Page 4 of The October Trials

What has become of my wretched life?

Oh, fuck.

This is it.

Ashvale Manor rises out of the darkness like something from a nightmare. Ivy crawls up the stone walls, threading through blackened ironwork and gothic arches, while the stained-glass windows bleed a sinister red beneath tonight’s blood moon.

Turn around.

This place is fucking creepy, and you need to leave.

Have you forgotten how to walk? One foot before the other, chick.

That’s what my mind screams. But I stand frozen on the gravel path, heart kicking hard against my ribs, staring at the manor like it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Because it is.

I’ve always loved this shit. There’s something about antique things that have survived against all odds that pulls me in. The more haunted, the better. My best friend Sloane once said I had the aesthetic preferences of a Victorian ghost.

She wasn’t wrong.

Stepping closer, a wooden sign swinging from a weathered post comes into view. Handwritten in bold black letters:

Enter if you dare.

I let out a slow breath and smooth my pleated black skirt down my thighs, feeling my clammy palms brush the fabric as I step inside. Right now, I’m the dumb blonde in the horror movie walking toward the danger. The only thing going for me at this point is my jet-black hair.

Wait, didn’t that girl in Scream have black hair, too?

God damn it, I’m doing that thing where I distract myself. Focus.

Toward the end of the hall, a man stands motionless, wearing an all-white porcelain mask that covers his entire face. The eye holes are black slits, same as the mouth.

“Number?” The voice comes out distorted, like he’s using a voice changer. “Number?” he repeats, louder.

Shit. The invitation. What was the number on it again?

The masked man sighs, clearly losing his patience.

“Seven,” I blurt out. “S-sorry.”

“Interesting.” He tilts his head, a low hum vibrating behind the mask before a chuckle slips through. What does that number mean? “Phone, jewelry, and all other belongings in here.” He extends a wicker basket toward me.

I hesitate, but eventually give in to his request. Too late to turn back now. After I’ve emptied my pockets, he pulls the basket back, then eyes my wrist.

“Watch, too.”

My stomach plummets.

“No, I…” I pull my wrist toward my chest.

“Watch, too.”

“I said no.” My fingers curl protectively over the watch. “It always stays on.”

My grandfather is the one who got me into collecting antiques in the first place, and he gave me this watch two weeks before he died. I will not risk losing it in some flimsy old wicker basket.

He exhales hard through the voice changer, the sound turning into a mechanical growl. “Watch. Off. Or I pry it off your dead fucking body.”