4. First Night in the Haunted House

The Maybach’s tires crunched over the wet gravel as it rolled to a stop in front of Voss Mansion at exactly 12:47 a.m. Rain lashed the windshield in silvery sheets, turning the towering white-stone facade into something out of a gothic nightmare.

Evie Monroe sat frozen in the back seat, the black Givenchy gown still clinging to her like a second skin soaked with cemetery mist and nervous sweat. Her veil was long gone—tossed onto the seat beside her—but the weight of the day pressed down on her chest harder than any fabric ever could.

The driver, a stoic man named Harlan who hadn’t spoken more than ten words since picking her up after the funeral, opened the door without a sound. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and expensive roses from the funeral wreaths that had been delivered to the house earlier. Evie stepped out on shaky Louboutin heels, clutching her small black clutch like a lifeline. The mansion rose above her, three stories of dark windows and marble columns, floodlights casting long, jagged shadows across the portico. It looked alive. It looked… watchful.

“Mr. Thorne left instructions, Mrs. Voss,” Harlan said, offering her a sleek silver keycard. “The staff has retired for the night. You’ll find everything you need in the master suite. Good evening.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The car door clicked shut, taillights disappearing down the long driveway like dying embers.

Evie stood alone under the massive portico, rain drumming on the roof above her. The keycard felt ice-cold in her palm. Mrs. Voss. The name still sounded like a bad joke.

She pressed the card against the reader. The double doors swung open with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing the grand foyer bathed in low golden light from a single chandelier. The rest of the house was dark. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant tick of a grandfather clock somewhere deep inside and the faint patter of rain against the towering glass windows.

Evie’s heels echoed too loudly as she crossed the black-and-white marble floor. She passed the study where she had signed her soul away the night before—the same study where she had seen that impossible shadow in the mirror. A shiver crawled down her spine. She didn’t stop to look inside.

The grand staircase curved upward like a dark invitation. She climbed slowly, one hand trailing the polished banister, the other gripping the clutch so tightly her knuckles whitened. At the top, a long hallway stretched into darkness, lined with closed doors and priceless artwork that seemed to watch her pass. The master suite was at the very end—double doors carved with intricate vines and the Voss family crest.

She hesitated only a second before pushing them open.

The bedroom was enormous. Bigger than her entire old apartment. A king-sized four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in midnight silk sheets and a fur throw that probably cost more than a car. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the rain-lashed gardens, heavy velvet curtains half-drawn. A marble fireplace crackled with a low fire someone had lit in advance, casting flickering orange light across the walls. On the far side, a walk-in closet the size of a boutique stood open, rows of Kael Voss’s tailored suits hanging like silent sentinels. His scent—something dark and woody, like cedar and expensive leather—still lingered faintly in the air.

Evie closed the doors behind her and leaned against them, exhaling a shaky breath. The silence was deafening.

She kicked off the heels, letting them clatter to the floor. The gown came next—peeled off with trembling fingers and left in a puddle of black silk on the antique rug. In the closet she found a set of women’s silk pajamas laid out on a velvet bench: charcoal gray, impossibly soft, monogrammed with a delicate 'EV' on the pocket. Someone had prepared for her. Thorne, probably. Or… someone else.

She slipped them on, the fabric cool against her skin, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror above the double sinks reflected a woman she barely recognized—pale cheeks, smudged mascara, green eyes wide with exhaustion and something close to fear. She splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush laid out beside a tube of toothpaste that cost more than her old rent, and tried not to think about the fact that this was now her bathroom. Her life.

Back in the bedroom, she climbed into the massive bed. The mattress swallowed her like a cloud, but sleep refused to come. She stared at the canopy above her, mind racing through the day like a broken film reel.

The funeral. The empty casket descending into the earth. Victoria’s venomous smile. Damien’s hot whisper against her veil: You’re not a real widow, are you? The fifty million dollars already working miracles for her mother. The shadow in the study mirror last night. The portrait of Kael downstairs, those storm-gray eyes that had followed her everywhere.

She rolled onto her side, hugging one of the silk pillows. It smelled faintly of him. She hated how comforting that was.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The fire popped. Rain tapped the windows. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed once—1:30 a.m.

Then she heard it.

A soft creak. Not the house settling. Not the wind. Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. In the corridor outside her door.

Evie’s eyes snapped open. Her breathing stopped. The footsteps paused right outside the double doors, as if whoever it was had stopped to listen. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she was sure it was audible. She sat up slowly, silk sheets pooling at her waist, straining her ears.

Nothing.

Then they started again—closer now, measured, like someone walking with purpose but trying not to be heard. Left foot. Right foot. The old wooden floorboards in the hallway gave the faintest groan under the weight.

Evie slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the thick rug. She grabbed the heavy crystal lamp from the nightstand, cord trailing, and crept toward the doors. Her pulse roared in her ears. It’s just the house, she told herself. Old mansions make noises. Servants checking locks. Wind.

But the footsteps stopped again—directly outside.

She reached the doors, lamp raised like a weapon.

“Hello?” Her voice came out small and cracked. “Is someone there?”

Silence answered.

Then the brass doorknob began to turn.

Slowly.

Inch by inch.

The mechanism clicked with agonizing softness. The heavy door eased open a crack, letting in a sliver of hallway darkness. Cool air slipped through, carrying that same faint scent of cedar and leather.

Evie’s breath caught in her throat. She took one step back, lamp trembling in her grip, ready to swing.

The door opened wider.

Just enough for a shadow to fall across the threshold.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

Utterly still.

And then—

***