CHAPTER 2 : BLACKWATER HALL

The rain started somewhere after Astoria and never stopped. It came in sheets, turning the world to watercolor;  trees bending, fog swallowing the road whole. The taxi’s heater hissed losing it’s battle against the cold.

“You headed to the Vale place?” the driver asked, glancing at me through the mirror.

I nodded, watching the coastline blur past.

“Didn’t think anyone still went out there,” he said. “You know who lives there?”

“Julian Vale.”

“Yeah.” He gave a low whistle. “Used to be a legend. Him, his brother, Levi…  The whole town knew when they were around. Music, girls, chaos. Guess it all went bad after.” The sentence fell off a cliff of its own.

“I’ve read the stories,” I said.

He looked at me sideways. “Then you know what you’re walking into.” 

“I’m not sure anyone ever does.”

“You a journalist?” His gaze was was more intense filled with curiosity

“No.”

“What then?”

“A ghostwriter.”

He snorted. “That house could use one.” 

The road narrowed, winding through evergreens half-asleep under the rain. Then the trees broke apart, and the world dropped into ocean. Blackwater Hall clung to the cliffside as if the earth had grown it in defiance. All black glass and storm-dark cedar, it stared out over the Pacific — an old god watching its own ruin. The driver slowed instinctively. “Figures he’d live somewhere with a name like that.” 

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It was… before, you know.” He muttered, his eyes drifting somewhere far away, lost in his own thoughts.

He stopped the car right in front of the gate wide open.

“You sure this is it?”

“I’m sure.”

He shook his head. “Good luck, Miss Ghostwriter.”

The rain hit like cold needles. The air smelled of pine, salt, and the ghost of cigarettes like the world itself was hungover. I started walking, breathless, toward what looked like the main entrance. My thoughts wandered endlessly, tangled in the anticipation of meeting him — Julian Vale. I desperately needed this to work; it was maybe my last chance. I gathered every bit of courage I had to knock… but before I could even reach the door it opened violently too fast for me to realize that  Julian Vale stood there right in front of me.

He was taller than I expected black hair falling in uneven waves, brushing the edge of a beard that made him look both older and more intimidating. Tattoos climbed his forearms, half-hidden by rolled sleeves. His dark brow eyes, sharp and exhausted studied me like a problem to solve.

“You’re her.” He smirked

“Ava Howard.” I forced a smile.

“My manager’s idea,” he said flatly.

He turned, leaving the door open. I followed, boots dripping rain onto marble. The house hit me like a memory that wasn’t mine black glass, velvet, chandeliers humming low. A grand staircase curved upward like a question mark. Guitars and gold records lined the walls. A grand piano gleamed under a skylight. The air smelled of cedar and smoke, but nothing made it feel alive.

Julian was pacing by the window, phone pressed to his ear.

“Claire. You sent her here without telling me? Jesus, Claire! No, she’s here. In my house. Yeah, I’m thrilled. I want her gone. Don’t hang up—” He exhaled through his teeth, pressing the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I didn’t realize this was a surprise visit.”

“No… It’s not a surprise,” he said. “It’s an ambush.”

I swallowed the instinct to apologize again. He can hate it, but I can’t leave. Rent doesn’t pay itself and ghostwriting washed-up legends still beats temp work.

“I can work with ambushes” I said, trying to remotely calm him. “If it helps, I wasn’t told you’d be thrilled either.”

He studied me for a moment, the silence stretching thin. His gaze dragged over me deliberate, assessing the kind of look that felt physical. My cheeks went hot before I could stop it. 

Great. Blush in front of the client. Very professional, Ava.

“You dress like a teenage boy,” he said finally.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Jeans, sweater, boots.” His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. “You look… younger than I expected.”

You hired a writer, not a model, I wanted to say. And youth’s the only currency I have left. Instead I said :

“Twenty-seven.”

He made a low sound half hum, half disbelief. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“And is that a problem?”

“It might be,” he said, taking a slow step closer. “People your age still think stories fix things.”

He has no idea how badly I need this one to fix mine.

I straightened, pulse jumping despite myself. “And people like you think they ruin them.”

For the first time, he smiled  a flicker of sharp amusement, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Touché.”

He crossed to the bar, poured whiskey into a glass. I watched the motion, automatic and practiced.

“So, Ava Howard, ghostwriter. What’s your angle? Everyone who walks through this door wants something.”

Rent. Student loans. Groceries. Maybe a little pride.

“I’m here to write your story.”

“That’s the problem. Everyone already has.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“Not yet.”

He drank, watching me over the rim. “Don’t record without asking. Don’t quote me. Don’t tell anyone where this place is. I’m done seeing my name on headlines.”

“I’m not here for headlines.”

“You really believe that?” He locked eyes with me.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He gave a humorless breath of a laugh. “Claire thinks this book will save my reputation. I stopped caring about reputation a long time ago.”

“Then why agree?”

He looked past me, out toward the dark ocean. “Because sometimes saying no takes more energy than saying yes.”

That, at least, I understood. Saying no meant another week of unpaid bills.

When he turned back, his eyes caught mine again steady, searching, impossible to look away from.

“Your room’s upstairs,” he said. “End of the hall. Don’t touch anything.”

“Anything specific?”

“Everything.”

“Noted.”

He watched as I crossed the room, my footsteps echoing on marble. I could feel his stare between my shoulder blades all the way to the stairs.

Upstairs, the guest room was sleek and dark, all sharp lines and storm light. The windows opened to the endless gray sea, waves crashing against the rocks like they were trying to get in.

I sat on the bed, opened my notebook, and wrote:

He looks at me like I’m both trespassing and familiar. Like he’s seen every version of me before I’ve said a word. He says he doesn’t want to be seen, but he keeps staring anyway. Maybe it isn’t the house that’s haunted. Maybe it’s him and I just opened the door

Outside, the wind screamed across the cliffs, and below it all, the ocean kept breathing slow and relentlessly.

Blackwater Hall was alive.