Chapter 1: Cursed Contracts and Internet Shade

Because I’m jumpy and easily spooked, my manager signed me up for a haunted mansion reality livestream—to toughen me up, she said. Like I needed a boot camp in terror.

Honestly, if there were a world record for how fast someone could get goosebumps just from a creaky floorboard, I would've broken it years ago, no contest. My manager, though, just grinned and said, “Time to face your fears, Lila.” Like I was some sitcom character about to learn a *"Very Important Lesson."*

So I packed my backpack full of kosher salt and silver keychains, and hung enough protective crosses to make a priest jealous.

I looked like a walking yard sale for a church rummage fundraiser. Every time I moved, my backpack jingled and clinked, and the silver bat poked out the top like I was auditioning for a Little League exorcism, minus the jersey. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. Not after what I’d read online about those places.

The internet roasted me, saying I was faking a delicate act, and America’s sweetheart, Savannah Monroe, even implied I was playing up the "scared-little-girl routine."

It didn’t matter how many times I explained that I was a genuine fraidy-cat—people just love a good pile-on online. And Savannah’s comment? That stung, I won't lie. She was the kind of girl everyone’s mom wanted to adopt, and if she said you were putting on an act, well, that was gospel for half the country.

But once the livestream started—everything flipped.

The haunted house was no joke. Savannah—usually so unflappable—went chalk white, clutching my arm and whispering, “Lila, do you have any more of those crosses?” The chat nearly broke itself laughing.

The lights flickered, the wind howled, and somewhere upstairs, something thudded hard enough to rattle the floor. Even the bravest of us were starting to freak out, and for once, my weird little collection of charms didn’t seem so silly.

My manager thought I was too much of a wimp. Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence. So when the haunted mansion adventure show reached out, she shoved me in without a second thought, ignoring all my crying, wailing, and threats to quit.

She barely looked up from her phone as I tried to plead my case. “Lila, the only thing you’re in danger of is giving yourself a heart attack from stress. You’ll be fine.” She shoved the contract at me with a flourish, like she was sending me to summer camp, not a horror movie.

“Lila, the contract’s signed. If you back out, you’ll owe six million!” Six million. My soul wasn't even worth that much.

She waved the contract in my face, saying something scarier than any haunted house.

Six million. She could sell my organs and still not come close.

I did the math—six million dollars. I could win the lottery twice and still be short. Suddenly, the ghosts seemed less terrifying than my bank account.

So, yeah, I was scared out of my mind. But there was no way out.

I tried everything: tears, bribes, promising to do double the social media posts. Nothing worked. That contract was ironclad, and my manager was as unmoving as a brick wall.

When I realized resistance was futile, I went out and bought a big bag of crosses and silver charms, hanging peace medallions all over myself. I even stuffed a silver-plated baseball bat into my bag, swiped from my brother’s Little League gear the night before—about as thick as my arm. Should be useful, right? Or at least make me feel better.

I spent the night before the shoot in a full-on panic spiral, watching ghost-hunting shows on mute and googling "what to do if a ghost touches you." My brother just shook his head and handed me the bat, saying, “Just don’t break it, okay? Coach’ll kill me.”

I’m a superstitious scaredy-cat. And for this haunted mansion adventure, to keep the audience hooked and make sure the scares felt real, the producers picked some seriously notorious locations. The first episode was set in an old manor deep in the Appalachian woods.

The drive out there took us past gas stations with flickering neon and down gravel roads so bumpy my teeth rattled. The trees pressed in, thick and shadowy, and even the GPS was like, "Are you sure about this?" It felt like the kind of place you’d see in a true crime documentary.

Dense forest. A deserted, crumbling mansion. Mysterious noises at midnight. Just stringing those words together painted terrifying scenes in my mind.

I swear, every horror movie ever made started with a road like this. By the time we pulled up, I was this close to hyperventilating. The old house loomed out of the trees, windows dark, porch sagging, paint peeling like it was shedding its own skin.

All this gear gave me a little comfort. It was the only thing keeping my nerves in check.

I kept patting my backpack like it was a lucky rabbit’s foot. If I could’ve fit my grandma’s Bible in there, I would have. All those charms were the only thing keeping me from bolting.

My manager watched me cram my bag and couldn’t help but laugh, pointing at the crosses inside. “You really don’t need all this, Lila. It’s just a haunted house adventure. At most, we’ll visit a few rundown places.”

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the hint of a smile. “You look like you’re prepping for the apocalypse, not a reality show.”

I shot her a glare and stuffed another silver keychain inside. No way was I taking chances.

I wasn’t about to take any chances. If a ghost wanted me, they'd have to get through three pounds of hardware first.

Less than an hour later, my bad-luck magnet self hit my first-ever trending topic: Trending: #Lila Brooks Stocks Up on Crosses Before Reality Show—Genuinely Scared or Playing a Persona?#

My phone buzzed nonstop. Screenshots of my overloaded backpack were everywhere. Even my high school friends got in on it, sending me memes about holy water.

At the same time, national darling Savannah Monroe posted on Instagram:

It’s just a show—no need to overthink it. I didn’t bring anything. It’s just for fun.

Her post had a perfectly filtered selfie, all sunshine and confidence. She looked like she was headed to a spa, not a haunted mansion. The comments were full of hearts and fire emojis.

That post brought even more people accusing me of faking it for the cameras.

The internet loves a side-by-side comparison. One photo of Savannah, smiling and empty-handed, next to me, looking like a doomsday prepper. And, of course, the judgment was brutal.

But is it possible I’m actually just terrified? Yes. Yes, it is.

I wanted to shout, "Yes!" from the rooftops. But I knew better than to feed the trolls.

And another thing: when did I ever offend Savannah Monroe?

We’d barely even spoken outside of work. I racked my brain, but couldn’t think of a single time I’d crossed her. Maybe I’d accidentally taken her parking spot once?

Her post was obviously a dig at me. But we never had any beef before. I really wanted to know what her problem was.

It was the kind of passive-aggressive shade only someone with a million followers can get away with. I had to admit, it stung.

I didn’t try to clear my name or explain. When my manager saw the trending topic, she just laughed:

“Great! Free publicity.”

She grinned like a cat who got the cream. “You can’t buy this kind of buzz, Lila.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “You really think it’s a good thing I’m getting dragged?”

She replied, dead serious, “Any publicity is good publicity.” I wasn’t so sure.

She leaned back, arms crossed, like she was giving a TED talk on Hollywood PR. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

Fair point. Ever since I got canceled three years ago, no matter what I did, someone always found a reason to hate me. I gave up trying to fight it.

After a while, you learn to let the noise wash over you. I’d tried fighting back, but the internet always found something new to chew on.

But I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. As the van sped deeper into the woods, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might jump out of my chest.

Every bump in the road felt like a jump scare. My palms were sweaty, and I kept checking my phone, even though there was no service out here. The trees got thicker, the sky got darker, and my courage shrank with every mile.

When we arrived at the mansion, I refused to get out of the car. Nope. Not happening.

I clung to the door handle, practically welded to the seat. No way was I stepping onto that overgrown driveway without backup.

“Ms. Taylor, you really want to leave me here alone?” I was one step from tears.

I whined and pleaded, but she was unmoved: “Stop whining. Out. Now.”

She didn’t even look at me, just popped the trunk and started hauling my bag out. "You’ll be fine, Lila. It’s exposure therapy. You’ll thank me."

After a long standoff, she just frowned and kicked me out of the car, tossing my carefully packed bag after me—my only comfort. I hugged it to my chest.

I landed on the gravel with a thud, bag in my lap. Before I could protest, the car peeled away, leaving me coughing in a cloud of dust. I could practically hear the Jaws theme as I stood there, alone.

The air was thick with the smell of gasoline and pine. I wiped my eyes, squared my shoulders, and tried to look braver than I felt. Not that I was fooling anyone.

Meanwhile, the livestream had already started. The chat was full of laughing emojis:

“Lila’s so pitiful!”

“Everyone else gets dropped off by their manager—hers kicks her out.”

“Her manager must’ve practiced that move a hundred times. So smooth.”

“Poor thing, hahaha…”

“What’s in that bulging backpack? Makeup?”

“I still think Lila’s just faking it to get attention.”

“Agreed!”

“She’s trying to act weak to get close to my idol!”

…

The comments scrolled by so fast I could barely keep up. Some were funny, some stung, but most of them just made me want to disappear.

I glanced at the chat and quickly looked away. Best to pretend I didn’t see any of it.

If this were a regular reality show, maybe I’d care about my image. But this was a haunted house adventure—my worst nightmare. Survival mode: activated.

My priorities were crystal clear: stay alive, look ridiculous if I have to, and make it out with my dignity—mostly intact.

So when someone accused me of trying to get close to their idol, I nearly gagged. Ugh, as if.

The last thing I wanted was more drama. If I was going to embarrass myself, I’d rather do it solo, thanks.

There were only four guests for the first episode: America’s darling Savannah Monroe, award-winning actor Carter Wells, recently popular heartthrob Blake Evans, and me—Lila Brooks, everyone’s favorite disaster.

We were a weird mix: two A-listers, one rising star, and me, the internet’s favorite punchline. I could already see the memes.

The “idol” the chat mentioned was Carter Wells—handsome, well-connected, and scandal-free. Ironically, he was the reason my reputation tanked.

Every time his name trended, I braced myself for a fresh wave of hate. It was like being allergic to peanut butter and finding out your ex-boyfriend was now the Jif spokesperson.

It was a painful memory I’d rather forget. If it weren’t for that six million penalty, wild horses couldn’t drag me here—not only to face my deepest fears, but also the man who made me sick to my stomach. This was my ultimate trial.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my backpack, and tried to look anywhere but at Carter. The cameras zoomed in, catching every awkward second for the world to see.

With cameras pointed straight at me and the chat getting nastier by the second, I could only shoulder my bag and head to the meeting point, tears threatening to spill.

I blinked hard, determined not to let anyone see me cry. No way was I letting my ugly-cry face go viral.

Savannah and Carter were chatting happily, ignoring me completely. Not surprising—Savannah hadn’t liked me since our first meeting. As for Carter? Not a chance.

They looked like a magazine cover couple, all perfect teeth and inside jokes. I hovered nearby, feeling like a third wheel on a tricycle.

But as I watched their subtle interactions on the show, my gossip radar went off. Turns out, Savannah saw me as a romantic rival—or thought I was the shameless type trying to seduce Carter. No wonder she was so passive-aggressive. The jealousy practically hung in the air.

I caught the sideways glances, the tight smiles, the way Savannah’s voice got just a touch sharper when I was around. It was like being back in high school, except the stakes were higher and the cameras never turned off.

The only friendly face was Blake Evans, who waved at me with a sunny smile—total little brother energy. I hurried over to him, desperate for an ally.

Blake had that golden retriever energy—earnest, goofy, and impossible to dislike. I clung to him like a lifeline.

This so-called haunted house adventure was really just a string of abandoned houses, with the crew adding spooky effects for suspense. Each location had its own creepy rumors. I’d done my homework on the manor: supposedly, backpackers who entered vanished mysteriously, and an old couple once lived here—until the wife disappeared, leaving the husband mentally unstable and institutionalized. No one really knows the truth, which is why the producers jumped at it.

I’d read every Reddit thread about the place. The more I read, the less I wanted to be here. But the producers loved a good urban legend.

But all I cared about was one thing: how long do we have to stay?

If I could’ve signed up for the "five-minute tour and leave" option, I would have. I kept one eye on the exit, just in case.

The director explained: “You just need to stay in the mansion behind you for twenty-four hours. Anyone who survives gets a special prize—yay.”

He said it like we were at a carnival, not about to be locked in a horror movie set for a full day. My stomach dropped to my shoes.

My eyes lit up. “So we can give up if we want?” Maybe there was hope after all.

A glimmer of hope. Maybe I could tap out early and keep my sanity.

He crushed my hopes: “You can, but only after four hours—and you have to find the surrender button inside the mansion.” Of course there was a catch.

I slumped to the back of the group like a deflated balloon. The director was ruthless. I cursed him under my breath.

I muttered under my breath, “Remind me to send him a haunted fruit basket.”

Savannah flipped her hair, putting on a friendly face: “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” Sure, America's Sweetheart to the rescue.

She said it sweetly, but her eyes were calculating. I could practically see her rehearsing for the "America’s Sweetheart" highlight reel.

It was just a polite gesture, but I seized the chance, clinging to her arm: “Sis, you’re my big sis now!” If I was going to be the scaredy-cat, I might as well own it.

Her smile froze. The chat went wild.

The chat was relentless. Savannah kept her polite smile for the cameras, but I could tell she was annoyed. Still, she had to keep up her image. Blake looked eager, probably because he was young. Carter’s gaze was complicated, but he quickly focused back on Savannah.

I tried to focus on Blake’s optimism, but the tension between Savannah and Carter was thick enough to cut with a knife. All I wanted was to survive the night.