him. I’ve always had a little crush on him, but we’ve never been single at the same time.Life works like that sometimes.

I look around, wondering where his girlfriend is.

“You all must be our guests for this weekend,” a hoarse, brittle voice calls out from behind me. “I’m Agatha. Welcome to the Everwood.”

I spin around to see Agatha, a woman who looks like she wandered out of a horror movie casting call. She’s in her early fifties, with stark white hair pulled back tight enough to hurt, and oversized glasses that perch on the bridge of her nose. She’s dressed in a plain, dark cotton dress, a crisp white apron tied neatly over it, with a single pearl brooch pinned to her collar. My smile falters as a sickly-sweet odor—like the stench of rotting meat—wafts around her, wrapping around me. My stomach churns, the remnants of last night’s alcohol swirling uncomfortably as the nauseating smell claws at the back of my throat. “Come along, let me show you all around,” she says, her voice unwavering as she links her arm through Tessa’s and gestures for the rest of us to follow.

I stand there, feet glued to the floor, staring after them. Does no one else smell that?

“She looks like a half-dead housekeeper from the 1950s,” Marissa whispers to Jonathan as they pass by, both chuckling. She looks like your mom , the adolescent in me wants to scream.

“Um…so we don’t get to put our things in rooms yet—we just drag them with us?” Griffin asks, his voice heavy with irritation.When Agatha doesn’t respond, he sighs loudly. “Good talk. Thanks.” He follows the group, huffing loudly.

Hayes shakes his head, giving me a wink, but his usual charm does little to ease the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach. I mean, the woman smells like death.

“Do you smell that?” I whisper, grabbing his arm, my voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah, smells rancid,” Hayes says, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.“Someone needs to tell Griffin he has to shower. Tag, you’re it.”

I snort, but the unease keeps crawling up my spine.

To our left is a grand living room filled with enormous, dark gray couches facing each other in front of a wide stone fireplaces.A bloom of warmth hits me as we pass.

On our right, French doors open to a rustic flagstone terrace overlooking a dead lawn. The flowerbeds are autumn-colored but wilted, trapped beneath a mess of withered trees and overgrown bushes. It’s like someone tried to stage a fall postcard but then just gave up halfway through. The whole scene is just… sad.

“We only have two rules you must always abide by here,” Agatha’s voice cuts through the eerie stillness, drawing my attention back to her. “No screaming, whatever you see. In the Evermore, screaming wakes the dead.”

Right .

“And rule number two?” Griffin asks, his brow furrowing.

“Always do what the spirits ask of you,” Agatha replies, a smile curling at the edges of her lips, her eyes shining with an unsettling gleam. “So,” she claps her hands together, way too excited, “let’s begin our ghost tour…”

Her words hang in the air as she leads us deeper into the mansion, her voice taking on a low, resonant tone that echoes off the dark gray walls. “The Evermore is a twenty-seven-room chateau built in 1916 by millionaire and railroad car builder Alexander Hadley,” she explains, her words lingering as we move through the hallway.

We step into a long, over-the-top ballroom, and Agatha launches back into her spooky tale. “This mansion,” she says, her voice dripping with dramatic flair, “was a wedding present given in 1916 by Alexander Hadley to his beloved daughter, Liliana.”

Her footsteps are soft as she guides us through the room and into a narrow hallway lined with faded portraits, their colors dulled by time and maybe a lack of decent housekeeping. "Liliana was sickly all her life," Agatha continues, her fingers gliding along the dusty frames. "Her father, devoted and wealthy, showered her with anything she desired. But being so frail, she rarely ventured out. All she ever wanted was to find love."

We turn a corner, and Agatha pauses by a grand, ornately carved door, her hand lingering on the handle. "Desperate to fulfill his daughter's wish, her father promised a man named Harold Weiss all the riches he could ever want if he wooed and married Liliana. Harold, seeing an easy path to wealth, agreed. After a short courtship, he proposed, and they married."

The door creaks open as Agatha pushes it, revealing a dimly lit sitting room draped in shadows. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as she steps inside, drawing us into the gloom. "But Harold never truly loved Liliana. He was in it only for the money. A year into their marriage, tragedy struck. Liliana's father died during minor construction at the house. This was his sitting room."

“Do people see his ghost here?” Tessa asks, her voice high-pitched, strained.

“Sometimes,” Agatha replies, her eyes gleaming with a sinister edge as she winks. "But more often, it's Liliana who lingers here.Anyway, one evening soon after her father’s death, Liliana discovered Harold with another woman, a secret lover he had been sneaking into the mansion through the hidden passageways."

We move deeper into the room, our footsteps muted by the thick, dusty carpet. "Liliana, heartbroken and enraged, confronted them," Agatha says, her tone intensifying with each word. "But the other woman just laughed at her, mocking her frail state. In a fit of fury, a struggle ensued, and the woman pushed Liliana down the grand staircase."

Agatha stops abruptly at the base of a sweeping staircase, her gaze drifting upward as if she’s witnessing Liliana's fall. “She died right here,” she whispers, her voice tinged with a mix of sorrow and something darker. “Rumor has it that it wasn’t a quick death. They left her there for hours, forbidding the housekeepers to run for help.”

“Well, then,” Jonathan mutters under his breath, clearly not impressed by the story.

“This place has many stories," Agatha says softly, almost to herself. "But Liliana's is one of the most tragic. Betrayed, broken, and left to die in the very home meant to be her sanctuary."

We stand in silence, the weight of her tale pressing down on us. The air feels heavier, and the shadows seem to creep closer, as if the mansion itself mourns the sad fate of Liliana.

“What happened to the husband and mistress?” Marissa asks, her curiosity tinged with morbid fascination. Of course she would care about them.

Agatha pauses, turning to face us, her expression grim and unyielding. “Since Liliana had no other living family, Harold became head of the estate, and the mistress stayed on—a wicked woman driven only by greed. She eventually poisoned him, and as he wasted away, she took lover after lover, shamelessly parading them in front of his dying eyes."

We all just kind of stand there, awkwardly glancing at each other. Somewhere a clock ticks.

“Do people see their ghosts?” Tessa asks again, her voice almost desperate to keep the conversation alive.

“Yes, sometimes,” Agatha says, her tone flat. “Liliana, some say, at the bottom of the stairs.” She gestures to a large painting on the wall opposite the staircase. “That’s a portrait of Liliana.”

“She wasn’t very pretty,” Marissa remarks, but her tone is half-hearted, lacking her usual bite.

“It’s a little…morbid, don’t you think?” I ask Agatha. “Like, why keep her portrait facing the exact spot she died? Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.”

Griffin snorts. “Do you want to hold a séance or something, see if the dead chick needs a hug?"

I don’t answer him, I just stare at Liliana’s cobalt-blue eyes.

The portrait is mesmerizing. An early 20th-century oil painting, rendered with a meticulous attention to detail, all dramatic shadows and soft lighting. The artist clearly knew what they were doing because Liliana’s pale, porcelain skin glows with a luminous quality, and those blue eyes—haunting and lifelike—follow me as I move, as if imbued with a soul. It’s difficult to look away.

“This story about Liliana, is it what makes this place so popular around Halloween?” Tessa asks.

“Oh, no,” Agatha replies with a chilling finality. “It’s probably the fact that someone has been murdered in every room of this house.” Then she turns and walks up the staircase, leaving Tessa standing there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

Tessa scrambles to catch up, peppering Agatha with more questions as the rest of the group, seemingly bored with the tour already, lags behind.

I stay, admiring the painting, because despite what Marissa says, Liliana was absolutely stunning.

Agatha’s voice drifts back to me, lower now, but still clear, each word heavy with foreboding. “In 1932, there was a triple murder in this particular room and…”

I continue to stare at the painting, my fingertips brushing the rough texture of the canvas. Liliana's expression is heartbreakingly sad, her eyes brimming with sorrow and longing. I wonder if that's how she truly looked or if it was the painter's interpretation.

“I hope his mistress got what she deserved in the end,” I whisper to myself, the words carrying a quiet venom I wish wasn’t so personal.

From another room, a sudden collective gasp cuts through the silence, the sound sharp and filled with alarm. My heart jumps, and I instinctively move to catch up with the group—they must’ve seen something. But before I can take more than a step, a hand yanks me back so hard I nearly fall over. I stumble right into Jonathan, who is unfortunately as solid as ever.

“Why are you here?” he demands, his voice taut, a strange mix of anger and something else I can’t quite place.

“What do you mean?” I reply, confusion tightening my chest.

“I mean why did you come here? You know I’m with Marissa, so why are you here?” His tone is accusing, his eyes hard as they bore into mine.

“These are my friends as much as they are your friends. Why wouldn’t I come?” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady, though his hostility catches me off guard.

“Were you even invited on this trip?” His lips press into a thin line, the muscles along his jaw tightening.

His words hit like a slap, leaving me reeling. Was I invited? The question hangs between us, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. A part of me falters, uncertainty creeping in, but I push it aside.

“You need to let go of me, Tori. This isn’t healthy for you.” His hand tightens on my wrist.

“Let go of you?” I echo, my voice rising as I try to shake off his hold.“You're the one holding on too tight."

Jonathan shoves my wrist away and steps closer, his eyes narrowing. "Don't twist this around, Tori. You know what I'm talking about." His voice is sharp, cutting through the tense air between us. Behind him, an eerie watercolor painting of three cloaked skeletons tending to a garden looms, its dark imagery distracting and unsettling.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. "Jonathan, I belong here just as much as you do,” I say, though my voice isn’t as firm as I wish it could be.

He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is just sad. You really need to move on." His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I see the strain and anxiety behind his anger. It dawns on me that he has more to say, a lot more, but he’s holding back. This isn’t the place for it—people might see, they might hear. And God forbid Jonathan Canes lets anyone see the cracks in his perfectly curated life.

“What?” I sigh, tired of this exhausting dance around our issues. “I can’t just leave now.”

“This is so like you,” Jonathan snaps, throwing his hands up in the air, his face flushed with anger.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, feeling my pulse quicken, all my hurt bubbling to the surface. He wants me to just leave?

“You do whatever you want without thinking about how it might affect anyone else. This is just one of the many reasons...” His voice drops, but his anger doesn’t. His face gets even redder, and he mutters, “You’re just so... hard to be with. Everything is always too much with you. You—you’re just too much.”

I feel a sting in my chest . So you chose someone who was less?

“Go ahead, Jonathan. Please enlighten me on what I’ve done to you without considering your feelings?” My voice rises, caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.

He leans in, whispering harshly, “You being here. The way you drink.”

“What way do I drink?” I ask, though I can already sense where this is going.

“It’s too much. You…black out all the time.”

Yeah, that’s called sleeping . I stare at him, disbelief mixing with hurt. I drink the same amount as everyone else, and he knows it.

He scoffs, lowering his voice into a harsh whisper, “Then there’s your job.”

“My job?” I repeat, confused. This is news to me.

“Oh, you knew it always made me uncomfortable!”

“Really? So I should just quit because it made you uncomfortable? It’s figure modeling for art students, I’m not doing sex work.”

“You were supposed to be making art, not letting men see you naked in obscene positions all day long!” he shouts, his frustration boiling over.

I step back, struggling to find my voice. Where is this even coming from? I don’t understand why he’s so angry right now. “It was just art?—”

Jonathan’s eyes blaze with fury as he steps closer, closing the distance between us. “Yeah, you called it art,” he spits, his voice laced with bitterness, “but all I saw is you parading yourself for attention. It was humiliating.”

I wince, the words landing with a harsh sting.

"And you know what else?" Jonathan's voice grows colder, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to slice me with his words. "You need to work on getting your head straight, Tori. You're stuck in this delusion that we had this huge relationship and I had what everybody else had of you.”

I open my mouth to speak, but the words die in my throat. My mind races, but I'm too shocked and hurt to form a response.

“That’s enough,” a harsh voice cuts through the tension. “Leave her alone and go deal with Marissa, Jon. She’s looking for you.” Hayes steps between us, his broad shoulders blocking Jonathan’s view of me, waving him back like he’s swatting away a fly.

Jonathan’s face shifts back to that wide, charming smile, his laugh deep and husky. “I guess we got a bit lost, huh? This place is huge.” His gaze snaps back to mine, his eyes hard and calculating. Whatever he’s thinking, he keeps it to himself, but the intensity of his stare makes me flush and look away.

“Lost? Sure, Jon,” Hayes says, dripping with sarcasm. He crosses his arms, muscles flexing like he’s ready to bench press Jonathan out of the room. “Yeah, because that’s definitely what you were yelling about—navigational difficulties.”

Jonathan's smile falters, replaced by a challenging glare. “Maybe you should mind your own business, Hayes,” he snaps, trying to sound tough but coming off more like a petulant teenager.

Hayes doesn’t back down. He steps closer, his presence dominating the space between them. “Or maybe you should learn how to treat women with respect,” he growls, voice low and steady, like he’s daring Jonathan to keep pushing his luck.

I find myself hoping he would.

Jonathan tries to stand his ground, but Hayes’s stare is unyielding, and you can see the confidence drain from Jonathan’s eyes. “It’s all good here,” he mutters, stepping back like he suddenly remembered he’s got somewhere better to be. “I’ll go find Marissa.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Hayes says, his voice firm, his eyes still locked on Jonathan.

Jonathan turns on his heel and stalks off, shoulders tense, practically vibrating with barely contained rage. As he disappears up the stairs, I’m left standing there, my emotions swirling. I’m not going to let him shame me about how I make money. It’s not lewd or obscene. I’ve been doing figure modeling for years—sometimes clothed, sometimes in costume, but yes, mostly nude. It’s an art form, one that put me through college alongside waitressing, and it keeps me connected to the art world. I’m proud of it, and I won’t let Jonathan’s bullshit make me feel otherwise.

I keep my eyes fixed on the floor until I gather enough courage to catch up with the rest of the tour. I slowly climb the first step, the silence only broken by a distant clock striking the hour.

“You okay?” Hayes whispers, close enough that his warm breath brushes against my ear.

I nod, still rattled but grateful he stepped in. “Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime,” he says, his hand brushing against my arm in a way that feels steadying. “You can’t let him talk to you like that.”

I nod.

We continue up the wide, curving stairs until we reach the top and face two long hallways.

“I don’t know why he’s so pissed at me,” I mutter, trying to figure out which way to go next. A single frosted window at the end of one of the halls lets in a thin, gloomy shaft of light that stretches along the floor. A wave of dread washes over me, settling in my stomach like a pile of stones. I shiver and spin around, suddenly convinced someone—maybe Jonathan— is lurking behind us, watching. But when I look, it’s just me and Hayes.

“Probably because you being here is ruining his proposal weekend.”

“His fucking what?” I blurt out, louder than intended.