The real estate agent looked nervous.
"Mr. Castor, I have to be honest with you," Margaret Whitmore said, hands fidgeting with her briefcase. "This property has a... reputation."
They stood at the gates of Ashton Estate, and even from here, Rhys could feel it. A pull. A wrongness. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
"I know," Rhys said. "That's why I want it."
Margaret glanced at him—this young man with shadows under his eyes and an intensity that made her uncomfortable—and probably thought he was one of those ghost-hunting YouTubers.
If only
"The current owner, Mr. Ernest Whitmore—my uncle, actually—he's desperate to sell. Hasn't been able to keep it on the market for more than a week at a time. People tour it, they love the history and architecture, but..."
"But they sense something wrong."
"Yes." Margaret looked relieved that she didn't have to say it. "The last family who tried to move in? Left after three days. Said they heard voices. Saw things moving. Their young daughter claimed a 'sad prince' visited her room at night."
Rhys felt sick. Pryce had terrorized a child?
"And before that?
"A developer wanted to turn it into a boutique hotel. His entire crew refused to work after dark. Two workers were hospitalized—one fell from scaffolding he swears he was pushed from, another had what doctors called a 'psychotic break' but he insists he was possessed."
Margaret pulled out an iPad, showed Rhys the listing.
ASHTON ESTATE
Built: 1695 (England), Relocated: 1893 (New York)
52 rooms, 15 bedrooms, 10 bathrooms
Original 18th-century furnishings and architecture
12 acres of grounds
Price: $1,000,000 (REDUCED)
"That price is insane for what it is," Rhys said. "It should be worth ten times that."
"It would be. If it wasn't—" Margaret hesitated.
"Haunted?"
"I was going to say 'troubled.' But yes." She looked at him seriously. "Mr. Castor, I'm required by law to tell you: there have been fourteen deaths on this property over the past century. Some ruled accidental. Some suicides. One unsolved murder. If you buy this place..."
"I know the risks."
"Do you?" Margaret's voice rose slightly. "My uncle has nightmares about this place. He inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father—it's been in my family for three generations, and every single one of them has been tormented by it. Whatever is in there, it doesn't want to be sold. It wants—"
"Me," Rhys finished quietly. "It wants me."
Margaret stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Let's see the inside."