“That happens more often than you’d think.” Not to her, but that was beside the point. “Trust-fund babies, perpetual and professional students, SoundCloud rappers—I mean the list could go on and on.”
Xander narrowed his eyes but kept his thoughts to himself. She suspected he was on to her schtick. Giving him a non-answer wouldn’t work again. “Why did you apply for this position?”
“I need a job and I need housing. Isn’t it incredible how this is the answer to all my problems?” She paused for a beat, slouchingslightly with a little sigh. They couldn’t see her eyes—making sure they could easily read her body language and interpret her tone was crucial. “I was…a student. A really,reallygood student. I dedicated almost twenty years of my life to my education. Yes, I count kindergarten because that’s when I learned how to read, and reading is one of the single greatest joys in my life. I wasn’t prepared to not be a student. My whole identity had to shift when I got my degree. And now I’m here. Hoping to try something new and exciting. To use my skills in an unexpected way.”
It had taken two days to revise and perfect that speech. A taut balance between meticulously selected facts from her life and a little something she liked to call earnest lies. She decided it’d be best to pretend to be an almost-blank slate. She wanted them to project their casting hopes and dreams onto her.
If they thought she was an overqualified know-it-all, they’d reject her. If they misread her confidence for arrogance, they’d reject her. They might not do it on purpose, but the second they unconsciously assumed she was uppity, they’d definitely reject her. But fate was smiling on her that day, because Stephen’s eyes hadn’t stopped twinkling since she walked in. He saw something special in her. He wanted to give her a chance.
“I’ll be honest with you. You’re sitting here right now solely based on the strength of your audition tape,” Stephen said. “We agreed that we needed to meet you in person before making a decision. Something we rarely do.”
Xander continued to stare her down, unconvinced. “There are plenty of jobs that provide housing.Whydo you want this one? Please be specific.”
For the briefest of moments, Lucky considered how this scene might look to outsiders. Three white men hiring a Black womanto be the caretaker for a found-footage haunted-house TV show. It was the ominous opening sequence to a horror film before the real final girl showed up. A bonus scene rescued from the cutting room floor to be used as teaser marketing. She was being set up to die, or if they were culturally competent and subversive, scared shitless and traumatized for life.
But what they didn’t know was Lucky was the furthest thing from a naive college graduate willing to work anywhere to land on her feet. She’d done her research. Her next steps absolutely involved forming an alliance with No Qualms Productions. They had a diverse workforce both on and behind the camera, had a great insurance policy, and treated their employees well, and once she’d read them, she’d know if she was in good hands or not.
To be fair, bad hands wouldn’t stop her from making this deal. Unless they were murderers. Fun fact: she could read that in someone too. True murderous intentions had an unmistakable stench to them.
Under the table, she discreetly rubbed her increasingly clammy palms on her pants. She had to be careful here. “Because it’s mutually beneficial. I get what I want, and you get the novelty of me. I’m here for my community. Black people are largely underrepresented in the supernatural industry. You know there’s an eager and dedicated audience waiting for good content. I know because I’m part of it. I’m here because you’re looking for the next Maverick Phillips, your big breakout star. And while no, I don’t believe I’m destined for stardom, I do believe you will not find someone better than me for this projectspecifically.”
“What makes you so confident about that?” Xander. Again.
Shit. Him using the c-word meant she’d accidentally gone too far. Should she backpedal or lean into it? Which option would bebest for the show? She licked her lips, nerves beginning to get to her. Instinctively, she wanted to lean into the truth…and to give them a hint. They might not catch it, but—
“Almost nothing scares me. I can rationalize my way through anything. And now that I’ve said that, I know you’refeelingeager to prove me wrong. It’s too tempting. Too perfect.” She shrugged—mostly to appear nonchalant but also because Stephen’s enthusiasm was beginning to burn through her glasses. She used the movement as an excuse to coyly look away. “Besides, I’m here, aren’t I? You said it yourself: I’ve mostly won you over with a five-minute audition tape. Now that you’ve met me, please use this moment to imagine what I could do for your show and company.” She held her breath, hoping, praying, and wishing for the best.
Xander exchanged a look and an entire silent conversation with Stephen in under ten seconds. Those two must’ve known each other extremely well. However, it was Castor who decided for them by sliding a manila folder across the table and opening it for her.
Lucky exhaled into a dazzling, triumphant smile as she flipped through the glossy pictures of a three-story Victorian house with a large front driveway, an incredible yard, and beautifully decorated, fully furnished rooms. Castor used phrases she’d never heard before like “pediment porch” and “polygonal towers” and pointed out the turrets, gables, and cupolas. She picked up a photo of a bedroom with the largest bed she’d ever seen, complete with a four-poster frame and canopy. Beautiful rugs complemented the gossamer drapes that glowed from the sunlight.
If they were going to try to scare the unholy hell out of her, at least it would be in the height of luxury.
“This is the haunted house?” A pile of paper, several sheets thick, was stacked under the photos. “Is this the contract?”
Stephen answered, “Yes. It details everything of importance for both the show and your stay in Hennessee House.”
“Will I have to sign an NDA?”
Xander said, “Failure to keep the details of production confidential will result in the immediate forfeiture of your wages.”
Honestly, she’d be willing to be on the show for free. Hell, she’d paythemto get unrestricted access to the house.
He continued, “The exterior is thoroughly monitored. You’ll be given a layout of the security system for your safety. Conversely, the interior is not. There are no permanent cameras, mounted or otherwise, anywhere.”
“Well, that seems odd and not at all like an interesting premise for a setup.” She laughed, happy to play along. “If there are no cameras in the house, and no one there to record it, do the spooky shenanigans actually happen?”
“They do.” Xander’s tone was unyielding, reinforced with concrete.
Stephen said, “For the first week, you’ll be required to give interviews every morning about your experience in the house and must agree to be filmed throughout the day by production. However, you will be alone at night. Every night from sundown to sunrise.” He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table and clasping his hands together. “We live in an era of special effects and deep fakes, and yet, nothing is more horrifying than someone’s imagination. Nothing we capture on film will be half as compelling as the way you tell your story. We want to hear what happens to you, from you. You’re welcome to film on your phone or camera and share that footage with us, but we’re content to take you at your word.”
“The house must be booby-trapped, then. It’s set up to scare me?”
“No. That defeats the purpose of the show.” Xander placed a tablet in front of her. A digital résumé and photo for someone named Eunice Choi was on the screen. “Swipe through. You’re actually caretaker number four. Those are your predecessors. No one has lasted longer than three nights.”
“Four is my favorite number. Imagine that,” she said absently. Most of her focus remained on reading the profiles. “Can I have copies of these? Their videos too?”
“Why?”
