Fables & Other Lies - Claire Contreras Page 0,6

of the front page.”

“With a warning about how your friends suck, I’m sure.” Dee scoffed.

“You know it.” I winked.

“I find it fascinating that Pan Island is so conservative, yet hosts the most liberal carnival every year.” Martín shook his head. “I mean, last year there were people walking around naked.”

“That’s Pan for you.” I shrugged a shoulder and looked at the red dot on my phone. “It’s this way.”

We started our trek uphill and I was definitely glad we’d agreed to walk instead of drive. The island was a series of hills and curves, and even though I’d only had one drink, my head was already spinning.

“What does the description say?” Martín asked. “Of the house, I mean.”

“Just that it’s been handed down from generation to generation, and the new owner wants to break tradition and sell.” I looked up at him. “Basically, the classic Pan Island story.”

“I’ve heard that.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I think that’s why I was so surprised when you told me you were from here and had left.”

I nodded. The typical Pan Island tale consisted of people getting married, living either with their parents or within walking distance of them, and inheriting their houses when they passed. It was the reason I was shocked to see an email from the real estate company here at all. The market was usually stagnant. The only house I’d known of to sell to an outsider was Doña Erica, and that was only because she lived alone her entire life and had no children. There was no one to inherit the property.

As we walked, we talked about the market and the craze around all things old and haunted. Martín filled Dee in on his life, since he’d already told me about it on the bus. He was a banker in the city who worked with top bank clients. He wouldn’t name names, but told us they were the who’s who of the city. Dee and I weren’t impressed. It wasn’t that gossip was beneath us, but we had enough of that on the island already and I was definitely planning to lay low this weekend. I was so busy listening to them discuss The Haunt that I nearly didn’t realize the red dot stopped moving.

“It says we’re here.” I stopped walking. The three of us looked around. I could smell the ocean, though I couldn’t see it with the fog. I couldn’t see much at all, but I knew we were definitely nowhere near Dolly’s Bar anymore.

“How far did we walk?” Martín asked.

“Two miles,” Dee said, eyeing her exercise watch.

“This is so weird.” I walked over to the street sign. “It says we’re on Dreary Lane.”

Dee froze. “We cannot be on Dreary Lane.”

“Why?” Martín asked with a chuckle. “Because the Devil’s Chair is here?”

“Don’t even bring that up.” Dee shot him a look. “Last time we came here . . . ”

“What?” Martín was smiling now. “You got spooked?”

“The last time I was here I took a picture that gave me the career I have now. The beginning of The Haunt, you can say.”

“Yeah, but only after you sat on the Devil’s Chair and left crying,” Dee said.

“What?” I laughed. “I do not remember that.”

“I can’t imagine how.” Dee shook her head. “And then you left the island.”

“I was thrown out of my house.” I shot her a look. “Very different.”

“Still. That chair brings bad luck.” She shivered. “It gives me the creeps.”

“Maybe all the folktales are true after all,” Martín mused, looking at me.

“Honestly, I don’t remember anything about that night.” I bit my lip. “I remember packing my bag. I remember fighting with my dad. That was basically it.”

“Maybe it was the underage drinking,” Dee said.

“Probably.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to find the chair. I need to take a picture. You know The Haunt is going to love this.”

“She’s not wrong.” Martín started walking.

“Fine, but if you experience anything weird I am leaving.” She linked her arm with mine and we followed him.

“Hey, is the house you’re supposed to take pictures of 999 Dreary Lane?” Martín glanced over his shoulder.

I stiffened. I knew that address but that couldn’t be right. That was Caliban Manor. I took my phone out of my pocket and read the next email. It read: Sorry, totally forgot to send the address along with that. 999 Dreary Lane. Price tag: $15 million. My eyes widened. I read it aloud for my friends, who gasped.

“They’re