Page 2 of Bear Naked Truth
Briar Hollow Inn sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its peaked roof and curling ivy looking like something out of a forgotten fairytale. It was beautiful, if your idea of beauty included ominous charm and a strong possibility of mildpossession. The porch sagged in places, creaking under its own memories.
“Did it just… sigh at us?” Autumn muttered as the boards groaned beneath her boots.
“It does that,” Dorian said, clearly amused. “Especially when the weather shifts. Or people with strong energy show up.”
Inside, the scent changed. Old cedar, honeysuckle, and something else—thicker. A sorrow that clung to the wallpaper, threaded through the floorboards.
Autumn stepped into the foyer, dropping her bag near an umbrella stand shaped like a dragon skull. Her fingers brushed instinctively against the small charm in her coat pocket—a smooth river stone etched with a grounding sigil. She never went into a haunted place without it.
“You feel that?” she asked softly, scanning the ceiling with narrowed eyes.
Dorian hesitated behind her, then said, “Like stepping into someone else’s memory?”
She turned her head, just enough to catch the edge of seriousness in his voice. For a man who smiled like warm cider and wore dad flannel unironically, he suddenly felt… familiar. Like he understood.
“It’s heavy,” she said.
“It gets heavier upstairs,” he replied. “Want the tour?”
“Lead the way.”
He moved with a confidence that was somehow both easy and careful, like he knew the walls might shift on a whim. She followed, notebook in hand, eyes cataloging the details—a cracked mirror in the hallway that reflected candlelight though none were lit, a painting that seemed to frown when she passed.
“The sitting room,” he said, gesturing to a parlor with wingback chairs and a fireplace. “Sometimes the fire lights itself. No one’s ever figured out why.”
She nodded, noting it silently.
He continued, pointing out a dining room with a grandfather clock that ticked backward on Tuesdays, and a library where the books reportedly rearranged themselves alphabetically by emotion.
Autumn let the information wash over her, half listening, half absorbing the house itself. There was grief here. But also yearning. The kind of energy that clung to joy once, and didn’t know how to let go of its shadow.
As they climbed the staircase, Dorian asked, “So, why ghost whispering? Seems like a tough gig.”
She hesitated. Most people didn’t ask that. They either recoiled or romanticized it.
“It wasn’t a choice,” she said finally. “Spirits find me. I help them pass on. Better that than being haunted by stories I can’t finish.”
He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was softer than she expected.
“That’s… kinda beautiful.”
“It’s a job.”
He gave her a sidelong smile. “Still beautiful.”
They reached the top floor. Dorian stopped at the last door on the right, pushing it open gently.
“Welcome to your haunted home-away-from-home,” he said with a wink.
Autumn stepped inside.
The room was surprisingly warm. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, pooling on the floor like spilled honey. The bed was made, simple but inviting. A faint scent of lavender clung to the air.
She crossed to the window, running her fingers along the sill. They paused on a faint, scorched etching—an old protectionrune, partially rubbed away. Her brows furrowed. Whoever lived here before had tried to keep something out. Or in.
Behind her, Dorian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes unreadable for once.
“You good?” he asked.
