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An absolutely perfect spot to host an annual Halloween Ball.
The place has always fascinated and frightened me in equal measure. Legend has it, this house was built on the site where several women were burned at the stake during Avalon’s very own witch trials. Almost two hundred years had passed by the time the Fairchild’s purchased the plot, but even so, rumors of strange happenings started before the family even moved into their newly built home. And now, more than a hundred and fifty years after that, townsfolk still whisper that the land is cursed.
I’m almost certain ninety-nine percent of those tales are spread just to keep tourism alive. But still, it’s hard not to be a little creeped out when the house is devoid of hundreds of costumed partygoers. Aside from that one vibrant night a year,Fairchild Manor looms as a perpetual dare for brave teenagers and the occasional troop of ghost hunters.
I’ve never been on either list.
“You’ve got this, Shiloh,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a house. Just a big, creepy, possibly haunted house on some possibly cursed land. No big deal. You’ll be fine.”
With one last compulsive glance at my phone, I clamber out of my car and make my way to the front door. The moment my finger touches the doorbell, I startle backward, nearly falling off the porch. The resounding gong of the damn button seems to echo for miles.
“Fuck a duck,” I hiss, massaging the ache in the center of my chest where my heart is furiously hammering. I glance around to see if anyone else heard–or see my embarrassing reaction.
For what seems like a lifetime, there’s no response. I’m just about ready to retreat back to my car when the door finally swings open with a slow and ominous creak. I brace myself for…
Well, I’m not entirely sure what.
Perhaps Lurch from the Addams Family, or some other monstrous welcome party? What I’m not prepared for is the sheer eyesore that is the caretaker’s eccentric ensemble.
“Well, well, what have we here? Another lost soul seeking refuge from the ghastly land of the living?”
The man standing before me looks like he raided an opera theater’s wardrobe before robbing a cheap gaudy boutique for accessories. His wild gray hair sticks out in all directions, only partially contained by a velvet top hat that’s seen better days. I notice, with no small amount of concern, that his curling leather shoes appear to be on the wrong feet.
“Um, hi, Mr. Prescott? I’m Shiloh Wilson, we spoke on the phone.” He stares down at my offered hand as if I’ve presented him with a dead fish, so I slowly withdraw it again, trying not tolet my rising nerves drive me straight off the property. “I’m here about the Halloween Ball?”
“Ah, yes, of course! The grand spectacle of All Hallows’ Eve!” He claps his hands together, a cacophony of clinking rings assaulting my eardrums. “Where are my manners? Cornelius Prescott, at your service.” The strange man throws himself forward in a bow so low I’m worried he might crack his head on the floorboards.
“Thank you for taking the time to show me around today, Mr. Prescott. I can’t wait to get started planning our event.” It takes no small amount of effort to keep from laughing incredulously in the guy’s face, but I have to give him kudos, he’s obviously committed to his role as the weird caretaker in the haunted house.
“Yes, yes, a marvel it will be, indeed. But before we proceed, I simply must cleanse your aura. Can’t have any negative energies mucking up the place, can we?”
Before I can even think of a coherent response to that madness, he’s producing a bundle of garden sage from…somewhere…and clicking open an old zippo lighter. I try not to cough violently as the pungent smoke fills my nose. Cornelius immediately gets to work, waving the burning herbs around me in an elaborate choreography I’d liken to the mating dance of some tropical bird.
“Tell me, Miss Wilson, have you any malevolent spirits attached to you at the present time? Any phantoms we may need to exorcise before I invite you to enter these hallowed halls?”
“N-none that I know of,” I splutter, silently questioning whether dickbag stepbrothers count.
“Wonderful! We shouldn’t have any reason to think our hosts will be disturbed by your presence then!” He ushers me inside with a grand sweep of his arm, seemingly oblivious to just how disturbedIam byhispresence. “Let us start with the grand tour,shall we? This old girl has so many wondrous stories to tell, you know. Why, just the other day, I was having tea with the ghost ofthePrudence Fairchild in the conservatory, and let me tell you…”
I allow myself to zone out of Cornelius’ no doubt well-rehearsed tour speech as we wander deeper into the slowly decaying manor. Instead, I indulge in the opportunity to explore parts of the house I’ve never seen before. We sweep through room after room, each dustier and more cluttered than the last. Cobwebs cling to crystal chandeliers, and faded portraits of stern-faced ancestors glare down at us from every wall. It almost makes me sad to see such a beautiful microcosm of history fall into such disrepair.
“May I ask, Mr. Prescott,” I interrupt his current ramble about his latest séance with the Avalon witches. “Does the Ball not bring in enough money each year to maintain the place a little better?”
“I’m afraid not, dear child,” he answers wistfully. “Mayor Thornby insists he should be able to host the Ball here each year free of charge, seeing as the property belongs to the town.”
“Figures,” I mutter to myself, utterly unsurprised that Melanie’s purse-pinching father has negotiated such an arrangement. “Is that why we only ever host the event in the ballroom? Because the rest of the house is crumbling down?”
“Indeed, indeed. She could certainly do with a bit of a facelift,” Cornelius titters. “Though the crown jewel of the Fairchild Estate is certainly one ethereal place to throw a party!”
To demonstrate his point, he flings open an ornate set of double doors with a dramatic flourish and beckons me inside. With a few flicked switches, he bathes the cavernous ballroom in a golden glow that almost makes me sigh. The room is stunning, even despite the layers of dust and the slightly musty smell. Baroque moldings frame floor-to-ceiling windowsthat are draped in heavy scarlet satin, the rest of the wall space dominated by more imposing portraits and deep crimson wallpaper.
“It’s certainly something,” I breathe, my mind whirling with the slideshow of the various ways this incredible space has been decorated for Halloween Balls of the past. A heady excitement fills me when I remember that it’s my turn to bring to life a vision of my own.
“Oh, isn’t it just?” Cornelius beams. “Esmerelda Fairchild used to throw the most scandalous parties once upon a time. I like to convene with her each year to get her thoughts on how our illustrious Ball turns out. No pressure, but she is quite an opinionated spirit!”
“Well, then I hope not to disappoint her.”
“Marvelous!” He claps his hands together once again. “Well, I’ll give you a moment to acquaint yourself with the space and conjure a sparkling premonition for the décor. I myself have some pressing matters to attend to in the spirit realm. You know what they say, “The dead wait for no man!”
