Hidden

A thick plume of smoke eerily drifted through the atrium of Hank's House of Horror. I really needed to open a window, put out my joint, and get ready for any guests that might arrive. It was Saturday, October 17th, and even this shitty, second-rate haunted house was likely to attract some visitors. People were desperate for cheap thrills, and Hank's was certainly cheap. I suppose it looked haunted, but this was mostly because it was poorly maintained rather than through any deliberate action from its absent owners. I was their sole employee, hired every September 15th through exactly 11:59 on Halloween night for three years running. I only did the job—showing giddy and usually lost tourists around the house each evening and spending the bare minimum of effort to make sure that it didn't collapse—as a sort of détente with the owners. They wanted nothing to do with the property and couldn't sell it for a reasonable price, and I needed a place to stay. I lived in Hank's year-round in exchange for a month and a half of work.

Anyone seeking real Halloween entertainment in our quaint (read: forgotten) New England town would be wise to go to The Widow's Serpent or Houdini's Hideaway, both professionally staffed and maintained. Hank's made its meager money on tourists that were too cheap, too lost, or too stupid to realize the difference. Nonetheless, every evening at 8:00 for a month and a half I led a tour of somewhere between none and fifteen thrill-seekers through our house full of creaky doors, fake screams, broken mirrors, puttering fog machines, and cobwebs that were sadly real.

As my smoke cleared and I closed the window, I noticed a larger-than-usual crowd waiting for a tour. Perhaps twenty lost souls stood outside the rusted-out mailbox waiting for their evening to begin. So much for a quick, easy in-and-out. I was supposed to count heads, but since there were usually so few, I just made sure that everyone paid the $5 entrance fee and began the over-rehearsed tour. I may be a lot of things, but a thief isn't one of them. I shoved the cash in a rusty tin and sent the full intake to the owners every month; I just didn't really care if it was accurate.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please hold your belongings tight and step onto the porch of Hank's House of Horror," I stopped to cough. "Few know the legend of Henry Wainscott, the 18th-century barrister whose ghost still haunts the walls of his once grand estate." What a bunch of bullshit. Hank Waters was a 20th-century drunk child of a heroin dealer who overdosed and died alone in the bathtub after his parents went to prison. The property was turned over to the state and bought at auction by the aforementioned owners, whom I had only talked to once a year on the phone.

"Even to this day, Henry, or Hank to his many friends, is seen in shadows roaming the halls searching for the servant who poisoned his drink. Beware, good travelers, if the ghost of Hank thinks that any of you appear as his servant, you may hear his wrath." More likely it would be the portable Bluetooth speakers placed around the house and activated by an app on my phone. "Step behind me into the atrium and breathe in the lingering stench of death." Or my weed, if I didn't sufficiently clear it out.

"Remember, guests, that the 'atrium' is also a chamber of the heart. If you are perfectly still, you may hear the faint beating of Mr. Wainscott's long-dead heart." A few of the party looked around; fewer still stood in place. No one looked the least bit impressed. "Now, follow me from the atrium into the room of self-reflection." I led the party into a large, cobweb-infested room filled with broken mirrors. The wooden floorboards creaked, causing a few exaggerated gasps from younger members.

"Legend has it that Mr. Wainscott was a most vain man, and could be seen looking in his many mirrors at all hours of the day." I noticed that near the back of the group, one shy-looking woman was purposefully avoiding any sight of herself in the mirrors. An oddity, as most guests pose and make goofy smiles at themselves. She wouldn't be the first oddball I'd given a tour to.

"Now, once you have avoided the threat of vanity, follow me up the stairs to Mr. Wainscott's bedroom." I heard a few guests grumble and overheard one guy say to someone who was probably his wife, "I'm sorry, I'll get tickets for Houdini's tomorrow. I'll order them early."

I couldn't blame them. I ascended the stairs, knowing which of the steps creaked the loudest, and made sure to put the most weight on each stair. The party crowded into the tiny bedroom. "To this day, we do not know where dear Henry passed. Many believe it to be in the very bed before you, while others think he felt the poison and ran to the lavatory." I motioned to a small bathroom with rusty pipes and pressed the button on my phone for a fake scream coming from the shower's Bluetooth speaker.

"But we should not linger here; the ghost may become upset. Follow me through the secret passage and into the library." A swing-away bookshelf that seemed straight out of a Scooby-Doo episode allowed us entry into a secluded library. Once everyone was inside, I stood behind a large podium. "Mr. Wainscott would often rehearse his closing remarks at this very podium." I reached inside the podium and produced a scroll as if to read such remarks. While reaching inside the cavernous podium, I pressed a button that set off the fog machine. Soon the guests, including the shy girl, were surrounded in a thick fog. "If the legend is true, his closing remarks were able to shroud the truth of any case in a thick, dense fog, much like now surrounds you all." I must have pressed the fog button twice by accident. It was extra thick. Several guests coughed. I put the scroll back, hoping that nobody pointed out that scrolls were not used for hundreds, if not thousands, of years before our ghost's time.

"Now we descend the back staircase into the dining room." Again, creaky stairs and cobwebs. "Notice the place setting, which includes both an oversized knife and a mallet for cracking the claws of crustaceans. Or could they perhaps be set for defensive purposes?" Clearly no one was buying any of this, and I was thankful the exit was not far away. But where was the shy girl? I had not seen her since the fog covered her.

"I have but one more room to show you myself. The kitchen. The very room in which the servant allegedly made the poison that took dear Henry's life." We huddled in the kitchen and I pressed for another fake scream coming from below the floorboards. "Yes, you hear correctly, the basement is directly below the kitchen and accessible only through the door in the back corner. I myself will not venture to go down those stairs, but if any brave soul wishes to do so, you may." In truth, I slept in the basement, but it only consisted of a small futon in a dark corner. Occasionally some guest, usually trying to impress his girlfriend, would go to the basement. Tonight, thankfully, none did.

"As we walk through our final room, the living room, you may notice a faint odor. Many say that it is the smell of death, others of regret, but let me leave you with this thought: what does it mean to truly live? Is a ghost a living being, or is it the aftermath of an unfinished life?" I made this last part up. The smell was really the remains of my fish sandwich from lunch, and I needed to distract them.

"Now, my friends, we find ourselves back in the atrium." I played a faint thumping beat that was supposed to sound like a heart through a hidden speaker. "Unless there are any questions, I bid you a good and safe evening." I prayed for there to be no questions, and even opened the door to hurry them out. Still no sign of the shy young woman. Had I imagined her?

The guests left, I rolled another joint, and went to the basement to enjoy the silence. Peace, thank God. That crowd was the largest yet of the season, and we were two weeks away from Halloween. I lit a candle and read a chapter of The Long Goodbye and fell asleep.

I was awakened by the sound of what seemed like a babbling female voice. Faint enough to not be alarming, but present enough to pull me out of a peaceful sleep. More troublesome, it appeared to be coming from somewhere in the house. I picked up a flashlight and went in search of the mystery voice. Nothing on the first floor, so I climbed the creaky staircase to the second. Yes, the voice was louder. And scared. Certainly even a trespasser would not be scared of this cheap house of tricks. Was it some local kid who snuck in and got stuck on a busted step?

I followed it into the bathroom, and heard the voice more clearly from behind the fake-blood-stained curtain.

"No, no, I'll be better, I promise. No, please don't, I never meant to..." it went on and on. Holding my flashlight like a weapon, I pulled back the shower curtain. Curled up, lying in the tub, sleeping, was the shy girl from the tour. She kept right on babbling, talking in her sleep to some unknown predator. I shined my flashlight directly on her. Nothing. So I gently nudged her.

She startled, froze, and stared directly at me, eyes full of fear. She was by most accounts a quite attractive woman. Thin, fair-skinned, wearing tight blue jeans and a black turtleneck, with a soft face and long, straight chestnut hair. I noticed a bruise on her right eye. She was undoubtedly the shy girl from the tour.

"I'm sorry, don't hurt me," she said, recoiling as I looked her over.

"I'm not going to hurt you. But what are you doing here?"

"I'm Gaby. I was on the tour. You were the tour guide, weren't you?"

"Yes. And I can tell you're gabby; you were talking in your sleep. But you didn't answer my question: what are you doing here?"

"You know my name? Dammit, they're looking for me already."

I was thoroughly confused.

"What? How would I know your name? And who's looking for you?"

"I told you my name. Gaby. So, they're not looking for me?"

This was way more than I bargained for when I took this job.

"Okay, got it, your name is Gaby, you just talk in your sleep a lot. And someone is looking for you?"

"I hope not. Not yet anyway." She sat up in the tub. "Look, I know this is weird, but I need a place to hide."

"To hide? Are you on the run from the law or something?"

"No, a boyfriend. A bad one. I need to get away from him."

"He gave you... that?" I motioned to her bruised eye.

"Among other things. Look, I just need a place to hide until this blows over. I can't go to my parents', they think he's perfect and will take his side. I can't go to like a shelter or he'll find me. I just need to not be found."

"Right. But there are a few issues with staying here."

"Like what? I mean, isn't this kind of the perfect place? I mean, no offense, but it's not exactly a hot spot. It's dark, has plenty of places to hide, and nobody is going to suspect it."

She had a point. Hell, I could die in the basement and nobody would probably notice until next Halloween season.

"Okay, good points. But for one thing, I bring a tour group through here every night. Second, you talk in your sleep. Third, what about food, a change of clothes, whatever kind of stuff you need? We don't exactly have a gift shop."

She thought these things through. "Okay first, and again, no offense, but that tour? It's ridiculous. I can easily stay out of the way of that. Second... talking in my sleep. Yeah, that's a bad habit. Is there somewhere more secluded I could sleep? Maybe my voice could even enhance 'the legend of Henry Wainscott' or whatever. And, food. Well, I haven't figured that out. I guess I could drink water from these rusty pipes—is it real rust, or do you just decorate it?"

"It's real. But I drink the water. It seems safe." I hope.

"I'm not exactly floating in cash, but I can muster some up. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, but I can smuggle you in some food. Not forever. Just until you can safely get out of here."

"Thanks. I'll pay you back. I've got money, my family's loaded. I just can't access it while I'm in hiding."

"Got it. Look, it's like 3 in the morning. I need some sleep."

"You live here?"

"In the basement."

"Wow. Okay, maybe we can talk in the morning?"

"Yeah, but don't sleep in that cold, shitty bathtub. Come downstairs. I'll fix something up for you."

"Thanks, that's really sweet of you. Hey, what's your name? Or should I just call you Hank?"

"Ha ha. It's Milo."

Gaby made her way to the basement. I went to the attic, probably the scariest room in the house, but not on the tour. The Wainscotts were hoarders, and the attic was filled with a massive array of mostly useless shit. In previous years I used to earn some money during the off-season by playing gigs at The Crooked Clam. But they went under, and now I make spending cash by selling off shit from the Wainscotts' attic to a local pawn shop. I was pretty sure there was a mattress up there somewhere that Gaby could use. It probably smelled like mothballs, but it was better than a hard floor. I could find a few blankets, too.

Within ten minutes Gaby had a makeshift bed. In order to keep it out of sight in case some showy tourist came downstairs, I laid it fairly close to my futon. Now if she just wouldn't babble all night, we could get some sleep.

"Thanks, Milo. I really appreciate what you're doing for me."

Her face glowed in the candlelight. I could see that she came from money. More importantly, I could see her sincerity. A commodity Hank's desperately lacked.

We slept until 9; she was out cold and didn't speak a word. I hadn't slept near a woman in years. I forgot how they stretched and turned, their cute little sighs as they woke up. I might actually enjoy having a roommate.

"Gaby," I nudged her awake.

"Alright, hang on," she mumbled, half asleep, "can you please try to be gentle this time?"

I shook her harder. "Hey."

"Oh, shit. Right. Sorry."

"Is that how he treats you?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Man, I can put up with a lot of bullshit, but an abusive boyfriend I'm not going to stand for.

"I'm going to go into town. I'll bring you back some food. Anything else you need?"

"No, but thank you. You're really thoughtful." Having slept and rubbed off her makeup, her black eye was even more obvious. I tried not to stare. What a creep.

"Alright, well, I'll be back in a bit. Maybe just stay down here. If someone's looking for you, you don't want to be seen through a window. Even if they're covered in cobwebs and broken." She smiled and curled back up under her blanket.

Sunday mornings in town are generally quiet. The faithful frequent their quaint little colonial churches, most tourists try to get out of town as quickly as possible, and a few of us locals often descend on the local bakery and coffee spot, Magoo's.

"Hey Marty, can I get my usual?" Fellow stoner Marty worked the register on weekends. He grabbed me a blueberry donut and an empty paper cup for the self-serve coffee station. "Hey, you know what, make it two donuts. Bigger crowd last night." As if this required an extra donut.

"You got it, man." He handed me a second, wrapped in a napkin. "Seen the news?"

"No, there's news?"

"Some rich chick got lost. Her family's loaded and her boyfriend thinks she might be in town. Said he last saw her on a tour bus. He got off to go to The Widow's Serpent, thought she was with him, but wasn't. He's raising royal hell, but the police won't do anything for 48 hours. Mom and Dad put up a $50k reward if anyone finds her."

"No shit," I squeezed the second donut. "Any theories?"

"Some are saying she drowned. Others that she skipped town."

"So why does anyone think she's here?"

"Last place anybody saw her. And she's kinda hard to miss. Check her out." Marty pulled out a poster. Damn, she was beautiful. The poster had a picture of her standing in front of a tree, all dolled up. Above her picture was her name, "Gaby Anderson, 29," and below it, "Last seen October 17th, $50,000 reward if found." "You want a copy? They gave me a whole stack."

"No, man, I'm good." I refilled my hastily drained coffee cup, took my extra donut, and left.

$50k was more than I'd make in, well, ever. I was sitting on a brown-haired gold mine. Plus, giving her up quickly meant no trouble from her asshole boyfriend, her parents, or the cops. Was I technically harboring a fugitive?

I made it back to Hank's unsure what I would do. But first, even a fugitive needs sustenance. I went downstairs, found her reading my book, and handed her my refilled coffee and the donut.

"Miss Anderson."

"Shit. I made the news?"

"You did. People suspect you're in town. Your picture's in every window."

"Dammit. Please tell me you didn't say anything?" She was pleading.

"A $50k secret is tough to keep."

"Fuck. My parents put up reward money?"

"Please, I can't go back to him. Or my parents. I'll do anything." She looked me over. "Anything."

I may be broke, but I'm not an asshole. She'd been taken advantage of enough already.

"What's your exit strategy? You can't hide here forever."

"I know. I just need to make it past Halloween."

"What, you turn into a witch at midnight or something?"

"No, I turn 30. Look, I'm not proud of it, but I'm a trust fund baby. My money's tied up until I reach the age of 30. That's November 1st. If I can make it till then, I can get away with millions. Buy a car and drive West, start a new life. I'll give you far more than $50,000."

"Okay, one problem. November 1st is a Sunday. Banks are closed."

"No problem, everything's digital. I can transfer the money into my account at 12:01 and be gone in no time."

"Okay, but do you have a smartphone? To make the transfer?"

"No, I threw it in the ocean so they couldn't ping me. I was hoping they'd think I drowned."

"That is one theory I heard."

"Could I use yours? I know all of my account numbers. I've got a photographic memory. I'll just use your phone, log in to my accounts, transfer the money, and some will be immediately available on my debit card until I get a new phone, which I'll do, well, somewhere far from here."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out."

"Cornell education. Admitted to and paid for courtesy of Mr. Anderson, Class of 1985."

"So... not to sound selfish, but how do I get my cut? I'm giving up $50k for this."

"Simple, give me your account number, I'll transfer in $100k."

"Do I look like I own a bank account?"

"Seriously? Okay. I'll figure something out. Trust me. Just keep me hidden for two weeks and you'll be rewarded."

"That's a lot of trust."

"I'll make it worth your while. And, by the way, thanks for breakfast."

"Don't mention it. Ever."

Am I cut out for this shit? I can't even hold a real job, or pay a bill. I'm 31 and never had a bank account. Hell, I've never had anything. I guess you could say I suddenly have a sense of purpose, but, shit, I wouldn't trust myself with this kind of responsibility. A sure $50k might be a lot better than a shaky $100k. Sometimes having a heart sucks.

I wandered around town for the afternoon, gleaning what information I could. Gaby's picture was everywhere, and our town full of nosy neighbors allowed the theories to germinate and grow. Good, the more wrong leads the better. Just do what you do best, ignore Hank's.

I stopped by a street vendor and got four lobster rolls. They were easy to disguise, even if a lukewarm lobster roll isn't optimal. I managed to get a gallon of iced tea as well. I might have looked suspicious. Thankfully, I don't attract a lot of looks.

I brought home lunch, or possibly dinner, and sat with Gaby. She devoured the sandwiches. I took my time. When I offered her tea, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to get cups. I let Gaby use the leftover coffee cup and I drank from the jug.

"Where are you from, anyway?" I asked.

"The city. The asshole works on Wall Street and I'm doing an apprenticeship in being a submissive housewife. Hardly my grand plan. I grew up in White Plains. You?"

"Believe it or not, I grew up in this town. Only a few hundred can say that, and we're generally not proud to do so. Even my folks and younger brother moved to a suburb outside of Boston."

"Why did you stay?"

"A woman. High school girlfriend. We shared a lack of ambition. Were happy for a while. I played folk music for cash and she waited tables. Then fentanyl claimed its first local victim. I'd always been the black sheep, no reason to change. This is home."

"Hank's House of Horror is your year-round home?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I guess there is something scary about it," she looked at me and gave a pitiful smile.

"Fuck, it's almost eight. I'm on duty. Okay, stay put. I'll try to make sure nobody comes downstairs."

"What if they do?"

"Shit, I don't know, say you're Henry Wainscott's dead ex-girlfriend or something."

"Right. Got it."

There were only three guests waiting by the rusty mailbox. Three more than most Sunday nights. I took their money and hurried them through the tour. Atrium, blah blah, hall of mirrors, creaky staircase, blah blah, bedroom, ugly bathroom, fake scream, fake bookcase, library, dense fog, bullshit speech from podium, down staircase, kitchen, knife/mallet, dare of basement, no takers, atrium, fake beating heart, and, no questions, done. Whew!

I gave a run-through of the house, making sure nothing seemed suspicious. As usual, nothing was out of place, and by 9:30 I was on my futon next to a dozing Gaby. A hit of weed and my weekend was done.

"Yes, yes, of course I will. Don't be mean. Alright, alright," Gaby was talking in her sleep. In fact, she was doing more than talking. Eyes closed, she began rubbing my crotch. Whoa... was she really asleep?

"Uh, Gaby?"

She kept babbling and rubbing.

"Hey!" I shook her. She opened her eyes and startled.

"What? Hey, I was having a good dream."

Hey, this wasn't my doing. "Yeah, I gather that." I looked down at her freely placed hand.

"Oh. Shit. I'm sorry. I do some crazy things when I'm asleep. More than just talk, I've heard."

"Yeah, I can see that. How about we get back to some actual sleep?"

"I'll move my mattress over a bit."

"Cool."

"Hey, Milo?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. You know, for stopping me."

It wasn't easy. I'm not exactly swimming in women, and Hank's doesn't make much of a bachelor pad. So far I've turned down $50k and a blowjob. I don't know if I'm growing or just stupid.

We were both awake by 9:00. "Did you, uh, sleep well?"

"Honestly, I had the best night's sleep that I've had in a long time. Even with the slight interruption. Oddly enough, I actually had a dream that I was enjoying fooling around. With my boyfriend, I hate it."

"If it happens again, I'll try to stop you sooner."

"Thanks. But... I might surprise you." She gave me a wink.

Well, okay then!

Monday was a Monday. A hungover town with a noticeably cooler temperature. I got a library card, an actual symbol of adult life, and checked out a variety of books for Gaby to occupy her time with. Tacos were cheap if not easy to carry without attracting attention. The signs for Gaby were still posted, but the excitement seemed to have wound down. There were no guests awaiting a tour and Gaby and I quietly read, occasionally stealing a glance at each other. The candle burned out by 10 p. m., and we fell asleep.

"Oh, oh, no, please," Gaby's voice woke me up. This wasn't her usual sleep-talk cadence. Was she testing me?

"Gaby?"

She turned the flashlight on and shined it up at her face. "Boo!"

"Even better than the fake scream in the shower speaker."

"I'm bored and can't sleep."

"What time is it?"

"How should I know?" Good point; I usually just used the clock on my phone.

"Well, um, are there any activities you're proposing?"

"Mm-hmm. And I'll be awake the whole time."

She took off her shirt, then her bra. I removed my shirt. Before I knew it, her jeans were off and she was kicking off her panties. She climbed on top of me and guided my cock inside her. She rode, slowly, gently, her back arched back so I could see her perfect tits. On and on she rode, breathing heavy, trying to stifle moans. As soon as I came, she climaxed as well with a loud shriek.

"You know, sex can be kind of fun with the right person," she said, climbing off of me and back to her mattress.

"Yeah, I'll say. What inspired that?"

"You're a good guy, Milo. And I've only got 12 days left with you."

12 days. Does that mean I'm getting laid every day? Is this some kind of way of ensuring that I keep her secret? Hey, I'm in. But... 12 days. It was 14. That's two days down, more than 48 hours. Fuck. Gaby was officially missing.

This point was made even more clear when a loud knock rattled the front door at 9 a. m. The police. Shit, stay calm. I pulled on my shirt and answered the door.

"Morning. Detective Watson from Metro PD." Watson? Seriously? And Metro? I think we're quite micro.

"What can I do for you?"

"You live here?"

"Yeah."

"You sure about that?" I could see why it was a bit unbelievable.

"Yes. I do the tours. The owners let me stay and keep the place up."

Watson looked at Hank's deteriorating condition. "Doesn't look like you're doing your job."

"It's a haunted house. It's supposed to look like this."

"Right." He was unconvinced. "Have you seen this woman?" He showed me another picture of Gaby. This one was a different pose, a fall day in a park. Still stunning.

"No. I heard about her. Seems like the whole town has. But no, I've not seen her."

"You live here by yourself?" Give me a break. This guy was as much of a showboat phony as me giving a tour.

"Yeah, just me."

"Mind if I come in?" What? No way was he onto me.

"Yeah, I mind. This place is full of tripwires, hideaways, machinery, sharp objects. Entry is strictly for tour guests."

"And you."

"Yes."

At last he seemed resigned.

"So, you all have any leads or anything?"

"Boyfriend said she must have stayed on the bus when he got off. This was the next stop."

Shit. I see the interest.

"But I don't see some Ivy League trust fund girl taking up residence here."

Hey, man, that's my... well, my midnight hookup you're discussing.

"Right. I'll keep an eye out though."

"Thanks. Here's my card. Any leads, day or night. And you heard about the reward?"

"Yeah, $50 grand."

"It's up to a hundred now."

"I will most definitely keep my eye out."

He nodded and walked off the creaky porch.

Fuck. I was looking more suspicious. I shouldn't have said that about the house having hideaways. And $100k now? What stoner would turn that down? One who could buy himself less suspicion by doing so.

I reported the news to Gaby. She wasn't surprised. This was the next stop and her parents would probably keep going higher with the reward.

"Look, whatever they offer, I'll give you double. And I'll fuck your brains out every night, I promise."

"Hey, don't do that. I won't turn down the money. Well, or the brain-fucking. But the latter is at your discretion. It's not payment."

"Good. That just makes me want to do it more."

Sometimes having a big heart is a good thing.

And so that night, after giving a tour to one bored teenager, Gaby and I went right to it. I took her from behind, massaging her breasts with one hand and her clit with the other. I didn't last long and she seemed happy. We read until the candle burned out and woke to Wednesday the 21st. Ten more days.

I spent Wednesday morning rummaging through the attic in search of items to pawn. I took two wooden wheels, seemingly designed for some bizarre stagecoach, my usual plethora of probably cheap jewelry, an old pipe, and some piece of art by an artist I'd never heard of. I kept a shopping cart next to the house for my weekly outings, further solidifying my image as a homeless indigent. Before leaving, I checked in on Gaby. She was just finishing a library book and looked better than before, especially since her black eye had almost completely faded. I gave her a peck on the cheek. It seems proper if you're fucking someone else's girlfriend nightly that you should at least give her a peck. She looked happy.

"Heading into town. Anything I can get you?"

"Actually, yes, if it's not too much trouble. Can you exchange these books for some new ones? And..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I kind of miss having clean underwear. Maybe some panties?"

"I will try to do so without looking suspicious. No promises."

"Also... I hate to ask for too much. But I'd love to have my own toothbrush. And body wash. And maybe a towel?"

"I'll do my best." Harboring a fugitive was becoming very domestic.

I pushed my cart into town. The haul for my junk was way higher than anticipated—$600, my best trip ever. Not bad for selling other people's junk. Next stop, the library, returning four books—Gaby was a voracious reader. The real challenge still loomed. The toothbrush was simple. Body wash? I was out of my element. I felt like I was choosing ice cream flavors. I settled on a mango-coconut bottle. I even manned up and grabbed a package of panties and made my way to the register.

"That all?" asked the clueless cashier.

"Yeah, that's it." Please let that be it.

"$21.57."

Okay, fair enough. I handed him a 20 and two ones and told him to keep the change. He looked befuddled. Nobody either paid with cash or said "keep the change."

On my way home, pushing my shopping cart, now full of actual things I wanted, I tried to linger near some of the Cornell sweatshirts.

"If you ask me, he was beating her. She's gone, never gonna find her." Yes, go with that.

"We're not stopping until we turn this shit town upside down." Hey, only locals can call us a shit town. And it's been upside down for years.

Detective Watson spotted me. "Still no luck?" I asked.

"Nothing. But these kids are hardcore. You might get a larger-than-usual tour group some night."

"Thanks for the heads-up."

Some loudmouth with a bullhorn was trying to direct various factions of the search party, ordering them in different directions. I wondered if he could be the asshole boyfriend. Or if he was somewhere in the crowd.

I picked up some subs and headed back home. Gaby was waiting patiently.

"How'd you do? Am I in fresh panties?"

"You're in luck."

"Thank God. I think you might be appreciative, too." She winked at me. Honestly, there had been a bit of an aroma down there.

She wolfed down her sub like a starving woman.

"Hey, I've gotta warn you," I said, lighting a joint. "There are, like, search parties out there looking for you. Lots of Cornell sweatshirts. They seem ruthless. They might even come here for a tour and snoop. Want a hit?"

"I was afraid of that. No thanks."

"Your asshole boyfriend... should I be worried? What's he look like?"

She sighed. "He looks harmless. Like someone you'd want to be friends with. He didn't go to Cornell—too snooty for that. He's an MIT grad, and proud of it. Now some financial whiz on the Street. Short dark hair, a little premature gray. Average build. About 6-foot."

"Sounds like an everyman."

"And, this." She pulled out two rings from her pocket. One with a gigantic and gorgeous rock on it, the other gold with an infinity symbol.

"Wait, you're married?"

"No, engaged, though not officially," she hung her head. "He doesn't want to make it official until he throws a big garden party and gets on a knee."

"But the rings?"

"I wear both around my neck. Or did. He has a matching wedding band, and always wears it as a necklace."

"Okay, at least one distinguishing feature."

"He's also obsessed with Richard Nixon. God only knows why. But every Halloween he wears that stupid mask."

"Good to know."

"Hey, is it safe to take a shower? I mean, that bathroom upstairs...?"

"Yeah, it's fine. The blood's fake, the rust is real, but it should work."

"Mind if I partake?"

"No, go ahead. But let me come with you. Just in case anyone comes to the door. I'll act like it was me showering."

"You know, you could just join me." That Cornell education gave her some good ideas.

"Fuck, I forgot the towel."

"Looks like we're sharing that, too."

In no time we were stripped bare and in the rust-covered, fake-blood-smeared shower together. Despite the ambiance, it was a treat. We washed each other's bodies, paying special attention to certain areas. I got an amazing handjob complete with a totally unexpected prostate massage. Her tits, ass, and crotch were exceptionally clean, and we both smelled of mango and coconut. After rinsing off the fruity body wash, we towel-dried each other and she immediately brushed her teeth. Then she put on her new panties, followed by jeans, and left her top off while her hair dried naturally. She was one fine-looking woman.

We returned to the basement and she read a true crime novel. At 7:30, I noticed some Cornell sweatshirts meandering out front. The basement might be a bad place for her. Only one way in or out, and these guys looked like they'd snoop everywhere.

"Gaby, the tour's about to start. The search party is on it. They'll be looking. Let's find better cover."

"Right. How about the shower? Tell them the bathroom's off-limits."

Good plan. I put a rope across the bathroom entrance and she hid in the shower. Even if someone went downstairs, having a futon and a mattress wasn't weird enough to raise suspicion. I thought we were covered.

I greeted the guests. Ten, possibly a Wednesday record; half appeared to be from the search party. No boyfriend present, though. Okay, Milo, be your normal shitty tour guide.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, ushering them across the creaky porch and into the atrium. I rambled through my speech. Two search party members inspected the room for any secret hideouts. Then to the hall of mirrors. Vanity should be right up these assholes' alley. The full group grumbled, half from an unfound woman, half from boredom.

Up the creaky staircase and into the bedroom. I added, "Horrors so unspeakable have taken place in the bathroom that it is strictly off-limits." I motioned to the rope. A crewcut in a Cornell sweatshirt still stuck his head inside.

"Then why is the floor wet?"

Fuck. Didn't catch that. "It is said that Mr. Wainscott's ghost still visits to try to wash himself free of the poison."

"Oh, bullshit," and Crewcut went over the rope and pulled back the shower curtain. We were fucked.

Or were we? I cringed, but nothing happened. Crewcut came out looking angry, but empty-handed. Gaby wasn't there. Where had she gone?

I swung the fake bookshelf to many eye-rolls and entered the library. Made my way to the podium, and a scroll was magically placed in my hands as the fog started filling the room. Clever, Gaby was inside the podium. I stood to read my fake closing argument from the scroll as my zipper was pulled open. Gaby, Jesus, the goal is not to be caught. But my cock was in her hidden mouth just as my speech began.

"Good jurors," good God, her lips felt good, "the man before you today has been clearly shown to—" ah, God, what skills—"to, ah, have stolen due asSETS—" I grimaced—"from the defendants—" more fog—"and I urge—" oh, I was close, I had to catch my breath—"I urge you to FIND the, uh, plaintiff—" my balls tightened—"I mean defendant, fuck!—ah, guilty on all counts!" I burst in her mouth, hunching over the podium to catch my breath and compose myself. Gaby pushed my cock back inside my pants and closed the zipper. Another cloud of fog.

"Now, hurry, my friends, the ghost is angry and just behind us." I had to get them past the podium without looking inside. "Go, go on now," I motioned them past me and down the back staircase. Just get through the kitchen, the atrium, and get them out.

"And where do these stairs lead?"

"Ah, a good eye, my friend. The basement is perhaps the most demonic place of all. I warn you not to enter." Crewcut and a friend ignored my warning. A few minutes later they returned, unimpressed.

"Mr. Wainscott likes crime novels and futons?"

"Oh, fuck off, I live here, okay? You want your money back?"

"No, you look like you could use it."

"My heart is overflowing," I played the fake heartbeat. Atrium, questions? None. "And a good evening to all."

"That's Christmas, douchebag."

Whew, close call, but they were gone. Suspicious of nothing except Hank's House of Horror. I went upstairs to the podium, reaching inside. "Alright, the coast is clear." I lit up and took a long drag.

"For once, that wasn't a totally lame tour, Milo."

"Yeah, I think you spiced it up. Maybe don't do that again."

"What, you no like?"

"Oh, I liked."

"Well, somebody's got a clean crotch and fresh panties, so maybe you want to return the favor?"

"You're on." We went to the basement; she stripped and lay on her mothball-scented mattress—an odd pairing for mango-coconut pussy, but, okay.

I ran my tongue up her thigh and into her folds. Gently teasing her with little flicks but avoiding her clit. My mouth covered her and my tongue probed her slit. I lapped up her sweet juices. After tracing her labia, I swiped up her clit. She gasped. Then I backed away only to return again. She squirmed and begged, and I licked her clit harder until her back arched, she gripped my ears, and let out a scream. I kissed her lovely folds goodnight, and fell asleep next to her.

We were settling into a domestic routine already. Thursday the 22nd I woke to a hard cock and Gaby's lips around it. I took no time to cum as she cupped my balls, swallowed, and asked what was on the day's agenda. Hiding? Procuring food? Watching her reward money rise? Fucking? It sounded like I was living the life of a squirrel.

We ate dinner by candlelight.

"So what's your plan after you get out of here anyway?" I asked.

"I thought I'd go somewhere that nobody would bother looking for me. Wichita, maybe."

"And do what?"

"Be myself, mostly. Not some heiress to an estate or a trophy wife. I always loved books, majored in English in college. If I could do anything, I think I'd love to teach kids to enjoy literature. Help them feel the passion that I felt when reading Jane Austen or Thomas Pynchon. My family would lose their shit if their daughter took such a 'pedestrian' job. But I think being an English teacher would make me happy."

"I never paid attention to much of anything in school. But I don't know that I ever had a passionate English teacher, either. I imagine it's kinda hard work, isn't it?"

"Hey, not all of us richies are spoiled rotten. I'm the one who chose this place, remember? Not the easiest decision. If I can manage that, I think I can roll my sleeves up and do a real job."

"Would you keep your name?"

"Hell no. I'd change it so nobody could find me. New SSN, new everything. Hell, I might even go blonde."

"You know your reward is up to 250?"

"I figured. Controlling someone's life is worth a lot."

"Why do they want you to marry that asshole anyway?"

"Oh, he talks a good talk. That's almost the worst part—everybody loves him. Comfortable in a dive bar or a boardroom. Plus, you know—good stock, comes from a good family, will make good babies. Take good care of me, I'll never have to work a day in my life."

"Doesn't sound terrible."

"Not if you want to be respected. Not as Mrs. So-and-So, but as yourself."

"I guess I never cared about being respected."

"You seem pretty carefree in general. I like that about you."

"Shit just doesn't bother me, I guess."

"Doesn't it seem like you're missing something, though? Like some great purpose?"

"I never thought of a purpose until now. Hiding you, keeping you safe. It's like the first real purpose my life's ever had."

"How does it make you feel?"

I had to think. "Well, a little less safe myself. But still like maybe there's more I could be doing with my life."

"Such as...?"

"I don't know. Like guarding people. Not like physically. But like recognizing that people can get hurt, and making things happen that keep them from being hurt."

"Yeah, I'd say that's you."

"It's getting dark. You gonna be okay in the basement tonight?"

"Probably. I wish we had a secret signal or something."

"Secret signal. Yeah, like a warning."

"Exactly."

"Okay, I've got an extra Bluetooth speaker. I'll set it up down here."

"What will the signal be?"

"How about Richard Nixon's voice saying, 'I am not a crook'?"

"Ha! I love it. So if I hear that, I'll leave the basement."

"And go where?"

"I'll hide in the mirror room. You'll be past that quickly, and there should be plenty of mirrors to hide behind."

"It's a plan."

The tour went smoothly that night. Only four dissatisfied customers. Then a hot missing woman to have sex with. The routine became a ritual. A daily walk about town to check the vibe, enough lunch for two with leftovers, a lousy tour, some reading, some increasingly hot sex. It was steady—a quietly beating heart and domestic tranquility. Harboring a fugitive may have actually been my calling. Before we knew it, a week had gone by, and it was Thursday the 29th.

Halloween was two days away, and our town was coming to life. Orange and black decorations were everywhere, pumpkins and black cats adorned every shop window along with Gaby's picture and reward announcement, now at $500,000. I needed to do some reconnaissance. First to Magoo's.

"Hey, Marty. Got my usual?"

"Out of blueberry today. Tourists and searchers. How about cranberry?"

"Yeah, that'll work," I took a cup and filled my coffee. "The search party hasn't died down?"

"Far from it. Not just a $500k reward, but a deadline."

"What? Deadline?"

"You need to get out more, man. Yeah, word is that she turns 30 on Sunday, and with it gets access to like $10 million or some crazy amount. If they don't get her by then, she'll be long gone." Fuck, everyone knew about the trust fund. And 10 mil? Damn, this chick's family must have really been loaded.

"Can't they just contact the bank? Freeze the money or something?" I don't know how this shit works, but I've got a lot riding on it working in her favor.

"Not from what I hear. Sounds to me like it's all in her name. Some kind of trust. Unless she gets declared dead, it's hers when she hits thirty."

"So really, these do-gooders don't actually care if she's alive or dead. She might actually be worth more dead?"

"Hey, you didn't hear this from me. But people talk. Earlier this morning I overheard some dude actually saying he'd make it worthwhile to find a body. Not find her or a body. Just a body. Creeped me out."

"Who was this guy?"

"Not a local. Rich looking, maybe 30ish. Nice enough guy, left a $20 tip. Hung around, talked shop. Hell, I'd want to hang with the guy if I hadn't heard him discussing a body. Probably some finance bro from the city."

"Cornell sweatshirt?"

"No, didn't seem affected by all the search partiers."

"Cool, Marty. Thanks. Your cranberry donuts... they kinda suck."

"Pumpkin spice lattes and cranberries. Gotta keep people happy."

I nodded and walked out. This was serious shit. People weren't just trying to find her, they might get paid extra to kill her. And that means I'm in their way. I'm expendable; she's a lucrative corpse. That $500k is pretty fucking tempting. It wouldn't just set me up, it might keep her alive.

I had to get back to Gaby. Not just to report the news, but because she was becoming my safe space. Around her, there was no question that I needed to keep her hidden. Only in the abstract was $500k a pull. I walked with urgency through town.

I spotted him. Or he spotted me. The prematurely gray guy with the likable smile and 6-foot average build dressed out of an L. L. Bean catalog, and with a gold ring dangling on a necklace. A guy like me walking with purpose catches some eyes, and ours locked for just a moment. He saw something out of place, and out of place was a big enough clue.

I couldn't go straight to Hank's. He'd notice. So I went to the library. My new card came in handy, and allowed me to use their computers. I took a seat at one and Googled "Gaby Anderson." Sure enough, all of the gossip checked out, including the story she told me.

"Doing a little research?" Fuck, it was the fiancé, right behind me.

"Yeah, man. Half a mil? Sign me up for the search." Convincing?

"What's the difference between 25k and 500k to someone like you? Why the sudden interest?"

"Who says it's sudden?"

"People. They talk. Tell me things. Like single guys buying a package of panties. Like stoners suddenly taking an interest in literature." Fuck. This guy didn't just do his homework; he was hiring minions to help him do it.

"Yeah, there's some weird shit that goes into making a haunted house seem real. What's it to you?"

"Oh, nothing, Milo. Nothing yet. But don't think I don't see you." He felt the ring on his necklace and walked away.

Fuck this; as long as he knows this much, I'd better just go home.

"No, I'm not going, get away from me. I hate you."

"Gaby, wake up," I shook her.

She opened her eyes, confused and disoriented. "Hey," she steadied herself on my arm.

"I met him. Your fiancé. He's here and he's onto me."

"Here?"

"I mean in town. He's had people watching everything, asking questions. Like why I'm buying panties."

"That's not good."

"No, and it gets worse. Everyone knows about the trust fund. It goes to your family if you die, right?"

"Yes," she looked down.

"So there's one group of people wanting to catch you alive for the reward, now $500k, and another group that would prefer you dead, for a cut of the... $10 million is what they're saying."

"Why don't we try to get out of here now? Just like Uber out of town and hide for a few days?"

"No, it's too risky; there's people everywhere, we'd never make it."

"Right."

"Look, I'm not a violent guy. But your fiancé... he's almost certainly going to come here. We can't just run from him; we're going to have to confront him."

"I can't kill him."

"I know. But think of it this way: we're in a haunted house. It's dark, we know it inside and out, way better than him. We can scare the shit out of him and then make a break for it."

"Maybe, but I've got another idea."

"Okay."

"That prick. He liked bondage. Tying me up. You've got tons of shit in that attic. Let's put it to use. There's an old bedframe and handcuffs. Let's set them up down here. I can put it together to make it look like a torture device, part of the show. Then we lure him down, knock him out, and handcuff him to the bed. By the time he comes to, we're gone."

"I like how you think. Okay, let's get to work."

By 7:00 the torture room was set up. Gaby was a master at restraints, something I purposefully didn't probe. We had gone all day without eating, save for a lousy cranberry donut. This Nixon asshole was going to show up some night. I hoped it wouldn't be tonight, but we were ready if it was. We restructured our plan: now, if we spotted the fiancé, I'd alert Gaby with the clip of Nixon saying "I am not a crook," but instead of leaving the basement, she'd stay there, armed with the mallet from the dining room table.

"You know, if he comes tonight, we're going to have to keep him down here for two days," I reminded Gaby.

"Not a problem. I've been tied up by him for longer than that before." Damn.

"And what if people come looking for him?"

"Hmmm... maybe we haul him to the attic? Make sure he's gagged? That's one place nobody knows about except us."

"Got it. Okay, I hear rumblings. Listen for my signal. And if someone other than him comes downstairs, I won't play the clip."

"And I'll hide behind the bedframe."

"Perfect." I gave her a quick kiss and made it to the porch.

There were about ten guests, a few more than usual for two nights before Halloween, but not unheard of. And no signs of Richard Nixon. I started the tour.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." Nothing out of the ordinary. Bored guests and giddy teenagers. Onto the hall of mirrors. A few overly nosy guys looking behind mirrors, nothing worrisome. Up the creaking staircase and into the bedroom.

"What's that smell?" asked one of the nosy guys.

"Death, my friend. Mr. Wainscott's death still lingers."

"No, it's like... fucking mangoes and tropical fruit." Fuck. Gaby had showered after lugging the bedframe to the basement.

"They say that death smells different to all. To some, sweet; to others, rancid." He wasn't buying it, and looked in the bathroom.

"Bullshit, someone's been in here. A woman. It's still steamy." He conferred with the other nosy guy.

"Come with me, friends, only you two brave souls. Your curiosity is noteworthy." I stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door. "Look, being a tour guide isn't all fun and games. I took a shower, alright?"

"And you like fruity body wash?"

"Yeah. You want me to suck your dick to prove it?"

"No, stoner. I just think you're hiding something. Or someone."

"Well, take a look around. Just be careful of the trapdoors."

"Funny." They exited the bathroom, unconvinced but satisfied enough to continue.

Through the Scooby-Doo bookshelf, cue the fog, stupid speech behind podium. Snooping eyes, still safe. Down the back stairs, into the kitchen. Mallet and knife still present. Ridiculous speech.

"Where's that door go?" Predictably, nosy boys spotted the basement door. I was proactive. Opened it.

I said loudly enough for Gaby to hear, "All haunted mansions have basements, but few are brave enough to enter. You two unknown guests appear brave but not threatening. Dare you venture downward?" Would Gaby get the hints?

They went downstairs. I waited silently with the others. A few minutes later they returned, dissatisfied.

"Did you find the hidden torture chamber?"

"Yeah, it's about the one thing on this tour that doesn't look like bullshit."

"Then you all may follow me back to the atrium." Beating heart sound. "And alas, our tour concludes. If there are no questions—"

"Yeah, I've got a question." Nosy asshole. "How does a fuckup like you hide a woman? And why, when there's a half-million-dollar reward?"

"Life and death are mysterious, my friends. Now I bid you a most hallowed evening."

"Fuck off."

They left. Close call. I waited until they were out of sight, then went downstairs.

Gaby was shaking. "That was too close. I had to hang backwards behind the bedframe."

"Yeah, but you made it."

"We made it."

I lit a joint, took a huge hit, and Gaby gave me a long, slow oral thank-you.

Friday. Just today and Saturday left. Gaby had blathered all night about getting caught, stabbed, drowned, bound, and tortured. I barely slept. And was damn hungry.

Friday in town was calm. Too calm. Filled with tourists and feisty kids ditching school, but no real threats. I went to Carlo's, ordered another pie with the works. Probed Carlo for intel.

"Lots of tourists, but the searchers seem to have left." Carlo was an honest man, but there was more to the story. Maybe he didn't know what it was, but I wasn't falling for it. I strode purposefully without purpose with the pizza back to Hank's. We devoured it like hungry wrestlers. She felt the calm before the storm, too. Would Richard Nixon appear on the creaky porch tonight? We rehearsed, tested speakers and fog machines. At 8:00 I gave my tour to eight lost and unsuspicious souls. It concluded without fanfare or fear. A few eggs hit Hank's, but it only added to the ambiance. By 9:00 Gaby and I were alone.

"I'm not buying this quiet shit," I said.

"Me neither."

"Still, 27 hours and you're a free woman."

"I know. It's exciting. Daunting. Thrilling. Kind of what Hank's wants to be." She smiled.

"It doesn't try that hard."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm kind of going to miss it."

"I can send some fake blood with you if you want."

"No, not that. The sneaking around. Playing hideout. And you." She paused. "Especially you."

"Yeah. My sense of purpose will be gone."

"Hey. Why don't you come with me?"

"Seriously? Outside of the shadows, I'm kind of a loser."

"You wouldn't have to be. What's holding you here? Not this shithole. Run away with me. Get a new guitar. Sing about hidden secrets and rescuing women. Start a new life."

"In Wichita?"

"Wherever. Come on, what do you have to lose?"

Nothing. That's the truth. I have created a life with nothing to lose, and here's my one chance to gain. Hank's was not scary. Leaving it might be.

"I'm not a risk taker."

"And what has that gotten you?"

Good point.

"Not much. So, if I say yes, you're not just my ticket out of here? You're my partner?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Then yes, I'll do it. I'll come with you. That's what I want."

She grabbed me, pulled me onto her mattress. We worked our clothes off. Our tongues swirled in each other's mouths. I entered her. Soft, wet, strong, and fierce. More passion than I had ever felt. I drove into her, thrusting, kissing, groping. She held me off, making it last, but eventually I could hold out no more, and with a thundering, shaking vocal spasm, we came together.

Right as a brick crashed through a window.

"What the fuck?" she asked.

"Chaos night. Vandals, nothing to worry about."

"No. The calm before the storm is over. That's the storm talking."

I got dressed, went upstairs to assess the damage. There was a brick in the middle of the atrium floor, a window smashed above it. And a rubber band with a newspaper clipping on the brick.

"Obituary: Anderson, Gaby, 29. Presumed dead 10/29 after a prolonged search yielded no results..." Fuck. It went on to name relatives, arrangements, the usual.

I took it downstairs to Gaby. "Those motherfuckers! Had me declared dead just to get my money. I should have known I was worth more dead than alive. My own family." She began crying. I tried to console her, but consoling the legally dead is difficult.

"You can just publish an obituary in a newspaper saying someone's presumed dead?"

"You can if you own the paper."

"Your father?"

"Yes, he owns several media companies, including," she looked at the newspaper, "The Tri-State Metropolitan Press."

"So that explains the calm before the storm. They all think you're dead."

"That's not going to stop the asshole from coming for me."

"Then we'll make sure we're ready."

Halloween was here. A fog lifted off the coast as the sun rose. My last at Hank's. Maybe my last day in this town. Perhaps my last day alive. I had woken early, wanting to say my own farewell before shit turned crazy. I got donuts from Marty, was even early enough for blueberry this time, and shamelessly carried two coffees back to Hank's.

"So, this is it," I said to Gaby.

"Yeah, we'll be gone in 15 hours."

"Even if not, thank you."

"For what—hiding and putting your life in danger?"

"No. For a few weeks of purpose."

She blushed. "You're welcome."

We hauled the futon and mattress to the attic. Best keep them out of sight now that we wouldn't be needing them. Then we rehearsed. "I am not a crook." First time meant he was here. Second meant he was heading downstairs. I let her practice fake beating me with the mallet and tying me up. Honestly, it was kind of fun. We tested my phone, ensuring that it could access her accounts. She had backup credentials stored on the cloud and with her photographic memory she easily retrieved them. The money was there, unavailable until 11/1, seven long hours from now.

I watched as miniature zombies and superheroes went door to door getting candy. The occasional teenager hurled an egg or broke a mailbox. Some smartass let his black cat loose to wander the streets. Unoriginal pranksters smashed pumpkins, and food trucks overplayed "Monster Mash" and "Thriller." Eventually the sun set. Wandering parties collapsed on their destinations, and by 7:45 a crowd of thirteen, including Richard Nixon, waited in front of Hank's.

I kissed Gaby goodbye and stepped onto the porch. No reason to play "I am not a crook" for the first warning; I had told her he was there.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a most scary night awaits you on this most chilling night of the year. Please join me in the atrium after depositing your fee in the tin." I watched Nixon, his eyes fixed on me under his mask.

"The atrium is another name for the heart, and is where our tour begins." I gave the heart thump command through the speaker. "For the vain among you, you will most certainly appreciate Mr. Wainscott's hall of mirrors." They filed into the mirror room, most giddy, scaring each other, making goofy faces. Nixon stoically walked behind the group.

Up the staircase and into the bedroom. Giddiness turned to boredom as the story became more ridiculous. Nixon examined the bathroom extra closely, his goons having tipped him off as to most likely hiding places. Blah blah blah, Mr. Wainscott whatever. On through the bookshelf, which Nixon examined carefully. Fog enveloped the crowd and I gave my bullshit closing remarks to several yawns. Then down the staircase to the kitchen. I noted that both the knife and mallet were gone from the table.

Nixon made for the basement door but did not open it. I nearly pressed our signal but did not. Nixon and I glared at each other. Why was he not testing the basement?

I led us all to the atrium, playing the thumping heart and ensuring Nixon did indeed come through the entrance. What was happening? Not anything? Was there another Nixon-obsessed visitor?

"And now, as our tour concludes as does our All Hallow's Eve, I ask you, what does it mean to be alive? Where lies the line between life and death? Is Mr. Wainscott in a better place, or are we? What is the value of one's life, and what purpose does it serve?" I glared at Nixon, standing next to the broken window.

"But I ask no more questions, though I may answer any from you." Nothing. I could hear Nixon's breathing, but that was all. "And so I bid you all a most scary night." And they exited. Right out the door, onto the creaky porch, down its steps with Nixon still in the rear.

Was I relieved? Only in a distrustful way. Life could not be this simple, could it? Were we free? Just three more hours of waiting?

Nixon turned, ripping off his mask and charged straight at me. Fuck, nothing that easy at all. I had just enough time to grab my phone and hit the signal. "I am not a crook!" it yelled, Nixon pushing me to the ground and running for the basement door. I managed to press again, "I am not a crook!" as he flung open the door and ran downstairs. I got up and ran after him, hearing a scream and a thud, and watching Gaby bang him on the head with the crab mallet. He was fazed, but still upright. My foot crashed through a creaky step—a hell of a time for that to finally happen. I recovered as she swung again and missed, and he punched her in the belly. She reached for the knife as I staggered down the stairs. He wrestled the knife away from her. I had thought to grab the brick, and bashed him over the head with it. He staggered but remained upright. He shoved Gaby backward, and she tripped over her feet. Tricky Dick then rushed and tackled me, pummeling my face with his fists. Gaby retrieved the mallet and smashed his head with a loud crack. He was dazed, but got to his feet, turned to her, and she kicked him in the balls while I brained him with the brick. He fell. Gaby grabbed the knife. I put my foot on his back and Gaby said, "Don't move." We had him.

Gaby handed me the knife and ordered him to move to the bedframe. He crawled, but when he tried to lunge I stabbed him in the leg and Gaby kicked him in the kneecap. He cried in pain.

Gaby quickly secured one of his wrists in a handcuff and attached the other to the bedframe.

"You bitch," he sneered.

"You mean dead bitch," she shot back. Wrist two handcuffed to bedframe.

She yanked his pants off, and his jockey shorts; she tied his ankles to the bedframe.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you!" he hollered.

Then she stripped. What? Yanked her panties right off and stuffed them in his mouth. Took extra rope and tied it around his face with his mouth muffled by her panties.

"That's what the fresh panties were for, asshole. Now you can taste your fiancée for a nice long time. And oh yeah, his dick was in me, too, so you can taste him," she looked at me, her admiring fan. Then she put on clean panties and her jeans and admired her work.

I took out my phone. Just 10:00. Two hours to go.

"Do you want to just watch this asshole squirm for two hours?" I asked.

"Mmmph!"

"We could, but I've seen enough of him."

"Mmmph. Mmmph."

"You know... we were talking about purpose," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Well, what do you think the purpose of Hank's House of Horror is?"

"To hide a battered woman?"

"MMPH!"

"Shut up, Dick. Well, yes, but I think it's done with that purpose."

"True. So...?"

"Do you know what they make fake blood out of?"

Gaby's eyes lit up. "Something flammable?"

"Yep. And I've got plenty of it."

"MMMPH! MMMMPHHH!"

"Won't it look like arson?"

"This place? The wiring in here is so fucked I'm surprised it made it this long. We'll just give it some help. I'll pour fake blood in a line that will lead to the fuse box and make sure the fake blood hits an exposed wire. Plus, who really gives a shit about this place?"

"What are we gonna do with this asshole?" asked Gaby.

"Well, I'm no murderer. But I am a shitty tour guide. Let's get him dizzy as fuck, start the fire, and give him time to get away."

I got cans of fake blood, poured a bunch in a line to the fuse box, then trailed it throughout the house. Gaby fetched a blonde wig from the attic.

We took turns punching and beating the shit out of Nixon until he was nearly unconscious. We uncuffed him and dragged him up the stairs, outside the house, and dumped his half-conscious body into the shopping cart that I used to haul shit from the attic. For good measure, Gaby put his Nixon mask back on him. He wouldn't burn to death in the fire, but he'd be one sore ex-president.

We returned inside.

"Ready?"

"Call an Uber first."

I did.

"Now, ready."

"As soon as I light this blood we're gonna have to run."

She put the wig on. I lit a pool of the blood. "Okay, run!" The fake blood worked like a charm. It wasn't an immediate explosion, just a slow smoldering start to what would eventually hit the wiring and then consume the house. Nixon would have time to watch the spectacle as he staggered away. And what could he really say? That his dead girlfriend burned everything up? Some stoner who nobody knew the full name of or would ever see again?

"Just get us to the next town. Fast. Big tip."

The driver drove us away, politely ignoring the flames coming from the house we just left. Hank's finally looked like an actually scary place. In our town, tip an Uber driver enough and they'll ignore anything. He dropped us off at a Waffle House 25 miles away. I gave him all of my cash, $267.13.

At 11:45 we sat eating waffles and drinking coffee. 16 minutes.

"Hell of an escape, Milo."

"It's not yet."

I called in an anonymous tip about a burning building. Anonymity can be a blessing.

We counted down the minutes. At midnight she took my phone, typed in numbers, paused, then turned the screen to me: $13,624,516.

Holy shit!

"Any all-night car lots you know of?"

"No, let's just walk."

We did. The brisk November air felt fresh and alive in my lungs. Hank's was never really haunted, but it kept me trapped. A hideout for one is a prison for another. Now, neither Gaby nor I were hidden. We were both free.

At 8 a. m. we found an open car lot. Gaby bought an unassuming used Subaru. Freedom for her was safety and anonymity. We hopped in, and with the sun at our backs, drove West into a new life.