Bump in the Night

I lean closer to the mirror, taking my index finger to smudge a bit of the black eyeliner under my eye, when I catch a flicker of movement in the reflection. My heart rate spikes and the prickle on the back of my neck turns to a shiver, my face burning hot while the air around me chills.

The image of that man in the portrait flashes in my mind. He felt more real than the oil paint and canvas that created him. Ghosts, my mind whispers, and a part of me almost wants to hit the panic button and shut this whole deal down before it’s even begun. But I steady myself trying to push away the nagging fear about going to sleep and having one of my nightmares.

I do my best to calm the hell down, remembering Harlow telling me dreams can’t hurt you, and repeating it to myself all the way downstairs. By the time I get to the dining room, the other three male guests are milling around, making small talk.

Charles is a middle-aged insurance salesman and his suits are perfect for his profession. His great-grandfather was a groundskeeper here and lived in one of the small cottages still here on the grounds until his death at age 92 from pneumonia.

“Hello. You look nice.” He nods, but it’s not lascivious. He doesn’t seem like that sort of man. He’s sort of like warm milk. Fine enough, but nothing really stands out. When he talks, his words are simple, but have little emotion behind them.

Wallace, the youngest of the three men, couldn’t be more his opposite. He’s wearing one of those t-shirts with a printed tuxedo and bow tie on the front, and he’s upgraded his blue, torn skinny jeans, for a black pair. He gives me a peace sign when I walk in, but his eyes are stuck on my chest.

His great-great-grandmother was apparently a nanny here, taking care of the Worthingtons’ only child at the time, Coraline Worthington. Wallace’s ancestor died at the age of forty-seven in a house fire at the Victorian home where she lived with her husband and son on the shores of Lake Michigan.

“Yeah. Nice.” He sniffs a laugh, licking his lips as his eyes drift down then back to my chest, never meeting my eyes.

The third guest, Leonard, is in his sixties and looks like he bought his own ill-fitting suit from a thrift store, shoved it in his duffel bag, and didn’t bother with it after that. His white shirt has a yellow stain on the collar and his pants are three inches too long.

Dalton didn’t say as much about Leonard’s ancestral association with the house as he did with the other guests. He only said that Leonard had a great-grandfather that worked here most of his life but didn’t expand beyond that, and Leonard isn’t much into sharing.

He doesn’t bother to say anything to me as I enter. He’s not making eye contact with anyone and clearly isn’t here to make any friends.

I guess what he’s here for is to win. Does that make me his enemy?

“So. How’s everyone doing?” I start, looking at the table. Each setting has six pieces of sterling silverware and three different shapes of crystal glasses.

“Goooood,” Wallace answers on a Spicoli sort of throaty chuckle. “Anyone have anything weird happen yet?” I ask, trying not to show my own discomfort, remembering the chilled air, the shadow in my room and the whisper I heard earlier as I fuss with the black wristband Dalton secured there when I arrived.

Charles looks at the other two male guests, then at me, and on a one-shoulder shrug replies with, “Naw. Nothin’s gonna happen. Probably just some set up stuff. No such thing as ghosts.”

“Hey, so what happens if we all make it through the weekend?” Wallace asks, scanning the room for a second before landing back on my tits.

“Dalton explained that. It was all outlined in the contract,” Leonard snaps, doing nothing to hide his annoyance at the question. “Were you not there? Didn’t you read it?”

Wallace screws up his face at Leonard. “I was there. I read it.” He snarls, missing the mark completely on the Clint Eastwood sneer he attempts. “He said a lot of stuff, I just don’t remember exactly all the details.”

“If there is more than one of us left after the Halloween Ball on Sunday night, there will be a drawing to determine the winner,” I answer. “Everyone picks a card, highest card wins. But, he also said, if no one makes it to Sunday night, none of us will win. The house then reverts to a charity. As stupid as that sounds but I guess the guy was sort of whacked.”

The doors to the dining room open, and Ashby and three other servers enter. They are holding trays with silver domed lids, as well as bottles of wine, as we are instructed to sit and the meal is served.