Westley Roberts is supposed to be preparing for an important upcoming horseshow. As a means to distract him and help keep his nerves on an even keel, Westley’s boyfriend Nicolaj takes him urban exploring at a rundown asylum. While there, an unhappy spirit makes contact with Westley, who has always been able to communicate with the deceased.
Before either of them know, Westley is targeted by the ghost. Nicolaj is unsure of how to fight the dark figure he can’t see, but knows he has to find the right banishment spell or it could mean the end of his boyfriend.
It started as an itch under the edges of the bandage, Westley absently rubbing his cut palm against his thigh. It was the little annoyance that accompanied healthy healing, a process sped up by Nicolaj’s wonderful poultice, and would pass with time. Swimming along the edge of consciousness, barely awake, he went to grasp for the blanket while simultaneously rolling to his side, all the while expecting to snuggle up to the comforting warmth of his man. Instead, his eyes shot open to witness the brief moment of falling through the air before he hit the floor with an uncomfortable thud. It was hard, cold, and unforgiving, the plush gray carpet of their bedroom replaced with tile. He’d fallen only a foot or two, but the impact, combined with the shock, rattled the oxygen from his lungs, and he lay there stunned, chest to the floor, gaze locked on the world beyond the doorway.
He was no longer in their bedroom.
Greeted, instead, with a viewpoint of a long hall, one that was vaguely familiar. Brownish-black spots of mold discolored the floor much too close to his face and nestled in the middle, almost completely camouflaged, was a spider bigger in width than a quarter. Its proximity, mixed with a sudden realization of where he was, the knowledge of his location sinking into every fiber, spurred Westley into action. He scrambled, not quite making it to his feet, but prying himself off the floor enough to sit with his back pressed against the metal frame of a cot, one no doubt bolted to the floor. He clutched his injured hand to his heaving chest, blood roaring as it rushed through his ears. Startled by his movements, the spider took off for places unknown, leaving Westley visibly alone in the room.
Pale blue paint flaked away from an aged wall, the wood scarred and the window too grimy to see outside. Rose Hill, how did I come to be here? Am I dreaming? I’ve got to be, right? He still sported his pajamas, a pair of pants dotted with the recognizable symbol of Mickey Mouse, the popular rodent front and center on his shirt; the set had been a gift from Calleigh. His feet were bare, making him cringe at the thought of walking through the asylum with its broken tiles and discarded pieces of metal. Getting his breath under control, Wesley strained to hear any sound within the bowels of the structure. Outside frogs, crickets, and other bugs serenaded the night, their presence taking the edge off his fear, after all, didn’t the forest always fall quiet when something sinister was lurking?
As if reading his thoughts, soft piano music began to fill the air, awfully sorrowful, and tickling at his fear laying right below the surface. Nicolaj played the likes of classical music in his shop, but this tune, it was unlike anything Westley had ever heard before, a sinister under current accompanying it. And yet, it spoke to him, the melody weaving around his soul, and prompting him to his feet. Almost as an afterthought, Westley crossed to the door, unaware he narrowly missed stepping on the spider, the tiles slimy and cool beneath his soles. At the doorway he paused looking out at what appeared to be a never ending hallway, broken intermittently buy open doors leading to other rooms he surmised to be like the one he currently found himself in. The music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.
