Chapter 6

PEN

Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, Pen moved on reluctantly, a strange coil of dread tightening in her gut. There was almost a feeling of being pulled, a string tied tight around her center, yanking her toward the darkness. It took everything in Pen not to immediately follow the urge and tiptoe over that invisible line.

As if sensing Pen's reluctance, Storm paused and turned back to her. "You okay, Skinner?"

She stared past him, taking in the darkened corridor, a contrast to the lit hall of the east wing. Was she imagining this feeling? Were they all oblivious to it? It was the same sort of foreboding she'd felt on the tour in Edinburgh, the same sickening trepidation.

"Are you?" Pen asked. "Does none of this bother you?"

He looked over her head as if he was drawn there, and Pen followed his fixation down to the space where the darkness somehow soaked up the light that seeped in from the east wing. A sponge, hungry for the slithering shadows.

"I don't know how much I believe in these things," Storm said, his voice low and velvety smooth. It seemed to dip down Pen's front, pooling between her legs. She clamped her thighs together, disbelieving.

What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? she chided. It's Storm.

He cleared his throat and refocused on Pen. "Hard to believe in something I haven't seen for myself, you know?" Shrugging, he turned and rejoined the group.

Narrowing her eyes, Pen swiveled toward the east wing and quickened her pace. If the legends were to be believed, the woman in the portrait wandered that hall, and Pen was not in the mood to find out if the legends were real. She felt sick as she followed Storm back toward the light, but for now, she was more than happy to turn away from the west wing and whatever lurked in the dark.

The hall leading to the bedrooms was lined with oil paintings, small LEDs illuminating the name plaques beneath them. Pen scanned the neat lettering as Fanny motioned them on. On Greek-like pedestals, marble busts sat, with matching plaques that had been dusted and cleaned regularly based on the light lemony scent lingering in the air.

Pen ran her fingers over the maroon wallpaper, the color contrasted with an inlaid silver pattern of little laurels like the tapestry rug in the foyer. She felt as though she were walking into a vampiric lair, alluding to something horrific waiting for her at the end of the hall. She peered into rooms as they passed them, fireplaces and canopied beds lying in wait.

One by one, Fanny opened doors and showed them in, and one by one, their group dwindled. Daniela filed into a room first, closing the door with a click, and Laszlo disappeared with a grateful sigh soon after. When they reached the end of the hall, it was just Pen, Storm, and Fanny.

Fanny opened the door to her right and nodded to Storm. "This will be yers," she said as Storm unceremoniously dropped Pen's bag at her feet and disappeared into his room with a grunt. "And this is yers," she said, opening the one to their left.

It was a cozy room, much like the others. A tall oak-post bed sat a few feet from the door, an antique trunk at the foot. A fireplace was nestled into the farthest wall, and before it was a pair of brown leather chairs draped with blankets.

On the wall next to the door was a massive, towering wardrobe. Two large windows overlooked the garden on the wall across, which was sloped like a rotunda, with a padded bench beneath. It was cold, the stone walls doing little to trap the heat without the fireplace going.

Pen deposited her backpack beside the bed and dragged her duffel in from the hall. "They really went all out here, didn't they?" She smoothed her hands over the blankets on the bed, fine and thick for the cold nights ahead. She wanted to wrap one around her shoulders, cover her face, and pretend like she was at home, burying her face in Apawllo's soft belly. Pen needed some sense of comfort to ground her.

Fanny fiddled with the doorknob. "Most of the rooms look like this. The previous owners wanted it to feel authentic."

She met Pen's eyes for a moment, and Pen thought she would say something more, but the groundskeeper stayed silent.

"You hate it here, don't you?" Pen ventured.

"If I truly hated it, I wouldnae be here now, would I? Do ye have any questions for me 'fore I go?"

"If we need anything, how do we get ahold of you?"

Pen fought a shiver at the look of pity in her eyes. "Ye dinnae get ahold of me unless it's an emergency."

Pen opened her mouth to respond, but Fanny closed the door without another word. Fanny didn't seem to want to spend another second in this castle, and Pen was beginning to think that even if they had an emergency, Fanny wouldn't be rushing to help them. Rocking back on her heels, Pen glanced around the space and to the bed, the exhaustion of the day hitting her all at once. Her bickering with Storm had worn on her, and she could feel the beginnings of a headache thrumming away at her skull.

Alone, Pen sighed and flung herself backward on her bed, staring up at the canopy. What a mess she'd gotten herself into. She'd known it would be difficult at the retreat. She hadn't been around this many people who knew her intimately in months, but Neil Storm… Well, he'd done a number on her.

Reaching for a pillow, she pulled it to her face and screamed into it. Pen screamed from anger, frustration, guilt, and embarrassment. Why could nothing in her life go according to plan? Between Neil Storm showing up and the dawning self-made deadline she'd set, Pen would bet she'd come out of the retreat worse for wear.

She should have given Storm this. The minute he showed up at the pub, she should have backed off. Pen really needed to start thinking things through before she made rash decisions.

Like blowing her savings on a spur-of-the-moment writing retreat.

A long, terrible squeak cut through the silence. Frowning, Pen tossed the pillow aside, leaning up on her elbows as she surveyed the room.

"Hello?" she called.

No one answered. She frowned as she searched the room. She was alone.

Licking her lips, Pen stood. People always said that strange sounds were houses settling, but what about stone castles? Besides, in the world of horror, it was always something more . A ghost, memories of something sinister lingering in tainted walls, a monster, perhaps. As a horror author, Pen of all people knew not to creep toward the noise, but she couldn't help it. Curiosity had won her over.

Pen crossed the room, fingers dancing over the fireplace, kicking up dust. She coughed, waving her hands in the air to clear away the cloud. She paused at the edge of the fireplace, her eyes bouncing around the room. Then she heard it again: that long, dreadful squeak . A foot on the stairs, a hand pushing a door, a terrible, monstrous thing teetering on an edge.

Whatever it was, it stilled once more, the room falling silent. She felt the faintest of drafts, cold air slithering across her skin, and Pen wrapped an arm around her middle as she stepped toward the wall. She tested the edges of the tapestry hanging there, a banner of a stag in crimson reds and forest greens. Behind it, cool air hit her fingers, a soft, chilling caress. Lifting the tapestry aside, she came face-to-face with a dark corridor. The door had been opened wide, and stone steps led up and down, dissolving into darkness.

"What on earth?" she said, leaning in.

Frowning, she slid her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight, moving the light up and down. This was breaking horror movie protocol number one: Never go into a dark space alone. And yet, she felt that incessant tether again. Puffing out her cheeks and slightly regretting the decision, she began her descent.

The passageway was cold and barren, only narrow stone walls and steep steps guiding her to somewhere else in the castle. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and though someone like Laszlo might have needed to duck in the slender passage, she did not. Her fingers skimmed over the stone until they landed on something wooden. Pen blinked, shining the light on a short wooden door.

"Hello?" she whispered, pressing her ear up against its smooth surface. She saw nothing through the sliver of light bleeding through the side, but she heard footsteps pass her.

"Rent out a haunted castle," someone said, "what could go wrong? These damn Americans…"

"Fanny?" Pen exclaimed as she tugged open the door and burst out into a wide hall.

Fanny screamed, turning to slam a wineglass into the wall. White wine and blood dribbled down her hand as she held out the broken stem toward Pen.

Pen's heart raced, sporadic beats playing in her chest. She pocketed her phone and held up her hands, taking a step toward the groundskeeper. Fanny moved back, eyes wide with horror as she brandished the shattered glass like a weapon. Pen flinched, sweat sliding down her spine.

"Oh my god, Fanny, it's just me."

Breathing shakily, Pen hurried forward, gently prying the stem from Fanny's grip. Grabbing her wrist, Pen urged her down the hall, stumbling in the direction Fanny pointed. Finally, in the kitchen, she ran cool water over the cuts before pressing paper towels to Fanny's pale skin. Blood oozed through wide gashes, dark and crimson seeping through and staining the white towels red.

"Where in the bloody hell did ye come from?" Fanny asked, grimacing as Pen applied more pressure.

Pen stood, wiping her hands down her dark jeans. "I found a secret passageway in my room." Fanny made a noncommittal sound, as if "secret passageway" was entirely normal. "I thought you left."

"Wanted a bevvy from the cellar," Fanny murmured. She held a bottle in her other hand, her fingers wrapped around the neck of it, choking it.

"First aid?"

"Under the sink."

Clearing her throat, Pen bent and searched through the stuff under the sink. Finally, she found a first aid kit, discolored and nearly empty, with decades-old supplies.

"What happened?" Pen asked, looking up at her through a mess of bangs. "I know I surprised you, there, but you went into major fight-or-flight mode." She used a few drops of alcohol to clean the wound before affixing gauze and wrapping it around Fanny's hand.

Fanny swallowed and peered over her shoulder. "I thought I heard…" She trailed off, breathing deep. She clenched her jaw, blinking away what might have been tears. "It was nothing."

Pen wrapped her hand around Fanny's, imploring. "It wasn't nothing, Fanny. It's okay to admit—"

"It. Was. Nothing." Fanny tore her hands from Pen and stood. She pushed off the table and hurried out of the room, breaking into a jog as she rounded the corner.

"Okay, then," Pen muttered under her breath.

She stood on wobbly legs, closing the first aid kit before rubbing a hand over her eyes as the clatter of Fanny's jingling keys quieted and the front door slammed shut. Pen pressed a hand to her chest. First the secret door, then the groundskeeper. Although she wanted to, Pen wasn't sure she could keep chalking it up to coincidences. Already, the castle was doing things to them, and she couldn't tell if the stories were getting to her or if there really was something more to this place. Either way, she didn't like it.

Grabbing some paper towels, Pen cleaned up the mess in the hallway, stooping to pick up the small glass fragments from the floor. She wiped down the wall and soaked up as much of the wine as she could from the rug before retreating to the kitchen to drop it all in the bin beneath the sink. Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the counter and breathed deep, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Looks like you could use a drink," Storm murmured.

Pen jumped in surprise, eyes flying open. She turned toward him with a sigh, and she was startled to find she'd wanted him to appear. She could play nice, but it didn't mean she needed to smile or put on a fake mask in front of him; Pen could glower and grumble all she wanted. She studied him, carefully considering all six feet of him. He leaned languidly against the entryway, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.

Face-to-face, she felt an entirely different emotion overcome her, warm and unwelcome. She tried not to think about that moment at the ruins, or the way he'd carried her bag (after insulting it) without even asking.

Or the way his fingers had slipped so easily into her braid as his thumb brushed her cheek. He'd held her face like she was the most precious and fragile thing in the world, and the more Pen thought about it, the more her pulse began to ratchet up.

But he was still Neil Storm. He was still the man who fought with her, who made her hands curl into fists, who set every part of her aflame. People didn't just change.

"Why do you say that?" she ventured, crossing her arms.

He smiled, a dimple forming to the left of his mouth. And, oh, how she wanted to press her finger into it and force it to disappear. How had she never noticed that before? Such a small thing with massive consequences.

"I saw a liquor cabinet in the study."

Pen puckered her lips. Why would she ever willingly spend time alone with him? On the other hand, she couldn't deny that she was going to need something strong to get through a week in this castle with these people and whatever the hell else was residing inside these walls. She narrowed her eyes, the man unflinching before her.

"Lead the way."

As he turned on his heel, Pen ran a hand over the back of her neck, her hair standing on end. She had the uncomfortable sense that they were being watched. Peeking over her shoulder toward the secret door in the hall, she sped up, her shoes clicking in time with Storm's.

The last thing she wanted right now was to be left alone. Even if it meant being alone with him .