Harper Vale didn’t believe in ghosts.
At twenty-three years old, with a sharp mind, a psychology degree, and a healthy dose of skepticism, she considered herself the most rational person in her entire friend group. So when her friends gathered at their usual bar and dared her to spend the entire night alone in the infamous Thorne Manor, the decaying Victorian mansion on the outskirts of town that locals had whispered about for over a century, Harper had simply laughed and raised her glass.
“Fine,” she had said with a cocky grin. “If I make it through the night without getting possessed or murdered by some Victorian ghost, you all owe me a thousand dollars each. And I only accept cash.”
That bold declaration was how she found herself here.
It was 9:17 PM when Harper pulled her old, beat
