Page 12 of Widow’s Walk

Ollie, who had been curled up in his bed near the door, lifted his head and let out a low, questioning whine.

“You feel it too, huh?” Amy asked softly, then scratched behind his ears as she stood. She moved to the window and watched as the wind whipped through the gardens, bending the tall grass and sending leaves spiraling into the air.

A sharp knock at the front door startled her. The sound echoed through the cavernous foyer.

Amy hesitated. Visitors weren’t exactly common, and she hadn’t scheduled any meetings. Ollie barked once, his small body tense with alertness.

“It’s probably just one of the crew. I probably locked the door by accident,” she muttered, heading for the foyer. But even as she said it, she knew Sully and some of the crew had keys to the front door. Sully never knocked anyway; he simply barged in, muttering about deadlines or budgets.

Pulling open the heavy oak door, Amy was met with a gust of cool, damp air and a stranger standing on the porch. He was tall and lean, dressed casually in dark jeans and a leather jacket. There was something about him that was vaguely familiar. His hair was damp from the misting rain that had fallen, and he held a wide, amiable smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Now this,” he said, gesturing to the mansion behind her, “is what I call a perfect location.”

Amy blinked. “Sorry, who are you?”

The man extended a hand, his grin widening. “Mason Stark from Dead Reckoning. I’m here to check out Widow’s Point Island and,”—he gestured again, dramatically—“this fine haunted mansion.”

Her stomach dropped. She’d almost forgotten about reaching out to the show. Her late-night impulse had been buried under days of massage clients, renovations, design challenges, and Sully’s constant pestering. Now, standing in the doorway with Dead Reckoning’s host in front of her, it all came rushing back.

“Oh,” she said, forcing a smile. “No one had reached out about meeting me… I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I like to keep people on their toes.” Mason winked, then stepped past her into the foyer. “Gotta say, the pictures don’t do this place justice. It’s perfect. The architecture, the history, the tragedy of those murdered women. It’s got everything we look for.”

Amy winced at his enthusiasm for the murders, but before she could respond, movement at the end of the hallway caught her eye. Sully stood there, his expression darkening as his gaze flicked between her and Mason.

Amy’s heart sank. She could practically hear his internal dialogue. You’ve got to be kidding me.

He didn’t say a word, just shook his head and turned on his heel, disappearing down the stairs to the basement where his crew was working.

Amy sighed, rubbing her temple. “Sorry about that,” she said, closing the door against the rising wind. “We are in active construction with the restoration work.”

Mason laughed. The sound echoed in the vast space. “No worries, I get that a lot. Shall we start the tour?”

Amy led Mason through the mansion. Every step felt like one more towards her own doom. The storm outside had intensified, with thunder rumbling closer and rain hammering against the windows. The old house groaned unnervingly loud under the force of the wind.

“This place has so much character,” Mason said, running his hand along a banister as they climbed the sweeping staircase to the second floor. “And the human remains in the papers? That’s gold. Our viewers eat that stuff up.”

Amy flinched. She hated hearing it laid out so bluntly, even though she knew it was true. “It’s not exactly the legacy I wanted for the mansion,” she said tightly.

Mason shrugged. “Ghosts sell, Ms. York. You’re sitting on a goldmine of paranormal potential.”

They circled back to her office, where Amy gestured for him to take a seat. The storm raged outside, the sky so dark it felt like twilight. Ollie curled up at her feet. His ears flicked nervously with each crack of thunder.

“So,” Amy said, folding her hands on the desk to keep them from fidgeting. “What kind of terms are we talking about? If I agree to let you film here, what’s the financial arrangement?”

Mason’s grin returned, shark-like. “We pay our subjects very well. Enough to cover any… inconveniences.”

“Inconveniences,” Amy repeated, arching a brow.

Mason laughed. “It’s all part of the process. Believe me, once the show airs, you’ll have people lining up to stay here. Paranormal tourism is huge right now.”

If Amy hadn’t already been searching for the flicker of hope that this show could save her, save the future of this place, she probably would have thought longer and harder about those words, paranormal tourism. But she didn’t. Instead, she tendered that flicker of hope into a small flame and fed on it.

Before she could respond, though, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the air.

Amy and Mason both froze, and her blood ran cold.

“What the hell was that?” Mason asked, his grin finally faltering.