Chapter 3: Welcome to the Haunted Mansion

When I hopped into the back of Derek Mason’s stretch Lincoln, the driver sized me up like he was expecting me to swipe the silverware. He leaned out and grumbled to Derek, "Mr. Mason, you can’t be too careful. There are a lotta scammers out there."

Derek shot me a sheepish look, running his hand through his hair, apologetic.

I grinned back, unfazed. Hell, for thirty grand just to show up? I could take a little side-eye from a guy in a suit.

On the ride, Derek told me he’d tried everything to solve the bedroom mystery. Contractors, home inspectors, even a priest once, all under the pretense of renovations or repairs. Nobody found a thing.

Everyone chalked it up to a mix-up: maybe Derek just got the numbers wrong, maybe the blueprints were off, maybe somebody was secretly sharing a room. It always boiled down to human error.

Derek’s gaze darkened when he talked about it. It was clear he was hoping it was something more—something strange, something only the supernatural could explain.

I figured his house had to be huge—seven bedrooms just on the second floor? But even knowing that, the real thing surprised me.

The place sits on a wooded hillside outside Maple Heights, up a winding drive past iron gates. Past the gardens—neatly trimmed, with hydrangeas blooming everywhere—and a pool with a half-covered deck, you see the house: big, elegant, white as bone, with columns that look straight out of a southern novel.

Inside, everything is marble, brass, and sunlight. The whole house is built around a central spiral staircase, rooms radiating off in a circle like spokes on a wheel. It has that echoing quiet of old money. There’s a weathered "Welcome" mat at the front door, and just inside the foyer, a crystal bowl of peppermints sits on a side table—tiny, familiar touches that almost make the place feel like a real home, not a museum.

"Is the second floor laid out the same way?" I ask, pausing to take in the geometry.

Derek nods, checking his Apple Watch like he’s tracking a dozen deadlines. "I have a meeting soon. Ms. Harper, please wait in the sitting room. I’ll have the house manager take you upstairs."

He’s polite, but I can see the skepticism in his eyes. Maybe he thinks Mr. Harper is sending in a scout, just in case. Even if he doesn’t trust me, he keeps it civil.

I shrug, tossing my jacket over my arm. "Sure."

Suddenly, a door bangs open down the hall, spilling out four older folks in pastel cardigans, arguing about their Thursday-night bridge crew.

Derek greets them with the patient smile of a man used to family politics.

"Dad, Mom, Dad, Mom—you’re done playing?"

I size them up: two pairs of seniors, one set plump and round-faced, the other thin and sharp-eyed. All of them wear their judgment on their sleeves.

What surprises me is the icy reception Derek gets. The thin aunt cuts in with a cold, pointed glare: "Why are you bringing strangers into our home again? Emily picked this house. It’s not cursed."

Derek keeps his tone respectful. "It’s just for peace of mind before the renovations. Doesn’t hurt to double-check."

The other aunt—silver hair, gold cross necklace—gives me the kind of look people reserve for infomercial psychics. She turns to the house manager and says, voice raised so everyone hears, "If this is your idea of a blessing, I’m not reassured. House manager, see the guest out!"

The rest of the elders nod, their faces set in lines of impatience and disbelief.

One of the uncles starts hollering: "Manager! Manager!"

I clench my jaw, irritation prickling under my skin. I finally get a shot at making real money, and these people want to run me off before I’ve even started?

I close my eyes, centering myself like Dad taught me. When I open them, I lock onto the aunt with the gold cross. In the light, her brown eyes flash just a little too bright.

I let a slow smile spread across my face. "So it’s you. Don’t you remember me?"

She frowns, annoyed, ready to dismiss me. "What are you talking about? I don’t—"

She cuts herself off, her mouth snapping shut. She studies my face, confusion melting into dawning recognition, then suddenly she beams, loud enough for everyone to hear:

"Oh, it’s you!"

"Last time at church, there were so many people waiting for your blessing. I waited forever but never got a chance. I can’t believe you came to our home! Ma’am, could I please pay my respects to you today?"

Her hands tremble with excitement, eyes shining with tears. The other three stare, stunned. Her husband blurts out, "When did you go to church? Why didn’t I know?"

I just keep smiling, letting the mystery hang. It’s easy for me—Harper blood is thin, but there’s enough left to plant a simple false memory in the conscious mind. Real change is rare, but a quick flicker, a day’s worth of confusion? That, I can do.

Of course, these memories fade fast, and every use costs me. But for a shot at Derek’s $120,000, it’s worth the headache.

As the others watch in disbelief, the gold-cross aunt kneels before me, hands clasped. Once. Twice. Thrice. For a second, I almost pull away—this is way too much. But the Harper in me knows a good opening when I see it. I let her, accepting the gesture with a solemn nod, like some old-school preacher.

Derek stands to the side, jaw slack, completely thrown.