Jinxed: A Paranormal Why Choose Standalone
Jinxed: Chapter 1

Ihad a vision.
Not the kind you see in movies–the ones where psychics see the future and the year of your death and that kind of bullshit.

No. I had a real vision. A goal, if you will. My own thrift shop, filled to the brim with collectables you’d never be able to replace anywhere else. Every nook and cranny would be stuffed with trinkets, and people from miles around would come to see me, Savannah Miles, a self-made legend. Maybe I’d even have my own TV show. Life hadn’t always been easy for me, with the darkness pulling me down every opportunity it got, but I had found an outlet in treasure hunting. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, so my keepsakes became anything I could replace at thrift stores and flea markets.

Some people called it hoarding. I called it love.

Finding the perfect thrift was a high nothing else topped. Not even sex could surmount the thrill of rummaging around the loaded shelves of a random shop. I didn’t like to consider the fact that maybe I hadn’t had good sex.

But back to my vision, otherwise known as the reason I found myself in this shit town a few miles from my childhood home. The dream of opening my own shop had seemed unreachable, until a Great Uncle Alfred I’d never heard of died and left me a small sum of cash. I didn’t know the guy, but I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. The inheritance wasn’t a lot, but enough to either pay off my oppressive student loans or put a down payment on a place I could call my own. Getting approved for a mortgage might be difficult, but I wouldn’t have to worry about loans if I bought a cheap enough place.

You already know what I did. The student loans would always be there, but if I didn’t jump on this opportunity, it might have disappeared before I had the chance to turn my dream into reality.

I threw down the tacky red apron from the local diner I had worked at since college, and walked out on my sexist pig of a boss, middle fingers held high. That night, I’d called a real estate agent, a woman with bottle-blonde hair and a smile fragile enough to crack with the right amount of pressure.

This was how, the next morning, I found myself standing in front of what was little more than a pile of rubble. But the bones…they were the most beautiful bones I had seen in my life. As my realtor stood off to one side, tapping away on her phone and probably expecting a quick “no,” I tiptoed up the worn steps.

“Is it a Victorian?” I asked, not bothering to look back. She was probably still pecking at her phone. I made a mental note of the rotting wooden siding.

“Technically it’s post-Victorian. 1907. But nobody knows what that is, so we just call it Victorian.”

Works for me.

A tall steeple rose over the large bay window showcasing the two-story foyer that overlooked the porch. Ornate detailing framed the roof’s gables. In the front garden, a tree was split in two, looking like it had been struck by lightning. It was beautiful. It needed a lot of love, but hard work had never scared me before. Behind me, the realtor called out other details, but I barely listened, too focused on my exploration. “Now, we are far away from town, so phone signals may be difficult to come by.”

She wasn’t wrong. We had driven ten minutes on an abandoned, single-lane road before we even made it to the house’s expansive gravel driveway. But nothing she said could’ve swayed me. I was in love. Besides, it wasn’t anything money couldn’t fix, and for the first time in my life I had money to blow. Bad plumbing? I’d replace a repairman. Rural internet? Coming right up. I cupped my forehead to the window and peered inside. “Not a huge issue. I’m sure I can figure that out. Can we go in?”

From what I could see, the interior was in better shape than the peeling exterior. Antique rugs lay on original hardwood floors, and some furniture remained as well. I could envision my shelves lined with all my treasures, and maybe even a tea table set where people could stop and have a rest before they trekked back into town. Based on the furniture I could see, who knew what other goodies awaited me inside.

“Unfortunately not,” she called back, punctuating her sentence with quick taps on her phone. “The bank foreclosed on this property years ago. They’re still selling it ‘As Is,’ which means you can’t see inside, but you can’t beat the price.”

I turned to the side, the biggest smile on my face. She wasn’t wrong about that either–it was a steal. I could buy the place outright, and still have money to fix it up. The garden was overgrown, but you could see the beauty beneath the weeds and vines. I wished I could’ve looked into the backyard, but the padlock on the iron gate and the ivy crawling up the bars warned me to stay out. Still, I could envision the secret garden on the other side.

The realtor popped her head up from her phone, finally noticing me once more. “Shall we check out the next place?”

“No.” I shook my head, and her perfectly made-up face fell. “This is it. This is the house I want.” I ran my hand along the banister, imagining the beautiful wood grain remaining once I sanded off the ugly paint. This had to be one of those moments everyone talked about. The moments where everything changed. This was the start of the rest of my life.

Her face contorted with confusion. I knew she had never expected me to choose this house. This was supposed to be the house that made all the other houses on her roster look better. “Are you sure? You haven’t even seen the interior. It could be derelict.”

It could’ve been a thousand things, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I was certain. This was it.

I bought the house without ever going inside. The lawyer gave me a funny look when I went to sign the paperwork once he realized what property I was buying. “It’s a foreclosed property. Did you even look inside?”

“Nope.” Not even a stuffy lawyer could dull my excitement today. Keys first, adult problems later. At least, that’s what I was telling myself. “I’ll get a home inspector to check it out after I move in.”

“You know, I’ve heard some funny stories about the house over the years. The kids say it’s haunted,” he remarked, barely looking up from the paperwork he was pushing toward me.

I smiled. A few ghosts had never bothered me before. But if I had known what awaited me on the other side of the door, I would’ve paid a lot more attention to his warning.

I would’ve never stepped foot inside.

Moving days are always special. A breath of excitement, and the unknown. But also a taste of wanting it to be over, to be settled in and ready for the next part. Moving always felt like a combination of standing still and changing everything you’d ever known.

Of course, this moving day was completely different than anything I had known before. This was my first real house. Mine, and mine alone. I had gotten a late start, despite barely sleeping the night before. I drove my ancient pickup truck, every pothole and dip in the gravel road threatening to burst my tire. All my worldly possessions rode in the back. Safe and sound in my pocket rested the keyring to my new life, lying heavy against my thigh, a reminder of all the good things awaiting me at the end of this tree-lined path. I was moving in by myself. My best friend, Brynn–who had helped me move into the small apartment I’d rented–was teaching overseas in Korea for the year. We had been texting back and forth ever since I signed on the dotted line and became the proud owner of my dilapidated Victorian. She was excited to visit when she was home for the holidays, and I couldn’t wait to show her all the before-and-after photos of my hard work.

It didn’t mean flying solo wasn’t scary. Being alone with my thoughts was frightening. The darkness I kept at bay most of the time was slowly seeping into my vision, filling my ears with the hollow sound of silence. Dad would be so damn proud.

My dad was the only family I had ever known, and he was gone. He had been the one to tug me back from the ledge, time and time again. He was the one who told me I was worth it, when everything in me screamed I wasn’t. He had been there for me since the day I was born, even when his family turned his back on him for knocking up my mom out of wedlock. Even when my mom ran off, too unstable to be a young mother to a fussy baby. Dad did the best to raise me, but I still found myself depressed as a teen.

But Dad never left. Not even when the shadows took over, knocking my grades down to barely passable, and narrowing my options for college to the local community one. He cheered me on when I graduated, even though my business degree meant nothing to me, and even less in the real world once the pandemic hit. He took me out for dinner to celebrate my new job, waitressing at the diner where he had worked since I was a baby. I took the job feeling like it would bring me even closer to the man I so admired. Plus, a steady paycheck was nice. He held my hand, reassuring me it would be okay, even as the cancer stole his energy, and eventually his life. He had been gone three years now, but I knew he was still looking out for me.

The silence scared me the most. Because who was there to pull me back from the edge of sanity when my demons called to me? What would I hear when the monsters of my mind scratched at the door, demanding entrance?

Something people never told you? Loneliness was heavy. It weighed on your shoulders, a burden to carry. Because now you had to contain everything you needed to survive within yourself, instead of spreading the weight amongst people. Sometimes it was enough to topple you over, destabilizing the ground you once thought was solid. And if you didn’t have a solid support to begin with, well…you were screwed.

But luckily…I had Brynn. We had met in grade school, having each other’s backs every step of the way. When my dad died, she pulled me up and pieced me back together, and was my cheerleader every step of this journey. I wouldn’t be here without her. Here, where my dreams were coming true. A house of my own. My shop. As I pulled into the semicircular driveway, it was like Brynn knew from halfway around the world. I hopped out of the truck and pulled my vibrating phone out of my pocket. My signal was weak at best, flickering between one bar and nothing as I watched, but I had already mentally prepared for the possibility.

Brynn: Happy moving day! I can’t wait to see this monster you’ve spent Great Uncle Alfred’s life savings on. Xoxoxox
Brynn: You know, Granny used to tell me wild stories about some of the houses in that town. I’ll have to bring her out over Christmas break.

I grinned, looking up at my new home in all its glory. Surely Granny couldn’t have wild stories about my house. It was too damn perfect. Somehow, it was even more spectacular in the sunny glow. I could see its full potential now, painted creamy white, with deep-red roses climbing trellises around the large porch. Movement from an upstairs window caught my eye, a shifting of one of the heavy curtains. My breath caught in my throat as I watched, expecting to see it move again. But the fabric stayed still, taunting me. For a minute, I considered the haunted rumors held some truth.

Although it was early, I was exhausted. I quickly sent a text back to Brynn, knowing it was getting late in Korea and she was probably waiting for me to respond before she went to bed. I could picture her clearly, dressed in her old university shirt with the holes in it, her vibrant red hair pulled up on top of her head.

Savannah: Just got here now. I can’t believe I get to call this house MINE. Pinch me.

Brynn: No can do, kiddo. You deserve every moment of happiness.
Savannah: Awwww. You’re obviously sleep deprived. Get to bed.
Brynn: Will do. Just calling Granny first.
Savannah: Give her my love!

I tucked my phone into my pocket. Brynn’s Granny had been a mother figure for both of us growing up, and even though she was in a home now, I had only the fondest memories of her. Brynn was right though–she had some wild stories. I turned toward the back of my truck. My apartment had been small, and my few belongings would barely fill one room in the massive house. But that was what thrift stores and flea markets were for, right? I’d bring my boxes inside, get settled, take stock of what was already here, and then come up with a plan. I grabbed the first box out of the pile, balancing it on one hip, and grabbing my key with my free hand. This was it. This was the moment I had been waiting for since I had first laid eyes on the house.

Hell, I had been waiting for this moment my entire life. A place to call my own. I walked up the porch steps, enjoying the way they creaked under my footsteps, as if adjusting to the weight of their new owner.

I couldn’t breathe as I slipped the key marked “front door” into the knob, my heart thumping as the locks clicked out of place. Would it be everything I had imagined on the inside? This couldn’t have been a mistake. Everything felt too right for it to be wrong. The door stuck, jammed with age and disuse. The humidity probably wasn’t helping, either. I threw my shoulder into it and felt it bow beneath my weight. Since rust was a hazard of thrifting, I knew I had some lubricant spray stashed in my truck. I’d go out and replace it as soon as I dropped this box in the living room. If the door ever decided to unstick.

Finally it gave, swinging open to reveal the entryway of my dreams. Dark wood caressed the walls, and a sweeping staircase punctuated the edges of the room, filling the high ceiling. In the middle, a heavy, brass chandelier hung low–in desperate need of a polish, and most likely, new bulbs. Built-in cabinets occupied either side, heavy mahogany that emphasized the aura of the house. I took a step inside the doorway, wanting to get closer, to touch and feel every bit of my new residence.

I thought buying the house was my moment everything changed. My first footstep into the house proved me wrong–the real moment everything changed. A gust of wind pushed against my back, forcing me to stagger deeper into the foyer. I dropped my cardboard box as I stumbled forward, trying to stay on my feet. Behind me, the door slammed shut.

“What the fuck?” I muttered. I had wanted to leave the door open until I found my rust spray, to fix the jam. I remember thinking, Just my luck, having to pry open a door two seconds after I walk in. I sighed, wrenching at the heavy door with all of my strength. Definitely fucking stuck.

I scrubbed my hand over my forehead. No matter. There had to be a backdoor. I wandered through the carved arch to my left, pausing inside what looked to be the dining room. This was the room I had seen through the bay window, curving to the front through the parlor. All the furniture looked custom to the room, the long table still set with delicate china. The hardwood floors carried through this room, covered with a well-worn rug. Rich blue wallpaper lined the walls, and I immediately understood the care the original owners had taken in building this place. Every detail was carefully considered. I hoped I would make them proud with what I planned to do when I renovated. The room looked perfectly frozen in time, a memory waiting to be revisited. I trailed my finger over a cornflower-blue plate, expecting dust to coat my finger. Surprisingly, though, the tableware was clean. In fact, I would’ve expected a lot more dust everywhere for an abandoned house, but the inside seemed to be in much better condition than the outside. The realtor must have gotten her story wrong–obviously the bank had people checking in on the place. Sure, there was some wear and tear, but in overall cleanliness and condition? I couldn’t have asked for better.

A thump from the second floor startled me. I whirled around. My heart thudded in my ears, and I struggled to hear over it, to figure out who else was here with me. I waited one moment, then two. A third, to be safe. But the house was utterly silent. I chewed on my lip, giving my head a quick shake. The grumpy lawyer and his ghost stories had gotten to me. That was the only explanation. This house was locked up tight as a drum–no one was getting in or out. Old homes had creaky floors and settling foundations. Maybe a family of mice had made a home in an unused bedroom somewhere.

Except, those were pretty big mice to thump so loud.

Except nothing. I had bigger things to worry about than an old ghost story or two. Namely, replaceing where the hell the back door was.

Noise forgotten, I trekked across the dining room and entered into the small kitchen. For such a large house, one might’ve expected a bigger kitchen. But they weren’t popular when the house was built, so the room was quaint; usable, at the very least. A cheerful yellow paint coated the walls, and I could picture how happy the family who had lived here must have been. Oak cabinets lined each side, and at the end stood exactly what I was looking for–the back door.

I dragged my hand behind me, caressing the wooden countertops as I walked. Again, the lack of dust surprised me. I needed to know who the bank’s cleaning people were, and how I could convince them to stay on. I would never be able to replicate this level of quality, especially not once I filled the home with my antiques. Speaking of which, I was going to have to replace space for them all. There was a hell of a lot more furniture left behind than I expected. Worn and well-used, but in good condition. I would have to scour through it all and see what was worth money, and what would be better off going right to the dump. Pots and pans filled the kitchen, along with the rest of the dishware from the dining room. I was tempted to keep the dishes for myself, because the color was stunning…

But first things first. Fixing the gummy front door. The back door should have opened out into the garden, and like the front door it was beautiful, though it needed some TLC. I gave the handle a quick twist, expecting the door to give easily, but instead it stayed in one place.

You have got to be kidding me…I stood on my tiptoes, looking out the window to see what was stopping the door from opening. The culprit was immediately evident–a large padlock chained the door handle to the frame. I guess the previous owner didn’t take any chances with break-ins. One of the keys on my new massive keyring had to open it, but it didn’t exactly help me now. I yanked my phone out of my pocket, ready to shoot off an angry text to Brynn, only to see I had no signal in the house. Of course.

I groaned. I was going to have to jack open a window. I stomped up to the closest window and tried to wrench the old wooden frame up as hard as I could. It didn’t budge. Cocksucker…obviously the humidity had affected more than just the doors. I systematically tried each window in the kitchen, none of them shifting in their ancient frames. Irritation was building, and I tried to tamp it down. None of the dining room windows opened either. This was getting ridiculous. There was one more I could try, and then I’d have to break a window. When I approached the large bay window overlooking the porch, I didn’t even bother trying to open it–the frames were painted shut. I could chisel it open…if I had my chisel. Which I didn’t. Because why would I have any of the tools I needed?

Annoyed now, I stormed back through the kitchen, ignoring all the details I had been so captivated by when I first saw them. I snagged the decorative tea towel hanging off the stove, and wrapped it around my fist. It was the first time I had been locked in a house instead of out of it, but I figured the tricks would be the same. I needed to decide which window would be the cheapest to replace. The bay window in the dining room would probably be the easiest to crawl out of, but expensive. Unless I could manage to smash one of the small panels to the side. It would be a tight fit, but big enough for my ass to crawl through, and the sides didn’t have any stained glass.

I tightened the tea towel around my knuckles, winding my arm back. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, and swung forward.

My hand didn’t move. I opened my eyes, a scream inching its way up my throat when I saw fingers wrapped around my fist. From a hand that didn’t belong to me, attached to a tanned arm, connected to a lean body. A man–an incredibly good-looking man–held me back from smashing my window of choice.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”