Ethan Ward locked the front door of The Haunted Haven as the afternoon sun dipped low over Hopeville, casting long shadows across the cracked midway of Hope Haven Amusement Park. The cracked watch from the mirror hall weighed in his pocket beside the locket, key, badge, and Patient 0 tag—a grim collection that felt more like a countdown than a victory. His parents’ voices echoed in his mind—Find us, free them—driving him deeper into the Haven’s signal, but the town wasn’t sleeping through it anymore.

  Sophie Bennett stood beside him, her wrench tucked into her backpack, counting the day’s take—seventy bucks, another record. “Busy day,” she said, grinning as she pocketed the cash. “Word’s spreading—people love the manor lady. Think we should give Lydia a cut?”

  Ethan smirked, adjusting the journal under his arm. “Yeah, she can haunt the tip jar.” He glanced at the park gate, where a small crowd lingered—locals whispering, a few teens snapping photos. “They’re not just here for scares, though. Something’s up.”

  Sophie followed his gaze, her grin fading. “Deputy Grayson’s fan club? He wasn’t thrilled last time.”

  “Worse,” Ethan said, nodding at a familiar figure trudging through the gate—Grayson himself, his broad frame cutting through the crowd, badge glinting, eyes narrowed. Behind him trailed a handful of townsfolk—older men with furrowed brows, a woman clutching a cross necklace, all muttering like a storm was brewing.

  “Round two,” Sophie muttered, stepping forward. “I’ll charm ‘em, boss. You play mysterious owner.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Ethan said, crossing his arms as Grayson reached the door. The deputy didn’t knock—just stood there, his shadow looming, the crowd hushing behind him.

  “Ward,” Grayson grunted, voice rough. “We need to talk.”

  “Talking’s free,” Ethan said, keeping his tone flat. “What’s the problem?”

  Grayson jerked a thumb at the townsfolk. “They are. Noise again last night—screams, lights flickering, shadows moving. Old man Tate swears he saw a woman in red stalking the park. You running a circus or a séance?”

  Ethan’s gut tightened—Lydia, caught in the open—but he shrugged. “Old wiring, like I said. Place is falling apart. You wanna check the fuse box, be my guest.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Grayson snapped, stepping closer. “This ain’t just wiring. Been reports since your folks ran this—disappearances, weird lights. Now it’s back, and you’re in the middle.” The woman with the cross necklace nodded, muttering something about demons, and a grizzled man in a flannel shirt piped up.

  “My dog won’t go near the park,” he said, voice shaking. “Barks at nothing all night. Something’s wrong here.”

  Sophie jumped in, her grin bright and disarming. “Hey, it’s a ghost house! Spooky’s the point, right? We’re just giving folks a thrill—harmless fun.” She waved a waiver like a flag. “All signed and legal.”

  Grayson’s jaw tightened, unimpressed. “Fun doesn’t wake half the town at midnight. I’m searching this place—now.”

  Ethan stepped forward, blocking the door. “Got a warrant?”

  “Don’t need one if it’s public safety,” Grayson said, his hand resting on his belt. “Step aside, Ward, or I’ll—”

  A flicker of red cut him off—Lydia Kane, materializing at the gate, her crimson dress stark against the dusk, her eyes piercing the crowd. The townsfolk gasped, the cross lady clutching her necklace, and Grayson spun, hand dropping to his holster. “What the hell—”

  “Leave,” Lydia whispered, her voice carrying like a blade, sharp and cold. The air thickened, the hum pulsing faintly, and the crowd flinched, stepping back. Grayson drew his gun, but his hand shook, his bravado crumbling.

  “Lydia, ease up,” Ethan said, voice low but firm. She glanced at him, her gaze softening, and faded into the shadows, the hum dying with her. The townsfolk muttered, some bolting, others frozen, and Grayson lowered his gun, his face pale.

  “What was that?” he demanded, turning to Ethan. “Who’s she?”

  “Part of the show,” Ethan lied, stepping forward. “Special effects—keeps the tourists coming. You wanna search, go ahead, but you’ll find props and dust. No demons.”

  Grayson stared, then holstered his gun, jaw tight. “This ain’t over, Ward. Keep it quiet, or I’ll shut you down myself.” He turned, barking at the crowd to disperse, and trudged back to his cruiser, the townsfolk trailing like scolded kids.

  Sophie exhaled, her grin returning. “Well, that was a close one. Lydia’s got our back, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said, staring where she’d vanished. “But she’s not subtle.” He pulled the locket out, flipping it open—the photo glowed faintly, his parents’ faces clearer, a third figure still blurred. “They’re watching us—Grayson, Pierce, the town. We’re running out of room.”

  “Then we speed up,” Sophie said, hefting her backpack. “Next task?”

  Ethan nodded, the radio crackling faintly from the office. “Yeah. But we’re not just playing for us anymore.” He glanced at the journal, his mom’s words—Hope’s the echo—grounding him. The Haven was waking, and Hopeville’s eyes were on them—whether they liked it or not.

  Inside, the static flared again, sharp and sudden. “The Haven watches,” the voice rasped, low and deliberate. “Find its gaze, Ethan.”

  Sophie raised an eyebrow, wrench in hand. “Round eight?”

  “Round eight,” Ethan said, grabbing his flashlight. “Let’s see what it’s staring at.” The town could wait—the signal couldn’t, and neither could his parents.