Page 3 of Property of Hayride
“We’ve got a copycat,” I murmur. “Shit.”
“Looks like it. You’ll need to tell all the members. This has to be contained. We don’t want to freak out the town or piss off the witches.”
Boomer is right.
If someone is picking up where the infamous serial killer Rayford Allen left off, we’ve got a big fucking problem.
Raven’s Crest is about to be famous again, and it won’t be for the thrills or Fear Farm.
It’ll be a killer and the hanging bodies that do it.
Chapter 1 Natalya
“Welcome to the Mayfield Inn.”
The woman who stands in front of me is doing her best to appear spooky and ethereal as she holds up a black iron lantern with long, slender fingers. The soft glow enhances the pale makeup and the dark circles around her eyes, adding to the sunken appearance and deathly pallor of her skin. She’s better at this than similar figures I’ve seen in town. I bet she airbrushed the skeletal details, including the appearance of teeth over her lips. Her long hair is left loose and flowing down her back, billowing with a cool, westerly breeze that seems to sweep over us from the nearby cornfields. A stray strand sticks to her eyelashes, but she doesn’t move it out of the way, continuing with her monologue as if she doesn’t notice it. The white gown she wears is tattered and worn, stopping mid-calf. I can see dirty tights on her legs. At one time, they must have been white. The only thing that doesn’t match are the black ankle boots, far too modern for the old nineteenth-century clothing.
Still, I like the vibe she’s giving off and appreciate her effort. I really hate going to haunted tours and finding the guides aren’t that into their jobs or don’t put much effort into it. If this is anything to judge by, I’ll have plenty of good things to say online when I write my review.
I split my attention between the young woman speaking of the historic hotel and the dark windows facing the front. There are thirteen floors, and every single one of them contains sixteen rooms. Two elevators are in operation, but one periodically short-circuits and freezes on random floors, according to the staff. The most common stops? Three, seven, and of course, thirteen.
My gaze sweeps over the dark interior of the hotel. During the tour, the lights are kept off, and the drapes are pushed open, allowing the moon to infiltrate the shadows. Candlelight is sparse and intentionally focused in prominent areas, but leaves plenty of dark corners, unlit closets, corridors, bedrooms, bathrooms, and the infamous ballroom.
That’s one of two places I want to visit. The ballroom and room 1307. The seventh and thirteenth floors have the most paranormal activity in the hotel, but according to the owners, the ghosts become more active as you increase the floor level.
I’m here to see that in action.
For fun, and because I can’t resist dragging my younger brother along, Thad gets to enjoy this experience with me.
A scowl draws his brows together as I glance his way, noticing the flicker of boredom as his lips thin into a line, devoid of his usually mischievous smile. “It doesn’t look haunted.”
About five years separate us, but sometimes, it feels like I’m a decade older. He’s always been the carefree type who doesn’t become concerned with following rules. A rebel through and through, but still, he’s caring. At least when it comes to family. And he’s loyal to his friends, sometimes to a fault. But Thad is the type of guy who’s willing to help anyone in need, even if it means yanking the shirt off his own back.
That’s one of the things I love most about him.
“That’s because we’re only standing outside.”
Thad gestures to the tour guide. “I saw the same dress last week while we shopped for Halloween costumes.”
My lips twitch with a smile, but I hold it back, trying not to snicker. “It’s historic night.”
My brother snorts, and the noise is loud enough to draw a few people’s annoyed stares. “You’re saying thehistoricold, haunted hotel has a rarehistorictour?”
“It’s a themed night,” I reply, a bit defensively, although I’m more amused than anything. “I thought it’d be fun.”
Thad shakes his head, doubting my words, but throws his arm around my shoulders. “Okay. We’ll have fun, Big Sis.”
“Look out for ghosts and share anything spooky.” He rolls his eyes. “I need to write a review for this tour. The owners paid me,” I remind him.
That’s not my only motivation, though, and my brother knows it. I’ve been obsessed with the Hillside Stalker ever since I learned about his murder spree in Ohio in the 70s, which included numerous deaths in Raven’s Crest. We’re staying at the Hanging Tree Dead & Breakfast because I can’t resist being close to where it all happened.
Thad is indulging me, and I love him for it.
“Yeah, I remember.” He rubs his knuckles over the top of my head, and I nearly squeal. Thad has about six inches of height over me, and I struggle to swat his hands away.
A light chuckle leaves his lips before he hugs me. “Shhh. You’re causing a scene.”
I want to smack him when I see the tour guide glaring at us.
