Page 60 of Scaredy Cat
“You’re the real Scaredy Cat,” I call lamely, though I’m already up from the couch and heading to my door while ticking off options in my head of who it could be. Delivery people don’t knock. My family doesn’t visit, and neither of my best friends have texted me to say they’re coming over to kidnap me back to Chicago.
Shiloh definitely doesn’t knock.
But it’s daylight, so I don’t bother looking out my window or through the peephole. Everyone knows serial killers only show up at night, after all. At least until they take a person to breakfast, buy her waffles, and eat her out under the desk whileshe does her best to stream for her loyal followers. Barring those options, I have no idea who it could be.
The heavy door swings open easily, barely making a noise on the faux-wood floor that’s cleaner than when I bought this place, thanks to Shiloh. But I don’t recognize the woman standing there with a confident smile and a half-buzzed haircut. Her blonde hair looks darker than Madison’s, and definitely more naturally colored. The non-buzzed side hangs over her face, almost covering her eye, and when she looks at me, I realize her eyes are the closest to black I’ve ever seen in a person.
“Can I…help you?” I ask, confused. She’s dressed casually in a zip-up hoodie and tight-fitting jeans that show off a figure I would never dare to dream of. By my estimation, she looks like she might be in her late thirties, judging by the lines around her heavily made-up eyes.
“You’re Persephone Gallows, right?” The woman watches me, intent, and it uncomfortably reminds me of videos I’ve watched where big wild cats stalk their prey to look for any sign of weakness.
“Depends on the day,” I say, trying to make a joke and failing. “But, uh, yeah. That is me.”
“That’s such a lucky name.” The woman’s smile grows, like she’s trying to come off as friendly, but the expression is so foreign and fake that it just comes off…strange. “I mean, with your brand and all. You like, embody the whole spooky spirit, don’t you, Scaredy Cat?”
The use of my title and my blog’s name has me on edge, but I don’t know why. My identity isn’t exactly a secret, though I don’t go around posting my last name on every blog post. But still, if she follows me, it’s not impossible for her to have seen it before.
When I don’t respond, she switches tactics and takes a step back, hands shoved in her pockets. “Sorry,” the woman laughs in a rather stilted and artificial way. “You must think I’m a crazystalker fan, or whatever.” There’s very little humor in her voice when she says it, and it keeps me uncomfortably on edge. If I were Arugula, my tail would be puffed up and my claws would be out, but all I can do is pretend not to be weirded out by the stranger.
“It’s not like I’m that famous.” I try to laugh off her words, but mine come out just as unnatural as hers did. “I certainly don’t deserve to have stalkers. I just like creating spooky content for anyone else who’s into that sort of thing, you know?”
She tips her head, black eyes narrowing. “Oh, aren’t you just adorable?” she murmurs under her breath. “Really, I can see why your followers like you so much. Unassuming, humble…but we know that’s an act, don’t we, Scaredy Cat?”
I don’t like it when she calls me that.
It has a different feel to it than when Shiloh purrs the pet name in my ear, or even when Madison jokingly uses it when we’re together. For some reason, it feels like this woman is using it like an insult.
“I’m sorry, you totally have me at a loss.” I force myself to lean against the doorframe like I’m not incredibly uncomfortable. “Have we met, or talked, or anything?”
“Sort of.” She tilts her head from side to side, then shrugs. “Well, not really. But I’ve invited you out to see us so many times that it feels like we’ve been having a conversation for a while. I really like when you talk about us on your blog without mentioning names. It’s very—gosh, what did they coin it a few years ago?” She narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “Oh! Vague posting. I’m more for the direct approach, which I guess you know, since…” She reaches up and puts her index fingers in front of her temples, crooking them forward. “I thought the whiskers were a nice touch. We used a really charming screengrab of you, don’t you think?”
It clicks into place where I’ve seen this woman before, though I’ve never cared enough to know very much about her. All of my friendliness fades, and I resettle myself against the doorframe as wind blows the few trees in my yard loudly enough that the dying leaves rattle their protests. “I figured you must’ve been light on content that day,” I tell her in an overly-friendly way. “And you know, I heard that Miscreant Manor’s ticket sales were down this year. Everything okay with you guys? I’d think the extreme haunt industry would be booming, what with everything going on.”
“We’re never content light, Scaredy Cat,” she assures me. “Don’t worry your cute little face about us. You might get wrinkles.”
“Is that what happened to you?” I know I should shut the hell up, but I can’t help being a little petty. “Did you worry yourself so hard that, well, I guess you know, since…” It’s my turn to reach my hand up to my face, and I rub my own face where her wrinkles are.
I expect her to be insulted, or at the very least put off. I don’t expect her to laugh like I’ve told the funniest joke ever. “God, I like you. I’m Gloria.” She sticks her hand out, her fingers tipped with blood-red nails that end in claw-like points. “My brother and I run Miscreant Manor.”
“Stunning.” I have to force myself to shake her hand, though I know it’s the polite thing to do. But I still withdraw my hand as quickly as I can before folding my arms once more, shivering in the chilly wind blowing through the yard. “Can I help you with something?” There’s no point in being overly friendly any further. I’m not about to invite her inside.
EvenI’mnot that good of an actor.
“This is me inviting you to Miscreant Manor.Again. I thought if I did it in person, you might see that I’m not some psycho or drifter who has a penchant for murder.” She nevertakes her eyes off mine as she speaks, and her hands go right back in her pockets. “Come on. One time. What would it hurt? People are talking, and they love our ads where we talk about how we’re too scary forScaredy Catto pay us a visit. You really want to live with that? Knowing you can’t come visit us?”
“Can’t is a strong word. I prefer?—”
“Can’tseems accurate.Won’tis weak.” When she takes a step toward me, her spiced body spray permeates the air between us. “Come on, Persephone,” Gloria breathes softly, barely above the wind. “What would it hurt? Just once. Then you can run home with your tail between your legs. We have a safe word,” she adds. “Though, we’ll have to change it for you. Any guesses as to what it is?”
Nausea makes my stomach burn. I’m not used to being ridiculed and made fun of to my face, or really at all. This isn’t how I operate, and I don’t have a playbook for what I should do or say. “That’s adorable. Do you sell t-shirts in your gift shop with my name on them? Really, I should be paying you a fee. All of your focus on me is probably getting me more eyes on my content. Wonder how many I’ve converted to subscribers.”
She laughs at that, not backing down. It seems like no matter what I say, she isn’t fazed by me, and it’s impossible not to respect that, in a way. Honestly, I could use some of her bravado, though I definitely don’t want to be like her to get it. “Maybe we should do a collab. You come visit us and we’ll take some videos. That would definitely get you some fans.”
“No.” I don’t even have to think about it, and my smile fades. “I don’t have time. It’s really not?—”
“Yeah, I know…you have your whole season booked, right? All the way through the weekend after Halloween, just like you always do. It’s really nice that you’re predictable for your followers.” She says it like an insult. “But actually, I was thinking we could open up the manor for you on a night you’re available.You can’t tell me you don’t havesomefree time one night this month, can you?”
I really can’t, but I want to. My hesitation must give her what she’s looking for, because she pulls out a business card with the words Miscreant Manor printed on the front in red. She flips it to show me the back has her name and a phone number on it. “Call me,” she says. “We could work something out. I think?—”
