There are entire hallways of the Manor that haven’t been touched in decades. I head through one of them on the way to the library. The Gallery of Morecrofts is an endlessly long hallway in the middle of the first floor lined by black divan couches and a wall of portraits jockeying for space. One after another: dark eyed, dark haired villains glare at everything within their eyesight.

  They look alike the way that some families share similar traits through the generations, only in the case of the Morecrofts it’s the venomous eyes, corpse-white skin, viciously upturned noses, and hair darker than the shadows surrounding them. Each just a tiny bit different, but first to last they all share the same stygian void in their eyes.

  I was still little when Wrath pointed out that the paintings were only done after the Morecroft had died. “A family tradition,” he called it. Bodies posed sitting in the same throne-like chair that rests outside the door to the library. Its a chair that has never housed a single soul. Unlike so many of the other antiques that came with the house. Sometimes I can swear I hear little Violet Morecroft giggling as she chases me down the halls.

  Maybe that’s why the pictures frighten me - knowing that each is a portrait of a dead man, or woman, and that their eyes were painted knowing that their spirits were already traveling down into the Worlds Below. The Morecrofts collected everything they could about the Worlds Below, what common people call the Broken Hells. Or Heaven, if you’re that one of those scandalous, delusional types.

  “Where are you?” Wrath calls. Sound in the Manor always carries no matter where you are. Even though the interior of the house is made up of dozens and dozens of rooms, Wrath and I can always hear one another as if we’re only feet apart.

  There is no painting of the last Morecroft heir - a child poisoned in his crib. There was no one left to paint him, Wrath said. A spot at the end of the hall lies empty, but the wallpaper is discolored like a painting once hung there and was removed. It’s like the house knows something is missing.

  “Heading to the library.”

  “Your boyfriend’s outside again. You should be coming up with a way to accidentally make him fall in love with you.”

  “You should… shut up.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head at myself. I don’t even know the guy’s name, and there’s no point in getting all flustered, but the idea of making myself go talk to him is painful. It’s hard enough finding a new therapist, or meeting with the guidance counselor. Even my one friend at school, I stumbled into rather than actively making myself.

  Maybe I can go over with a basket of some kind. A welcome to the neighborhood — but there’s no neighborhood to speak of, is there? Just the two of us and then about a mile of forest between us and the rest of town.

  Books and TV make it seem so easy: you walk up to a stranger and instantly you’re friends. Or he sees you from across the street and falls in love with you all at once. The music swells in the background, the camera catches every secret glance, and everything hits the right beat at the right time.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried in the past. My first year at college, I even had a boyfriend… at least for a few weeks. I nailed the initial conversation, but I always drop the ball in the follow up.

  People want to talk about sports or pop culture, and I always end up turning the conversation over to cult indoctrination or demonology. Parallel worlds, Etruscan death magic, alternate timelines, doppelg?ngers. My wheelhouse of talking points is as odd as I am.

  Steven, my ex, always complained that I took horror movies far too seriously, and that my criticisms were ridiculous.

  “A flamethrower would never kill a demon like that,” I’d argued during a tense moment just before the climax. “First of all there’s no accelerant. Second, why would a demon be flammable? And even if they were, do you think they’d have a lair filled with candles and torches if fire kills them?”

  “It’s a movie,” Stephen snapped. He was red-faced and sputtering by the time he politely and firmly asked me to leave. The minute I crossed his threshold he said we shouldn’t see each other again.

  That’s how I celebrated my nineteenth birthday.

  ***

  “Oooh, now he’s taking off his shirt to wash the car. And does he have— he does! Nipple rings!”

  I’m not hiding in the darkest corner of the library because I want a demonic livestream of the hot guy across the street. I know he’s making it up. Probably making it up. But still, a part of me can’t help but ask, “Wait, really?”

  Wrath is quiet for a long time, which is confirmation enough that when he says, “No, not really,” in a glum tone it confirms what I already knew. “He couldn’t even bother to take his shirt off. He should, though. You can tell he’s got a good body.”

  Yeah, I got that much when I saw him this morning. Wrath regrets that he can’t be a proper wingman for me, so all he can do is provide guidance from the sidelines. I’m pretty sure he could take a human form if he wanted, but the one time I brought it up, he stopped talking to me for an entire day. Demons can be so sensitive sometimes.

  Luckily, the broadcast trails off and Wrath finds something else to keep him occupied. At least until the doorbell rings.

  My first thought is that something in the Manor has woken up, but the house’s internal alarm is a lot more “chorus of throaty screams” than “rumbling bell chime.” The dirge that plays throughout the house causes the walls to vibrate ominously.

  The walls eventually stop vibrating, though there’s something in the air like the house has its hackles up. Which is ridiculous, because it’s a house.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Right? “What’s up with you?” I ask under my breath, waiting a moment as though the house is going to answer. I shake my head, realizing I’m being ridiculous, and head out from the library. After the doorbell finally fades comes knocking. Relentless, repeated knocking.

  “Get the door!” Wrath shouts. On my way out of the gallery, it doesn’t seem to take nearly as long, and I definitely don’t stop to notice the eyes of the Morecrofts glaring at me.

  “I ordered a bagel guillotine,” Wrath continues. For a non-corporeal personification of human malice and aggression, the demon loves kitchen appliances. We have a specific knife for cutting watermelon that has a sheathe with little peekaboo black seeds that appear, and a watermelon-red blade when it’s pulled free. There’s also the apple corer that looks like a gun, and an egg cuber. Why anyone would want to cube their eggs is beyond me, but Wrath loves it. He’s the only person I know that watches cable just for the infomercials.

  Unfortunately, my shopping addict roommate can’t exactly answer the front door. Delivery people hate when doors open by themselves and disembodied presences politely take packages out of their hands. The Dread-Ex delivery guy stopped coming to the door entirely. He gets as far as the porch steps before his courage runs out and he darts back to the vehicle. All because a particularly eager Wrath wanted his scoop-able spatula the minute it arrived.

  I throw the door open, expecting a delivery guy day-drinking to build his courage but it’s not a brown uniform that greets me.

  Instead, it’s the guy from across the street. Now that I see him up close, I realize my initial instincts that he’s attractive really undersold the truth. He’s Asian, just a little taller than me, and has the kind of arrogant expression I would normally expect out of royalty. His dark black hair is slicked back and he’s still dressed in a white tee shirt and sinfully tight dark blue jeans. Only now I can see that both the shirt and the jeans are expertly tailored, expensive. Not something that one orders off the internet, or from the clothing store down in Hollow Hills.

  His arm is raised to knock again, revealing a strong bicep as pale as the rest of his skin, and long fingers made for playing instruments, or based on his expression, garroting someone to death. Inside the house, the floorboards groan, even though no one is walking on them. I feel you, I sympathize.

  “But how am I supposed to slice my bagels now?” I ask sadly, realizing that the bagel guillotine was nothing but a ruse.

  It takes a beat for me to realize that my mouth has outrun my brain again, only this time there’s an audience.

  He stares at me. Through me. He sees my soul and finds me inferior. His scowl is a thing of beauty, though, and the idea of having an actual conversation is the last thing on my mind. I want to just stare at this angry, sexy, creature and never look away. If I could do it without being awkward I would pull out my phone and take his picture, just so I could stare at it for hours after he leaves.

  He clears his throat. I’m still staring. I blush and force myself to look down. His shoes are black leather, expensive, and just as flawless as the rest of him. Why is this my life?

  “Do you have a flashlight,” he asks, and his voice is deeper than I expect. It makes me look back up, just in time to see his shoulders tighten with some internal struggle. “More than one, if you have them. With extra batteries.”

  “Flash… light?” I ask, as though I’ve never heard the word before in my life. Which is ridiculous. I definitely have a flashlight. Instead, I take the opportunity to shift myself partially back behind the door, putting it between us.

  “Tell him you’ll give him anything he wants,” Wrath says silkily in my ear and unhelpful as always. I didn’t move fast enough to initiate contact with the boy, so Wrath used the bagel guillotine as a ruse. If kitchen appliances aren’t sacred, is anything?

  “Did you burn out all his flashlights?” I mutter under my breath.

  “What?” the boy asks as he squints in the daylight. There’s a pair of sunglasses tucked into his tee shirt, and he pulls them off and slides them on his face. Once his eyes are hidden he looks even cooler and more superior to me. I’m pretty sure these are the same pajama pants I wore yesterday. Now he looks utterly untouchable, in addition to being the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “I… I don’t know what that was,” I say, which is partly the truth.

  “Don’t talk to me,” Wrath whispers urgently. “Talk to him. Ask him his name.”

  “Ask him his name,” I repeat dully. Then flush even more. “What’s your name. I mean, I’m Theo. You’re new. Across the street.”

  “Flashlight,” the boy repeats, instead of answering. Or maybe his name is Flashlight? No, that’s stupid. “Shit, even your phone would be fine. I’ve already drained my battery. This house… I swear it’s like everything works fine outside but the minute I go inside the batteries drain like,” he snaps his fingers.

  I pat my pockets, but I haven’t seen my phone in a week or more. The hot boy is right - Morecroft Manor can be the same way sometimes, especially when it’s in a mood. Besides, it’s not like I check Instagrave very often.

  “These houses are like that,” I confide. “It probably has to do with how far we are from town.”

  “Hmm,” Wrath whispers, sounding distracted. “Do you feel that?”

  The scowling boy does something entirely unexpected. He smiles, and lips made for sneering reveal another purpose; a better purpose. His smile is easily infectious, and my own smile makes the tension in my chest fade and my head clear. I made him smile! Wrath’s concern fades away in the light of this.

  Everything about the boy’s face softens, and reveals someone else entirely. If his scowling visage made him look like an icy prince, forced to interact with a commoner, then his smile makes him the kind-hearted senior helping a lesser fortunate classmate. He even slides the sunglasses up on top of his head, and really sees me for the first time, it seems.

  It’s the eyebrows, I decide. Sharp and pointed, they looked down in condemnation most of the time, but when he smiles their harsh angle becomes a gentle slope.

  Wrath shoves something into my back, and I grab it automatically. A flashlight. I pull the flashlight forward and immediately pass it through the door while still keeping myself mostly hidden behind it.

  The boy blinks in surprise and confusion begins to replace the momentary warmth. It’s not the hard mask going back up, but it definitely lowers the warmth on the porch. “My roommate heard you and brought it.”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” the boy says. It’s not accusing the way the townspeople normally are around me, but it’s definitely with the slight hint of suspicion. I glance at the door I’m hiding behind and the frosted glass that allows at least a little view inside the manor.

  “Are you listening,” Wrath whispers. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “I’m Nico,” the boy adds, and it’s abrupt. Like he only just now realized he should introduce himself. Or maybe that he’s trying to shake off his doubt.

  “Nico,” I say, relishing his name and nodding appropriately. “Okay.”

  He nods as well. “Okay,” and then turns to head back down the steps and out towards the street. His shoulder to waist ratio is even more noticeable up close, and I want to whimper but that would be inappropriate.

  Just as he gets to the gate, I can’t help but whisper, “You’re pretty.” And then I blink. And blink again. Did I say that out loud? Tell me I didn’t say that out loud!

  Nico turns around and stares for only a moment before he slides the sunglasses back down and shading his eyes.

  I stand there, flushing hot. Why can’t I control my mouth?

  “You had a booger in your nose the whole time,” Wrath says.