“You look green,” Charity said. “Here, sit.” She motioned to the couch.
“I need air,” Linda said.
“Sure.” Panic infused Charity’s voice. “Come on.” Charity didn’t wait for a cameraman, so the one who followed them scrambled to gather his gear. Together, Charity and Linda walked a long hall to the foyer, then exited the manor through the front door. Outside, Linda leaned against the building’s stonework. She took several deep breaths. The rotting smell wasn’t gone, but the outside air minimized it.
“This house needs some repairs, huh?” Charity said.
“It’s silly to be freaked out by that, right?” Linda said. She’d never seen or smelled anything like the goo, and its presence had chilled her to the core.
“It’s an old house,” Charity said. “Old houses do weird shit sometimes. Especially when they’ve got producers setting them up for maximum spook.” She shrugged. “It’s not silly,” she said. “It’s never silly to feel something.”
“You think the producers did that?” Linda said. “And the earthquake?”
“They’ve been manipulating us this whole time. You know that Brandon Fuller tracks our menstrual cycles, right? And then Deja tries to make us do wild shit when we’re on our periods. This is more manipulation. You’ll see.”
“God, this show is fucked up.”
“But adored by millions.” Charity gave Linda a fake winning smile. “That’s why we fame whores put up with it, right?”
The cameraman grunted. “Change the topic,” he said. “You know I can’t air any of this.”
“That’s the point, numb nuts,” Charity said.
Linda didn’t want to break her contract or risk Deja’s wrath. She wiped at her forehead. She was covered in sweat. “That smell fucked me up.”
“It was a bad smell, dude,” Charity said.
Linda tried to think of something, anything, other than the smell. “You’re good at darts.”
“Thanks,” Charity said. “You’re not.” Suddenly, Charity laughed, and like a whirlpool, Linda found herself pulled into the unexpected glee. Together, they cackled until finally, Linda steadied herself.
“I warned y’all.” Linda nudged Charity. “And yet, you made me throw one anyway.”
“I didn’t make you do anything, Meadows.” Charity threw her hands up in the air. “No one controls your actions but yourself.”
“And the contracts we signed,” Linda said. The cameraman coughed. The mention of contracts, too, was forbidden. It ruined the magic, the producers said. Or in the case of this manor, this challenge, this journey—whatever the correct language was—the horror.
Chapter Ten
Sabrina
Sabrina watched Charity lead Linda outside and turned back to the room. Deja had told her she had no chance of winning, but two of her competitors kept sneaking off and ignoring the man they were supposed to be fighting for. Sabrina glared at Marion, who dangled from Tristan’s arm like a sloth. Deja thought Marion was going to win, so Marion would be the hardest to beat. Sabrina thought of her sister; she would beat the bitch for her.
Sabrina startled at the thought. It felt like someone else speaking through her. She didn’t use words that brought women down. She shook herself off and did what she’d been taught to in order to chase away the dark parts of herself: she focused on her man.
“Tristan, you look tired,” she said. Leo had followed Linda, and Tatum had ventured off to find Deja. Becca and Jazz were filming them now. “Not much for secretions?”
Tristan grinned. “I don’t mind a good secretion.”
“Ew!” Marion slapped him on the shoulder, but Sabrina had caught his attention. His eyes remained trained on her.
“Your feelings on the matter?” he said.
“I deal with nasty shit all day, every day,” she said. “The walls are oozing? At least I’m not the one who’s supposed to clean it up.”
The words ignited something else in Tristan. He shook Marion off. “Wait, can we even use any of this footage? Like, are y’all getting the nasty wall in these shots?” he asked the camera operators. “Where’s Deja?”
Sabrina sighed, the moment lost.
“Honestly? Tatum probably got lost looking for her,” Becca said.
“Himbo,” Jazz said.
“I bet Sabrina wouldn’t get lost.” As Tristan gave her his boyish grin, her skin flamed.
“Fine, I’ll find her.” Sabrina winked at Tristan and strode out of the room as though she had any idea where she was going.
The halls were dark, the gas lamps turned down for the evening. “Deja,” she whispered into the vast empty space, then tried it louder. When she got no response, she moved along the wall toward the hint of light: what she assumed was the entryway.
“Deja!” she called, louder this time.
“What the hell do you want?” Deja appeared at the stairs like a statue come to life.
“We need you in the parlor,” Sabrina said. “Clean-up on aisle Tristan.”
“He pissed himself?”
“What? No. There’s weird ooze coming from the walls.”
