Ethan Ward leaned against the ticket counter of The Haunted Haven, the morning sun filtering through the grimy windows and painting the dusty hall in pale gold. The locket hung heavy in his pocket, his mom’s faint whisper—Find us—still ringing in his ears from the carousel chamber below. His dad’s journal sat beside him, open to that haunting line: The signal’s in the lost. He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion tugging at him after last night’s plunge into the threshold, but there was no time to rest. The Haven was awake, and so was Hopeville.

Sophie Bennett bustled at the front door, taping up a fresh sign—Haunted Haven Open! $5 Entry, Survive the Scare!—her blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She’d bounced back from the tunnel like it was a late-night study session, her energy relentless. “Day two of the ghost gig,” she called, grinning over her shoulder. “Think we’ll top fifty bucks today, boss?”

“If we don’t get shut down first,” Ethan said, managing a smirk. Deputy Grayson’s visit still lingered—noise complaints, shadows in the windows—and Ethan wasn’t naive enough to think the town would let them slide forever. “Keep the charm on. We need the cash.”

“Charm’s my middle name,” Sophie shot back, waving a stack of waivers. She’d turned the manor’s “haunted lady” into a crowd-pleaser, spinning tales that had yesterday’s visitors buzzing. Ethan had to admit, she was good—too good for a psych major slumming it in a ghost house.

The first wave trickled in by ten—locals with curious stares, a few teens daring each other—but it wasn’t until noon that the real test showed up. Two figures stepped through the gate, cutting through the small crowd: a lanky guy with a buzz cut and a cocky grin, and a tall girl with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense vibe, her dark hair pulled tight in a bun. They carried backpacks, not tourist gear, and Ethan clocked them instantly—college kids, probably, but not here for cheap thrills.

Sophie perked up, waving them over. “Welcome to the Haven! Five bucks each, sign here, and don’t blame us if you scream like a baby.”

The guy laughed, handing over a ten. “I’ve seen scarier stuff in my dorm’s fridge. Name’s Ryan Carter. This is Isabelle Pierce.” He jerked a thumb at the girl, who didn’t acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on Ethan like she was sizing him up.

Ethan straightened, arms crossed. “Enjoy the show, then. Main hall’s got the basics—coffin, skeletons, creepy painting. Don’t break anything.”

Ryan smirked, scrawling his name on the waiver. “No promises. Heard this place is legit, though. Shadows moving, lights flickering—sounds like a blast.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Isabelle signed hers in neat, clipped strokes, then looked up, her voice cool and precise. “It’s not just rumors. I’ve read the reports—Hopeville’s had activity spikes since your parents ran this. Disappearances, too.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re Ethan Ward, right?”

Ethan’s gut tightened, but he kept his face blank. “Yeah. And you’re a cop?”

“Pre-med,” she said, unfazed. “Forensic pathology track. I study patterns—crime, anomalies, whatever fits. This place is an outlier.”

“Great,” Ethan muttered. “A skeptic with a scalpel.” He nodded at Sophie. “Show ‘em in. Let’s see if they scream.”

Sophie grinned, leading Ryan and Isabelle inside, her spiel already rolling. “Step into the Haven, where the scares are real and the ghosts don’t mess around! First stop, the manor room—say hi to our resident lady in red!” She threw open the door, and the pair filed in, Ryan’s grin intact, Isabelle’s expression unreadable.

Ethan trailed behind, hands in his pockets, the locket a silent weight. The portrait loomed as they entered—Lydia Kane, her crimson dress stark against the dark wood, her eyes sharper than ever. Ryan let out a low whistle. “Damn, she’s intense. Hot, though.”

Isabelle shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk. “Focus, Carter.” She stepped closer, studying the painting, then froze. “It moved.”

“What?” Ryan laughed, leaning in. “Nah, it’s just—”

The eyes shifted, locking on Isabelle, and a whisper brushed the room—soft, sharp, Lydia’s voice: Leave. Ryan yelped, stumbling back into the fireplace, while Isabelle stood her ground, her jaw tight. Ethan’s pulse spiked, but he forced a casual tone. “Told you it’s legit. Part of the charm.”

Isabelle turned to him, eyes blazing. “That’s no prop. It’s reactive. How?”

“Trade secret,” Ethan said, stepping between them and the portrait. “Tour’s over. Exit’s that way.”

Ryan rubbed his arm, still grinning. “Okay, that was dope. I’m sold—you’ve got a haunted goldmine here, Ward.”

Isabelle didn’t budge, her gaze flicking from Ethan to the painting. “This isn’t a game. There’s something here—something alive. You know more than you’re saying.”

“Maybe,” Ethan said, voice flat. “But it’s my problem, not yours. Out.”

She hesitated, then followed Ryan back to the hall, her silence louder than words. Sophie shut the manor door, exhaling. “Well, that was fun. Think she’s onto us?”

“Onto something,” Ethan said, staring at the portrait. Lydia’s eyes were still again, but he felt her presence, heavy and close. “She’s too smart. Could be trouble.”

“Or an asset,” Sophie said, shrugging. “Pre-med, forensics—girl’s got skills. Maybe we recruit her.”

Ethan snorted. “Yeah, because we need more people poking around the death tunnel.” He pulled the locket out, flipping it open—the blurry photo stared back, unchanged. “She’s right, though. It’s alive. And it’s not happy we’re digging.”

The radio crackled from the office, faint but sharp, and Ethan tensed. Sophie glanced at him, her grin fading. “Round six?”

“Sounds like it,” he said, pocketing the locket. “Let’s close up. We’ve got work to do.” Whatever Lydia was guarding—whatever his parents had found—it was waking up, and Ethan wasn’t letting it call the shots. Not yet.