The sign said Welcome to Hopeville in chipped green paint, but Ethan Ward figured it might as well have read Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter Here. The town stretched out before him like a bad memory—rows of sagging houses, a gas station with a flickering neon sign, and a main street so quiet you could hear the wind kicking dust across the pavement. It was the kind of place where dreams came to die, and Ethan had spent most of his twenty-seven years trying to forget it. Yet here he was, back in the armpit of the Midwest, because apparently fate had a sick sense of humor.
He adjusted the straps of his duffel bag and squinted at the horizon. Beyond the town’s edge, the skeletal remains of Hope Haven Amusement Park loomed against a bruised sky. The Ferris wheel tilted like a drunk, half its lights busted, and the roller coaster tracks twisted into rusty knots. At the park’s heart sat The Haunted Haven, his parents’ pride and joy—or their madness, depending on who you asked. A squat, ugly building with peeling black paint and fake cobwebs dangling from the eaves, it looked more like a condemned shack than a tourist trap. Ethan smirked. “Home sweet home,” he muttered, kicking a pebble down the road.
The walk from the bus stop took twenty minutes, and by the time he reached the park’s rusted gates, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers toward the ghost house. He fished a key from his pocket—sent by the lawyer who’d tracked him down in Chicago—and shoved it into the padlock. The chain fell away with a groan, and the gates creaked open as if they hadn’t moved in years. Probably hadn’t. Ethan stepped inside, the crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound in the stillness.
The air smelled of mildew and rot, a sour tang that clung to the back of his throat. He crossed the cracked midway, passing a toppled popcorn stand and a carousel with chipped horses staring blankly into the void. Memories flickered—his mom laughing as she handed him a balloon, his dad tinkering with some busted ride—but he shoved them down. That was a lifetime ago, before they vanished, before the park closed, before the letters stopped coming. Now all he had was a cryptic note from the lawyer: The Haven is yours. They’d want you to have it.
“Great inheritance,” Ethan said to no one, his voice flat. “A dump full of ghosts and unpaid bills.” He reached the ghost house door, a slab of wood with Enter If You Dare scrawled in faded red. The key turned with a reluctant click, and he stepped inside, the darkness swallowing him whole.
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The interior was worse than he’d expected. Dust coated everything—the ticket counter, the velvet ropes, the plastic skeletons propped in corners. A flickering bulb buzzed overhead, throwing jagged shadows across the walls. Ethan dropped his duffel on a chair that wobbled under the weight and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Guess I’m a haunted house guy now,” he said, half-laughing at the absurdity. “Step right up, folks, see the amazing Ethan Ward lose his mind!”
He was halfway through inspecting a fake coffin—complete with a rubber bat that smelled like regret—when a crackle cut through the silence. Ethan froze, his heart thudding against his ribs. The sound came again, a low hiss, like a radio stuck between stations. He turned toward the back office, a cramped room behind the counter, and nudged the door open with his boot.
There it was: an old radio, the kind with chunky dials and a cracked wooden case, sitting on a shelf cluttered with papers and cobwebs. Its power cord dangled uselessly, unplugged, yet the static grew louder as Ethan approached. He frowned, reaching for it, but before his fingers brushed the dial, it spun on its own. A jolt ran up his spine. “What the hell—”
“Welcome, Ethan,” a voice rasped through the static, deep and deliberate, like it was tasting his name. He yanked his hand back, staring as the radio’s glow pulsed faintly, a sickly yellow light spilling across the room. “The Haven needs a keeper. Will you answer the call?”
Ethan’s mouth went dry. He glanced around, half-expecting some prankster with a remote, but the office was empty—just him, the dust, and that damn voice. “Okay, universe,” he said, his tone sharp with bravado he didn’t feel, “if this is your idea of a welcome party, you’re gonna have to try harder.” The static crackled again, almost like a laugh, and then went dead, the silence rushing back heavier than before.
He stood there, breath shallow, staring at the radio. His parents had been obsessed with this place—late nights, wild theories, sketches of things he’d never understood. Had they heard this too? Was this why they’d disappeared? Ethan shook his head, shoving the questions aside. “Probably just busted wiring,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow. He grabbed his duffel and turned to leave the office, determined to ignore the chill creeping up his neck.
That’s when the door behind him creaked open again. A girl poked her head in—twentyish, blonde hair spilling from a messy bun, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Uh, Mr. Ward? I’m Sophie Bennett, the intern. Lawyer said you’d need help.” She paused, glancing at the gloom. “Holy crap, this place is creepy as hell.”
Ethan stared at her, then let out a dry laugh. “You have no idea, kid.” The radio stayed silent, but he could still feel its hum in his bones. Whatever he’d just tuned into, he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t done with him yet.