The timing for the group’s arrival at the haunted house was impeccable; they managed to snag the final slots for the next batch of entrants.
As Selena moved slowly forward with the queue, the light shifted before her eyes, transitioning from the bright outdoor sun to a murky, oppressive dimness. Within her breath, aside from the sharp, intoxicating scent of aged liquor radiating from Lucian, who was standing so close they were practically fused together, she detected the heavy atmosphere of a cellar.
It was cold, smelling of damp mold, mixed with the unidentifiable scent of old fabric and cheap machinery.
The queue was noisy. Other tourists ahead of them were chattering incessantly, their voices filled with the excitement of the novel experience. To Selena, who had maintained a life of
