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“Nope.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “I don’t do haunts.”
It was a total lie. My job was haunts. Or rather, taking photographs of places people believed were haunted. I was proud of what I had been able to accomplish with a camera in my hand, even if it was also what tore my family apart. When I was seventeen, my father gave me a spanking new Canon for my birthday. It was the most impressive gift he’d ever given me. More so than the Cartier watch he’d given me the previous year or the pale blue Vespa he’d purchased for me just a month shy of my birthday, a token of celebration for my early high school graduation. Little did either of us know how much trouble that Canon would bring. I’d taken photographs of our island, of the fog that never seemed to lift, even on the beaches that were visited by tourists from all over the world, not because of the su
That picture had been the stepping stone to my successful career taking pictures of abandoned places and old houses, but it had also caused an irreparable rift between my family and me. It had gotten me kicked out of my house at seventeen and left me to fend for myself. Thankfully, I had great friends who had good families, and landed on my feet. It didn’t change the fact that I lost my father that night, lost my mother by association, and had a strained relationship with my grandmother, the person who had been closest to me.
Through the years, I’d been asked countless questions about that photograph and still couldn’t quite come up with a clear answer for them. To have taken the picture, I would have had to be standing directly in front of the Manor. The only way to get to the Manor was to go to Dolos Island. There were all kinds of myths surrounding just that alone. The tide was high most of the time and the turbulent waters between the two islands meant a likely death. Historians had long deemed it unsafe. Conspiracy theorists labeled it the second Bermuda Triangle. Those of us from Pan Island saw it for what it was though. The Caliban Manor was cursed and anyone who went near it suffered greatly for it. So, the question really should have been, how did a Guzman heiress stand in front of Caliban Manor and take a picture and live to tell about it?
I wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew was that the Caliban Manor had been the very first picture I posted on my website, The Haunt, and now there were Reddit message boards dedicated to deciphering everything I posted. As a side hustle to my side hustle, I took pictures for a real estate company called Old Houses Inc., which was exactly that. A real estate company dedicated to only finding and selling old houses.
“So, will you be partaking in Carnival festivities since you’re here? Or go to the gala?” Martín asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“No.”
“And definitely not going to the gala then?”
“Definitely not.” I felt myself smile. He obviously didn’t understand the feud between the families. Maybe he thought it was a legend, like the curse itself.
“That’s too bad. It’s the only time we can walk to and from the house,” he said, as if that was a huge selling point.
“I know. I just don’t know why anyone would risk being stuck there.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “You know what they say about that house.”
“I know, but aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to see what it’s like?”
“No.” It was a lie. I would give up my shiny white EF 800mm lens to walk those halls and see how it really was inside.
“You look like you would.” He eyed my attire. “Dressed in all black like that.”
We both reared forward, then back as the boat was parked and anchored. Martín was still waiting for my response. There were a million things I could say—I always wear all black, like Joh
“I’m here for a funeral. Or do you suppose I should wear a celebratory color to honor my own father’s death?”