Read an Excerpt
1
Voluntarily choosing to live in a haunted house took an extraordinary amount of desperation. Or perhaps determination was the better word. Either way, Lucky Hart possessed an ample supply of both.
"Next." The receptionist-Gayle, according to her nameplate-signaled her forward. "I need to see your ID. Glasses off, please."
"I have an appointment. Lucky Hart." She removed her dark sunglasses as requested.
Gayle's hair had been cut into a severely angled bob that framed her equally sharp jawline. She dressed as if she'd walked right off the page of a high fashion editorial spread with her glowing, sun-kissed skin and svelte figure. Her eyes and smile were kind, but unfortunately also betrayed precisely who she was. She lived with an insidious type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could remedy. It burrowed into her bones, hollowed them out, until she had nothing left and yet somehow continued on. She relied heavily on ambition to keep from collapsing. No matter how many times she crossed that line of living to survive, her endless desire for more, for better, for everything, would never allow her to fail.
Interesting.
That was the thing about Lucky-she had an uncanny knack for first impressions. Looking at someone's eyes told her nearly everything she needed to know about them.
After completing a visitor's sheet, Gayle escorted Lucky to a back office and then excused herself.
"Ah, Miss Hart. Please have a seat."
Three people sat around a table inside the room and, well, that was two too many new windows for Lucky's liking. She couldn't control her ability, so she swiftly slipped her dark sunglasses back on. They managed to block her first impression readings a solid ninety-five percent of the time.
"Thank you," she said as she sat down.
"My name is Castor Paulson." He was a white man with a round body and chubby cheeks, and he wore a suit that fit him like a dream. His most distinguishing feature was a walrus mustache-brown sprinkled with salt and pepper, same as his hair.
"Castor doubles as our casting director and HR manager. I'm Stephen. We spoke on the phone." Also a white man, except he was bald with a muscular build and could double as Bruce Willis's The Fifth Element tethered.
"That's quite the face you have," she joked.
"I'm aware." His indulgent, welcoming smile made her like him instantly. She didn't need to know anything else, which was saying something considering what she could do. "And this is my business partner, Xander Hennessee."
"Hello, Ms. Hart." Even though he was sitting she knew he was a giant-long limbs, strong bone structure, and lean muscle. His hazel eyes warmed his pale skin, and he also wore a suit, deep cerulean in color with shining gold cuff links. "Is it too bright in here?"
"No."
"Is there a particular reason why you've chosen to wear sunglasses indoors?"
"There is."
"Do you plan to share that reason?"
Lucky considered her answer. Point-blank, her career hinged on this meeting being a success. She needed to keep a clear head and some readings were harder to shake than others.
A firm, undeniable feeling told her that grief clung to Xander like an old, tattered coat in a snowstorm-useless but better than nothing. He needed to eat something delicious, warm, and home-cooked, and get a good fortnight's sleep . . . and there she was, channeling again. Delaying reading someone's first impression, and choosing to stay near them, occasionally resulted in their surface feelings seeping through. As if her brain were impatient and needed a snack.
Those suspected grief-filled feelings might not be a part of his core personality, but if they were strong enough to punch through her defenses? Before a reading? Odds were good they had begun to alter his being in a significant way, which rarely happened because people didn't fundamentally change. Evolve and grow, yes. But change? Almost never. Over the years, she'd learned there was a very clear and very distinct difference between the two concepts.
Lucky tossed him her most playful grin. "Only if I get the job. Make me an offer and I'll take them right off." She leaned toward him, stage-whispering, "I promise it'll be worth your while."
Stephen laughed softly and Castor's glorious whiskers twitched as he tried to hide his smile. Xander, however, remained unmoved. He checked his watch and said, "Why don't we get started? I have another meeting in an hour."
Tough crowd. Unfazed, she continued smiling at him, mentally vowing to find a way to win him over.
"All right," Stephen began. "As you know, we're looking for someone to star in our latest production, centered around a haunted house. If chosen, your role would be that of the caretaker. While acting experience isn't necessary, we did hope to find someone with some retail or property management experience, which you also don't have."
Xander frowned. "According to your résumé, you don't have any work experience."
She grinned. "According to my résumé, that's correct."
"You're twenty-five and you've never had a job?"
"That happens more often than you'd think." Not to her, but that was beside the point. "Trust-fund babies, perpetual and professional students, SoundCloud rappers-I mean the list could go on and on."
Xander narrowed his eyes but kept his thoughts to himself. She suspected he was on to her schtick. Giving him a non-answer wouldn't work again. "Why did you apply for this position?"
"I need a job and I need housing. Isn't it incredible how this is the answer to all my problems?" She paused for a beat, slouching slightly with a little sigh. They couldn't see her eyes-making sure they could easily read her body language and interpret her tone was crucial. "I was . . . a student. A really, really good student. I dedicated almost twenty years of my life to my education. Yes, I count kindergarten because that's when I learned how to read, and reading is one of the single greatest joys in my life. I wasn't prepared to not be a student. My whole identity had to shift when I got my degree. And now I'm here. Hoping to try something new and exciting. To use my skills in an unexpected way."
It had taken two days to revise and perfect that speech. A taut balance between meticulously selected facts from her life and a little something she liked to call earnest lies. She decided it'd be best to pretend to be an almost-blank slate. She wanted them to project their casting hopes and dreams onto her.
If they thought she was an overqualified know-it-all, they'd reject her. If they misread her confidence for arrogance, they'd reject her. They might not do it on purpose, but the second they unconsciously assumed she was uppity, they'd definitely reject her. But fate was smiling on her that day, because Stephen's eyes hadn't stopped twinkling since she walked in. He saw something special in her. He wanted to give her a chance.
"I'll be honest with you. You're sitting here right now solely based on the strength of your audition tape," Stephen said. "We agreed that we needed to meet you in person before making a decision. Something we rarely do."
Xander continued to stare her down, unconvinced. "There are plenty of jobs that provide housing. Why do you want this one? Please be specific."
For the briefest of moments, Lucky considered how this scene might look to outsiders. Three white men hiring a Black woman to be the caretaker for a found-footage haunted-house TV show. It was the ominous opening sequence to a horror film before the real final girl showed up. A bonus scene rescued from the cutting room floor to be used as teaser marketing. She was being set up to die, or if they were culturally competent and subversive, scared shitless and traumatized for life.
But what they didn't know was Lucky was the furthest thing from a naive college graduate willing to work anywhere to land on her feet. She'd done her research. Her next steps absolutely involved forming an alliance with No Qualms Productions. They had a diverse workforce both on and behind the camera, had a great insurance policy, and treated their employees well, and once she'd read them, she'd know if she was in good hands or not.
To be fair, bad hands wouldn't stop her from making this deal. Unless they were murderers. Fun fact: she could read that in someone too. True murderous intentions had an unmistakable stench to them.
Under the table, she discreetly rubbed her increasingly clammy palms on her pants. She had to be careful here. "Because it's mutually beneficial. I get what I want, and you get the novelty of me. I'm here for my community. Black people are largely underrepresented in the supernatural industry. You know there's an eager and dedicated audience waiting for good content. I know because I'm part of it. I'm here because you're looking for the next Maverick Phillips, your big breakout star. And while no, I don't believe I'm destined for stardom, I do believe you will not find someone better than me for this project specifically."
"What makes you so confident about that?" Xander. Again.
Shit. Him using the c-word meant she'd accidentally gone too far. Should she backpedal or lean into it? Which option would be best for the show? She licked her lips, nerves beginning to get to her. Instinctively, she wanted to lean into the truth . . . and to give them a hint. They might not catch it, but-
"Almost nothing scares me. I can rationalize my way through anything. And now that I've said that, I know you're feeling eager to prove me wrong. It's too tempting. Too perfect." She shrugged-mostly to appear nonchalant but also because Stephen's enthusiasm was beginning to burn through her glasses. She used the movement as an excuse to coyly look away. "Besides, I'm here, aren't I? You said it yourself: I've mostly won you over with a five-minute audition tape. Now that you've met me, please use this moment to imagine what I could do for your show and company." She held her breath, hoping, praying, and wishing for the best.
Xander exchanged a look and an entire silent conversation with Stephen in under ten seconds. Those two must've known each other extremely well. However, it was Castor who decided for them by sliding a manila folder across the table and opening it for her.
Lucky exhaled into a dazzling, triumphant smile as she flipped through the glossy pictures of a three-story Victorian house with a large front driveway, an incredible yard, and beautifully decorated, fully furnished rooms. Castor used phrases she'd never heard before like "pediment porch" and "polygonal towers" and pointed out the turrets, gables, and cupolas. She picked up a photo of a bedroom with the largest bed she'd ever seen, complete with a four-poster frame and canopy. Beautiful rugs complemented the gossamer drapes that glowed from the sunlight.
If they were going to try to scare the unholy hell out of her, at least it would be in the height of luxury.
"This is the haunted house?" A pile of paper, several sheets thick, was stacked under the photos. "Is this the contract?"
Stephen answered, "Yes. It details everything of importance for both the show and your stay in Hennessee House."
"Will I have to sign an NDA?"
Xander said, "Failure to keep the details of production confidential will result in the immediate forfeiture of your wages."
Honestly, she'd be willing to be on the show for free. Hell, she'd pay them to get unrestricted access to the house.
He continued, "The exterior is thoroughly monitored. You'll be given a layout of the security system for your safety. Conversely, the interior is not. There are no permanent cameras, mounted or otherwise, anywhere."
"Well, that seems odd and not at all like an interesting premise for a setup." She laughed, happy to play along. "If there are no cameras in the house, and no one there to record it, do the spooky shenanigans actually happen?"
"They do." Xander's tone was unyielding, reinforced with concrete.
Stephen said, "For the first week, you'll be required to give interviews every morning about your experience in the house and must agree to be filmed throughout the day by production. However, you will be alone at night. Every night from sundown to sunrise." He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table and clasping his hands together. "We live in an era of special effects and deep fakes, and yet, nothing is more horrifying than someone's imagination. Nothing we capture on film will be half as compelling as the way you tell your story. We want to hear what happens to you, from you. You're welcome to film on your phone or camera and share that footage with us, but we're content to take you at your word."
"The house must be booby-trapped, then. It's set up to scare me?"
"No. That defeats the purpose of the show." Xander placed a tablet in front of her. A digital résumé and photo for someone named Eunice Choi was on the screen. "Swipe through. You're actually caretaker number four. Those are your predecessors. No one has lasted longer than three nights."
"Four is my favorite number. Imagine that," she said absently. Most of her focus remained on reading the profiles. "Can I have copies of these? Their videos too?"
"Why?"
Oops.
They had actual footage of subjects recounting their supernatural experiences! Of course, she needed to watch them. Alas, it was way too early to give herself away. She needed to be patient. Slipping back into character, she said, "Referencing previous caretakers could create a sense of continuity. Might be interesting for the show."
"We'll take that into consideration," Stephen answered. "But your primary objective will be to live in the house for thirty days. You are free to quit anytime. We will not stop you. We will not attempt to convince you to stay. The shoot and you residing within Hennessee House are and always will be completely voluntary."
"So, what's Hennessee House's story? Did someone die there? Did a lot of people die there?" she asked.
Thanks to a contact within NQP she already knew the answer but figured it would seem strange if she didn't bring it up. Asking also provided her an opportunity to pretend to be surprised.
Xander answered, "Not that I know of."
"Former cemetery?"
"Not that I know of. However, it is the last Victorian house in the area. All the others were torn down and a gated community was built around it. My family refused to sell to the developers."
"Good. I'm honestly not a fan of ghosts. What about séances? Headquarters for a top secret supernatural cult? Those were prolific in the early 1900s."
