Page 7 of Your Masked Haunting

I feel like Goldilocks, saying the third guy was just right, but he was. Independent. Not looking for anything long-term, just like I was. Simple. We had a mutual understanding agreement for about six months. Booty calls and quick hookups with none of the messiness or pizzazz. All was well until I found out about his real last name and his wife. I never spoke to him again.

I want Mr. Masked Haunting. I don’t want the messiness or the feelings. But I’m not sure I can say the same about him. He already knows more about me than I’ve ever let someone discover willingly. But he did that sleuthing on his own; I didn’t volunteer the information.

Now I just want to figure out more about him so it feels less invasive and mutually vulnerable. Right now, I feel like a little bug in an enclosure, being studied by a hot masked scientist. Ooh, maybe we can role-play, and I’ll be his subject. He can poke and prod me all night long.

Mona.

But on a serious note, I think the pool of suspects should start with the staff for The Schrader House. It makes sense. It would explain how he knows me as well as he does, how he blends in without getting thrown out by our security, and how he’s able to sneak around at all hours.

Grabbing my journal from my bed, I plop down and put my pen to paper, jotting down the list of possible suspects in general categories. Scare actors, security, props, costume team, maintenance, sales, management, makeup artists, hairdressers, face painters, activity coordinators.

Well, shit. This is a lot longer than I expected. But this place is a goddamn amusement park, squeezed into an estate of four acres and a mansion.

I think the list may be horribly unhelpful because I don’t feel any closer to narrowing down this masked man. A light bulb goes off in my brain.

God, I swear, sometimes, I’m really dumb. He’s a masked man; of course, he’s a scare actor.

Probably. Maybe. Ugh, I don’t know. But it’s killing me.

I want to thank him face-to-face—maybe cock-to-mouth—and then also ask how he has the audacity to force himself into my life. Look, liking me is a double-edged sword, okay? But he chose this.

I have to slip out of my room to head to work soon, so I’ll focus on this later. Tossing my journal on my bed, I walk over to the glass-top wooden end table and grab my amethyst and my black tourmaline crystal bead bracelets and slip them onto my wrist.

I’m not a hundred percent certain the metaphysical properties of crystals are real, but I like to believe they are. I like to think I can feel their effects. Worst case, it’s a placebo effect, and at the end of the day, I can live with that.

I one thousand percent believe in energy, spirituality, astrology, and that there’s more to life than meets the eye. I’m a Taurus, and, boy, do I align with Taurus characteristics.

Food is my love language. I’m more stubborn than I’ll ever admit. I’m nice … with a feral, angry bitch trapped inside who always wants to get out. But that’s beside the point.

I love collecting crystals in all forms. I don’t have a ton right now, just my bracelets and a few tumbled stones, but once I get back on my feet, I’ll get some more. Staple pieces. Towers. Carvings. I want it all.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and my blood runs cold as I slowly turn. The only light in the room is provided by a new small lamp next to my bed, gifted by my masked stalker. My breathing is heavy, loud in my ears as I freeze and wait for movement.

There.

Inside the broken sconce on the wall, something scurries, illuminated through the thin fabric shade. Something small and insect-like.

If there’s ever anything in life that I always show respect to, it’s creatures of all shapes and sizes. Men and people in general? Eww, no. But bugs, dogs, cats, plants, any living, breathing thing? Every single time.

“Hello there.” I peer up into the curve of the glass and find something tiny with eight fuzzy little legs and big eyes.

Oh my God, it’s a jumping spider.

Personally, I think they’re freaking adorable. They still occasionally give me the heebie-jeebies if they get too close or move too fast. But I know they aren’t truly out to hurt me. They’re just trying to survive, like the rest of us.

She’s built herself quite the web cocoon in there, but I can’t imagine she gets a lot of options for food in this old room. I’m not even sure if she made her way in here with me or claimed this space before I had the chance. Maybe I’m encroaching on her territory.

I quickly google how to determine if a spider is hungry and compare her abdomen with the images. She looks pretty thin, to be honest.

The next ten minutes are spent searching for the best food, and I end on mealworms since they’re the most accessible, and I can keep them longer in my fridge.

Now I just need to figure out how the heck I’m going to get to the nearest pet store, which is five miles away, without digging my car out of its grown-in hiding spot. It took a long time to conceal it in the bushes and make it look like it’s been there forever, although nature helped. But I’ll make damn sure that my girl will be taken care of today even if I have to unbury and bury my car all over again.

I glance at the time on my phone and curse under my breath. I’m running late, and losing this job is something I really can’t afford.

“I’ll get you some wormies, Ms. …” I quickly rack my brain and land on a name I’ve heard a million times from one of my favorite shows, Criminal Minds. “Ms. Penelope.”

My shift will probably take me through the late afternoon. There’s a big corporate family gathering today with over two hundred guests, who I’m sure will have a thousand kids with them. Which, in turn, means that I’ll be painting all of their faces—well, alongside the other face painter.