Operation: Make Him a Gentleman

CHAPTER 4: Night Terror

"I think you're bored," Cathy said, refusing to move back.

"I think you're a rich kid who is playing a character because the real world is too loud."

Casper’s eyes darkened. "Bored? You want to see what happens when I'm bored?"

Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Cathy felt a cold wind whip past her neck, even though the windows were closed and latched. The silver spoons on the table began to vibrate, a low humming sound that set her teeth on edge.

"Stop it," Cathy said, her heart starting to race. "I know you have speakers hidden or some trick with the vents. I’m not a child."

"Is it a trick?" Casper asked. He didn't move his hands, they were gripped tight on the edge of the table.

Suddenly, the crystal vase in the center of the table tipped over. The water spilled across the white cloth, soaking into the fabric like a growing stain. The single leaf turned black and shriveled up right before her eyes, as if aged a hundred years in a second.

Cathy gasped, jumping back as the cold water reached her lap.

Casper stood up. He looked taller now, more imposing. "I told you, Cathy. I like the dark. And the dark likes me. Don't try to fix what isn't broken.

"He grabbed the coffee pot and the whole pot and walked toward the door.

"Wait!" Cathy called out, wiping the water from her jeans.

"We aren't done! We have to talk about your schedule! By tomorrow, we will start with the speech!" Casper paused at the door.

He didn't turn around. "Tomorrow, I’m going to show you why the last three fixers left. Sleep with your lights on, Cathy. The house gets hungry at night."

He vanished into the hallway, his heavy boots echoing until they were replaced by the oppressive silence of the manor.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of unease. Cathy spent the afternoon in the library, trying to distract herself with the Sterling family history. She found a leather-bound photo album tucked away on a high shelf. Inside, she saw a different Casper. In a photo dated fifteen years ago, a blonde boy was laughing on a swing set, his eyes bright and full of life. Beside him stood a man and a woman who looked happy, glowing with the kind of confidence only the very wealthy possess.

"What happened to that boy?" she whispered to the empty library.

Night fell quickly at Sterling Manor. By 6:00 PM, the woods outside were a wall of black. Cathy retreated to her room, locking the door and propping a heavy chair against the handle. She felt foolish, but Casper’s parting words the house gets hungry, rang in her ears.

She tried to read, but every creak of the house made her jump. The manor felt alive, a giant beast settling into its sleep.

At 2:14 AM, the scratching began. It wasn't a loud noise. It was a rhythmic, dry sound, like fingernails on wood. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Cathy froze under her blankets. "It's just a mouse," she told herself. "An old house has mice."

But the scratching moved. It went from the bottom of the door to the middle, then to the top. Then, a low, wet breathing sound drifted through the gap under the door.

"Casper?" she called out, her voice trembling. "Casper, if that's you, it isn't funny."

No answer. Only the scratching.

Summoning a burst of courage she didn't know she had, Cathy grabbed her heavy flashlight, shoved the chair aside, and flung the door open.

The hallway was empty. The dim emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows on the red carpet. There was no one there.

But pinned to the outside of her door was a piece of charcoal paper. Cathy pulled it down, her fingers shaking. It was a drawing, a detailed, disturbing sketch of her own room. In the drawing, Cathy was asleep in her bed, but standing over her was a tall, shadow-like figure with no face, only a gaping mouth.

At the bottom, in elegant, looping script, were the words: DON'T FORGET TO BREATHE.

Cathy looked down the hallway. At the very end, near the stairs to the West Wing, she saw a flash of a black sweater disappearing around the corner.

"Nice try, Casper!" she shouted into the dark, her voice echoing. "But your perspective is off on the window frame! We’re working on your art skills tomorrow too!"

She went back into her room and slammed the door, but she didn't turn off the lights for the rest of the night. She sat on the bed, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm. She realized then that this wasn't just a job about teaching a boy to dance. This was a psychological war. And she, Cathy, was currently losing.

She looked at her bank balance again. $14.02.

"I can do this," she whispered, clutching the flashlight like a sword. "I just need to survive until the first check clears."