Page 8 of Eternal Devotion

Dany hugged herself and shivered. She was a decade and a half older than me and would have grown up with the ghost stories.

Opening the folder, I browsed the handful of images attached to the document. No one had bothered cleaning it up for show, and the dusty rooms showed signs of disrepair and vandalism.

I closed the file, still reeling at the news that someone had bought it.

My evening plans came back to me, and I pushed the folder to Dany. “I’d love to help you out, but I can’t. Not tonight.”

Dany didn’t reach for the file. “Eight percent contingent on you getting a signature.”

“Say what now?” Eight percent commission was unheard of. Typically, I made five upon closing. Six if I was lucky.

“That’s what I’m told.”

I narrowed my gaze. “What’s the catch? You’re willingly handing me eight percent?”

Based on the price tag, I would have expected Dany to hog the sale with her life.

“Are you kidding? I’m not going anywhere near that place.”

“Seriously?”

I didn’t believe in evil spirits or ghosts, so for once it was me rolling my eyes at her childish fear. I could have complained about my ruined evening, but the price tag was too enticing. The only flaw I could see in Dany’s underhanded plan was that this guy, whoever the fuck he was, took one look at the place and changed his mind.

“You said the loan is approved with the bank?”

“No. They paid outright. It’s a done deal. The money has already been transferred.”

My brows hit my hairline as I touched the astronomical figure printed in the top corner of the deal. “Outright?”

“Yes. Are we good? You’ll meet the new owner at the estate?”

I would have been a fool to turn it down. “Sure. What’s the guy’s name?” I flipped through the paperwork, seeking the answer.

“Mordecai Ashenvale. Eight o’clock.” Dany returned to her desk, grabbed her coat, briefcase, and purse, and shouted, “Have a great weekend,” as she left.

I stared at the photograph of Branvilla Estate for a long time before tapping out a message to Mars, letting him know he would need a substitute healer for the raid. Before heading out, I finished the email to my mother, telling her about my unexpected change of plans.

The mansion is supposedly haunted, so if you don’t hear from me again, I was probably cursed by an evil spirit or fell in love with an undead ghoul. Remember, whatever you do, don’t look in the drawer beside my bed. There are things a mother shouldn’t know about her only son.

Love always, Ensley

I arrived at Branvilla Estate at twenty to eight, intent on familiarizing myself with the house and grounds before the new owner arrived. Mars, Ziggy, and Poet had grown up in Owen Sound and spoke of clandestine adventures onto the property in their youth: spying in the windows and using their Ouija boards to summon spirits. Many bets had been placed on who could last the longest on the property before chickening out. I didn’t share those experiences, so my knowledge of the mansion was limited to photographs and tall tales that traveled the rumor mill, none of them remotely believable.

Branvilla was located on the outskirts of the city, on a densely forested piece of land off Side Road 15.

Mid-October meant fall. Shorter days, lots of rain, and a drastic drop in temperature. The scant leaves that remained on the trees ran the spectrum from rusty red to sunburnt orange, mustard yellow to crispy brown. During the daytime, they provided a brilliant spot of color against a permanently ashen sky. They blanketed the ground and covered the overgrown driveway leading to the mansion, making it hard to find my way once I left the main road.

Inching along the twisted lane, deep under a canopy of trees that blocked any trace of the moon, I squinted out the windshield, the Jeep’s headlights my only guide. Sooner than expected, the brights caught on a rusted iron gate, glimmering from the earlier rain. It stood twelve feet high, attached to an equally remarkable cobblestone wall that encased the property.

“Lovely.”

I kept the Jeep idling as I hopped out. Greeted by the eerily silent woods and a bone-chilling dampness, I zipped my coat to my chin and hustled to the gate. A thick chain wrapped multiple times around the bars held it closed, secured with an oversized padlock. An agency-standard lockbox hung from a link. I’d memorized the combination on the paperwork and got it open in no time. It contained three shiny keys. I assumed one unlocked the gate, another the main door, and the third was likely for a shed or outbuilding of some kind. Dany hadn’t gone into specifics.

I got the lock open and unwrapped the chain, all too aware of the dense forest surrounding me. The impenetrable darkness. The heavy scent of rotten leaves and ozone. The steady and uneven patter of residual raindrops dripping from the trees overhead.

A storm system had moved through the area that afternoon. Every now and then, an owl hooted. Twice, my ears picked out rustling in the undergrowth, but when I paused to listen, the noise vanished. I couldn’t help imagining that whatever had caused it was listening back. A mouse? A raccoon? A skunk? A zombie?

With a self-deprecating huff, I mumbled, “How the fuck old are you? Get a grip.”