Ethan Ward slumped against the ticket counter of The Haunted Haven, the tarnished locket dangling from his fingers by its thin chain. The morning light streamed through the cracked windows, glinting off the metal, but it didn’t feel like a victory. His hands still shook faintly from the theater—those shadow things, the mirror’s warped grin, the scream that wasn’t his. He’d faced it down, sure, but it didn’t feel like winning. It felt like surviving, and barely at that.

Sophie Bennett sprawled across a rickety chair nearby, her backpack dumped on the floor, blonde hair spilling loose from its bun. She stared at the ceiling, twirling her flashlight like a baton. “So,” she said, breaking the silence, “on a scale of one to ‘we’re totally screwed,’ where are we at after last night?”

Ethan snorted, tucking the locket into his pocket beside the brass key. “Somewhere around ‘mildly doomed.’ You?” He glanced at her, half-expecting her to bolt after the theater fiasco, but she just grinned—a little wild, a little tired.

“Same. Maybe a notch higher since I’m still here.” She sat up, propping her elbows on her knees. “That locket—what’s it for? Another creepy scavenger hunt prize?”

“No idea.” Ethan pulled it out again, flipping it open. Inside was a faded photo, too small and worn to make out details—just two blurry figures, maybe his parents, maybe not. No inscription, no clues, just a dull ache in his chest he couldn’t name. “Could be nothing. Could be everything. Radio’s not exactly chatty with the fine print.”

Sophie leaned closer, squinting at it. “Looks old. Older than this place, even. Think it’s tied to your folks?”

“Maybe.” He snapped it shut, the sound sharp in the quiet. “They were always chasing something—ghosts, legends, whatever. Guess I’m picking up where they left off.” He didn’t say the rest: that he hadn’t wanted this, that he’d spent years running from Hopeville’s ghosts, only to land right back in their lap.

Before Sophie could pry further, a knock rattled the front door. Ethan straightened, frowning. “We’re not open yet. Who’s that?”

Sophie hopped up, peering through a dusty window. “Big guy, sheriff vibes. Looks pissed.” She turned to Ethan with a mock salute. “Your VIP’s here, boss.”

“Great,” Ethan muttered, shoving the locket away. He crossed to the door and yanked it open, revealing a broad-shouldered man in a faded uniform—badge glinting, hat tipped back, eyes narrowed like he’d already decided Ethan was trouble. “Sheriff?”

“Close enough,” the man grunted. “Deputy Hank Grayson. You Ethan Ward?”

“Last I checked.” Ethan leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “What’s up?”

Grayson didn’t smile. “Heard you’re running this place now. Got complaints—noise last night, lights flickering, folks saying they saw shadows moving in here. You throwing parties, Ward, or just trying to spook the town?”

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Ethan kept his face blank, though his mind flashed to the theater’s shadow audience. “Just fixing it up. Old wiring, probably. You know how these places are.”

“Uh-huh.” Grayson’s gaze flicked past him, landing on Sophie, who waved cheerily from the counter. “And her?”

“Sophie Bennett, intern,” she called, unfazed. “Helping Mr. Ward bring some life back to Hopeville. Or, you know, death. Whatever sells tickets.”

Grayson’s jaw tightened. “Cute. Look, I don’t care what you’re selling, but keep it quiet. This town’s got enough problems without your ghost stories stirring things up.” He tipped his hat, a warning more than a goodbye, and trudged back to his cruiser parked at the gate.

Ethan shut the door, exhaling. “Friendly guy.”

“Total charmer,” Sophie said, hopping off the counter. “Think he knows something’s up?”

“Nah, just flexing. Small-town cop stuff.” Ethan rubbed his temples, the weight of the night catching up. “But he’s not wrong about stirring things up. We need to figure out what this place wants before it bites us harder.”

Sophie nodded, grabbing her notebook. “Okay, strategy time. We’ve got the key, the locket, and a radio with a mind of its own. Plus, forty bucks from yesterday. What’s next?”

“Keep the doors open, for one,” Ethan said. “If it’s tied to my parents, maybe the more people come through, the more we learn. Plus, cash doesn’t hurt.” He hesitated, then added, “And we dig. Old records, their stuff—anything they left behind.”

“Love a good treasure hunt.” Sophie scribbled furiously, then paused. “You think they’re… still out there? Your parents?”

Ethan didn’t answer right away. He stared at the office door, the radio’s silhouette faint through the crack. “Hope so,” he said finally, voice low. “But whatever’s calling me, it knows more than I do. And I’m not waiting for it to spill.”

The day passed in a blur of small crowds—teens daring each other, a few curious locals, even a guy in a Hawaiian shirt who asked if they sold popcorn. Sophie handled the front with relentless energy, spinning tales about the manor’s “haunted lady” that had half the visitors shrieking and the other half begging for selfies with the portrait. Ethan stuck to the shadows, guiding groups when he had to, but his mind was elsewhere—on the locket, the theater, the voice that wouldn’t let him go.

By dusk, they’d raked in another fifty bucks, and Sophie was counting it with a grin when Ethan slipped into the office. The radio sat silent, its dial still, but he could feel it watching. He rummaged through the desk—old receipts, a broken pen, a stack of yellowed papers—until his hand brushed something solid. A leather journal, tucked under a pile of junk, its cover stamped with his dad’s initials: J.W.

Ethan’s breath caught. He flipped it open, scanning the cramped handwriting. Dates, sketches, notes about “frequencies” and “thresholds”—gibberish, mostly, but one line stood out, underlined twice: The Haven’s alive. It chooses who hears.

“Ethan?” Sophie’s voice snapped him back. She leaned in the doorway, cash clutched in one hand. “You good?”

He shut the journal, nodding. “Yeah. Found something.” He held it up, the weight of it grounding him. “My dad’s. Might be answers.”

“Score!” Sophie stepped closer, then froze as the radio crackled to life. The static hissed, sharp and sudden, and that voice rolled out, colder than before. “The carousel spins for the lost,” it said. “Find them, Ethan.”

The static died, and Sophie let out a shaky laugh. “Round three already? This thing doesn’t mess around.”

Ethan gripped the journal, his jaw tight. “Neither do I. Let’s see what it’s got.” Whatever the Haven was playing at, he wasn’t backing down—not now, not with his dad’s words in his hands and the town breathing down his neck.