The warriors, p.1
Scary In Love: A spooky, spicy, Halloween romance, page 1
Scary In Love
Holly June Smith
Copyright © 2025 by Holly June Smith
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews.
Without in any way limiting the author's exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to "train" generative artificial intelligence technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.
Cover design by Aida Linnea @algart_
Sticker graphics by Meg Jones @megdesignedthis
Contents
A Note From Holly
Dedication
1. Jenna
2. Mason
3. Jenna
4. Jenna
5. Jenna
6. Mason
7. Jenna
8. Jenna
9. Mason
10. Jenna
11. Jenna
12. Mason
13. Mason
14. Jenna
15. Jenna
16. Mason
17. Mason
18. Jenna
19. Jenna
20. Mason
21. Jenna
22. Jenna
23. Jenna
24. Jenna
25. Mason
26. Jenna
27. Mason
28. Jenna
29. Jenna
30. Jenna
Epilogue - Mason
Bonus Artwork
Bonus Chapter
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Content Warnings
Also by Holly June Smith
Can I Tell You Something?
A Note From Holly
Thank you for picking up Scary In Love. I hope you enjoy reading this spooky, spicy Halloween rom-com as much as I enjoyed writing it.
This book is a love letter to some of my favourite things: spooky season, old English country houses, women who feel like they don't fit in, and men who always make sure their partner comes first.
It is set in a fictional town in England, so unfortunately we cannot visit, and written in British English.
Scary In Love is NOT a dark romance, but if you would like Content Warnings for this book, you can find a list at the back.
If you prefer to skip them, you can jump straight into the queue for The Miller Mansion.
If you dare…
For Ellie and Emily
"All weird little creeps are welcome here."
– Mason Miller
1
Jenna
The Miller mansion sits far back behind imposing gates, high on a hill on the edge of our boring little town. It’s run-down and creepy, and I fucking love it.
In a place like Crowmorne, where nothing ever really happens, everyone has a story about Old Man Miller. And since I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve heard them all.
Some people say he was a wizard. Or a hermit. Or a criminal hiding out, keeping close guard of the millions he’d stolen in a bank heist that left him a wanted man. Some people say he had half a face, or eleven fingers. Some people think he was running a meth lab and a drug empire behind closed doors, and I think some people have seen too many movies.
Truth is, nobody really knows a thing.
When we were kids, my brother, Marcus, and I would hold our breath when we drove past the house, a superstition passed down by our parents. When we got older and bolder, we’d lurk by the gates with binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of a figure in one of the many, many windows. We never did, and to this day, we’re still not sure what he looked like.
Nobody knows exactly when or how Old Man Miller died, either. Only that one day a private ambulance was spotted leaving, the gates were chained shut, and they stayed that way for years.
Until this past January, when the locked chains disappeared. A white transit van was seen coming and going at all hours, and gossip was rife.
“A famous director bought it, and they’re shooting a film up there,” Mum said. She knows everybody’s business, so this was the most sensible theory by quite some stretch.
“It’s a footballer and his supermodel wife,” said Dad.
“It’s neither,” Marcus chimed in, nose buried in his cryptocurrency app. “An illegitimate son inherited the house and all the land that comes with it. Lucky fucker. Must be worth a fortune.”
Over the summer, an advert in the newspaper invited locals and students at the nearby drama school to audition for a ‘unique project’. Mum doubled down on her film director story, but nobody, myself included, saw the place being turned into a tourist attraction.
A month ago, a banner appeared out front, and all became clear.
“Will You Survive The Miller Mansion?”
A link took me to a website promising a night of unprecedented access to one of the scariest houses in Britain. I bought tickets on the spot, and finally the night is here.
The enormous iron gates have been opened to the public after years of intrigue, and with spotlights illuminating the house from below, it looks creepier than ever.
The group of guys ahead of us in the queue squeal, and shriek, and whip each other into a frenzy. I’m just thrilled to be here.
Unfortunately, my date has yet to stir the same reaction.
Peter is a thirty-two-year-old tax advisor from nearby Bramwell. We met on a dating app a week ago, after I got bored and reactivated my account for the umpteenth time. His profile was all beige-flags; works from home, loves dogs, looking for someone to enjoy long walks in nature and pub lunches with. Average stuff, but it’s a sad state of affairs out there and the dating pool is small. At this point in my life, if there are no red-flags, and I don’t scare them off, I’ll give them half a chance.
We had a drink in the Sun and Stars pub and the obligatory ‘getting to know you more’ chat before making our way up the road out of town. Apparently, he studied medicine at university before something ‘utterly revolting’ made him pass out, then drop out. He’s been in finance ever since.
This juicy tidbit was the first interesting thing he’d said, but no amount of needling would make him reveal what it was. Which is a real shame, because ‘utterly revolting’ is kind of my whole vibe.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been drawn to the creepy and weird. The spooky and unsettling. The deplorable and taboo.
My parents used to find me sneakily borrowing library books about ghost sightings and true crime on my Mum’s adult-lending card. Or in the woods behind our house, rooting around in the dirt, lifting rotting logs, and hunting for bugs. Or digging up my pet rabbit to study the various stages of decomposition.
Okay fine, I will accept that one is quite weird.
As a teen, I was interested in death and anatomy, the history of the occult, voodoo, and ritual ceremonies.
‘Why can’t you be normal?’ Mum used to despair, but this was normal to me.
The fox’s head was the final straw. I was keeping it in a bucket of water in the back garden, waiting for Mother Nature to do her thing and leave me with a beautiful clean skull to add to the collection on display in my room. I already had a few birds, and a rat, but I wanted that fox so badly. Dad puked in Mum’s dahlias, and she hit the roof and sent me to a therapist.
After three months of sessions, she concluded there was nothing wrong with me. I was simply a curious child who should perhaps consider a future career in taxidermy or forensics.
Thanks, Hilary. You’re a real one.
Despite those words of encouragement, I still strongly prefer the company of the living. After school, the obvious choice was to work at Crowmorne Heights, the retirement home my parents run. Twelve years later, I’ve worked my way up to Senior Care Manager, my relationship with them is much stronger, and I can’t imagine doing anything else.
The residents I work with are a fucking riot, some of the most brilliant, funniest people I’ve ever met, once you give them time to warm up to you. And while they’re still with us, of course.
When you see these things as often as I do, you stop being afraid of death or dying. I’m far more terrified of things in the real world, like the persistent dismantling of basic human rights by those in power, urinary tract infections, and falling in love.
I wonder what Peter would have to say about that last one, but he hasn’t actually asked me a single question about myself tonight. Now I’m playing a game where I wait and see how long it takes for him to turn the conversation in my direction.
It was my idea to visit the Miller house for our first date. Figured I’d throw him in at the deep end, and see if he’s worthy of my time. He seemed open to it, but judging by the blank look on his pasty face, he’s not gonna be the man to match my freak.
2
Mason
This is really happening. Opening night of The Miller Mansion, the sleepy town of Crowmorne’s first Halloween haunt.
In the backstage break room, the forty-strong cast and crew I’ve assembled and trained over the last few months are in high spirits.
Some are locals, som
They all know the backstory. I’ve stayed upbeat, haven’t wanted to put pressure on them, but the worries I’ve been burying for months are creeping back in.
I’ve worked a lot of haunts, but this is my first time running one, and I’m functioning on caffeine and adrenaline at this point. It’s occupied every waking thought, and plenty of sleeping ones, since I had this ridiculous idea six months ago.
Now it’s time to find out if it’s all been worth it.
“Okay, team, I need all eyes on me and just a minute of your time.” They huddle closer and their chatter dies off. “Hey, Nicky, over here.”
“I’m looking at you, boss. My custom contacts point in different directions.”
I snap my fingers and point at one, then the other. “Right! I keep forgetting. Those are outstanding, by the way.”
Nicky is one of several actors who play the staff of the Miller house. Their job is to roam the hallways, gently spooking but mostly guiding customers from one space to the next. Our scare teams will run each room, and they’re responsible for giving guests the fright of their lives, but Nicky and the hands-off crew are the backbone of making an experience like this a success.
We don’t want guests going rogue or wandering off into spaces out of sequence. Every haunt operator has stories about customers who are determined to go off-script, desperate to peel back the curtains, literally in some cases. Some people try to scare us before we can scare them, but I’m confident this lot will be the only ones scaring.
“We open in ten minutes. Your costumes look amazing, your make-up is incredible and terrifying. You’ve trained hard for this, and I know you are all gonna kill it tonight. Metaphorically speaking. We’re here to have fun, but we also have an important job to do. So what’s our motto?”
“Scaring is caring!” the team shouts in unison.
Everyone is buzzing for opening night, but it’s a little weak for my liking.
“I know it seems corny, but I’m gonna make you do this briefing every single night, so we never forget it. People come here for a very specific experience, and we’re all here to make sure they get it, so let me hear it louder, in character.”
I cup my hand to my ear, and they yell, shriek, roar, and howl back at me.
“Scaring is caring!”
“That’s right. We scare the first person through that door just as hard as the last. I’ll be based in the Tavern supporting the bar crew all night, but I have my earpiece in if you need anything. Have a great time, and I’ll see you all back here after closing for pizza and beers.”
They file out, heading off to the different parts of the house we’ve worked so hard to set up for tonight, but I head in the opposite direction.
I want to lurk at the top of the grand staircase and watch the first groups of guests arrive. I need to see the anticipation on their faces, need to know this was the right call.
If tonight, and the next twenty, go well, then this crazy plan might just work.
3
Jenna
At the front gates, a young woman in a huge black parka scans our tickets and fastens neon passes around our wrists.
“You’re all set,” she says enthusiastically. “Please note photography and filming are not permitted inside the house. Please stick to the designated route, and in the event of a fire alarm, all lights will come up and our staff will lead you to the nearest exit. Make your way up to the main doors and get ready for the fright of your life.”
A looming figure in a floor-length hooded cloak stands nearby, their outstretched arm holding a lantern to guide our way. Their face is hidden by a shiny silver mask and I find the whole thing pretty hot. The mask kink girlies are getting fed right away, it seems.
Advertising for this event has been minimal, so I’m really not sure what to expect when we get up there in terms of a haunt concept. What exactly are we trying to survive behind these walls?
“Isn’t this exciting?” I say to Peter, who’s grown terribly quiet by my side.
He shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets. “You really like all this haunted house stuff?”
Er, yes. If you paid an ounce of attention to me, you’d notice.
I keep that thought to myself. Can’t expect a man to do something as groundbreaking as observe my body language on the first date. How silly of me.
Haunted houses and scare mazes started popping up all over the country about ten years ago. These seasonal events are big business, designed to lure in freaks like me during those quiet months before family-friendly Christmas markets and Santa’s grottos take their place.
They’re often set up on big farms, or industrial warehouses, blank spaces that are tailored to the design of each experience. Asylums full of zombies who’ve escaped quarantine, farms where scarecrows come to life and chase you across pumpkin patches, Blair Witch-esque forests, and good old-fashioned ghost houses. I’ve done them all.
The best haunts are the ones where the actors are big and intimidating and get right up in your face. So yes, I guess I really do like all this haunted house stuff. Having one open in our town, in such a unique and mysterious setting, is even more exciting.
“I love them,” I tell him.
“Why?”
Wow, a question at last! Be normal. Don’t spook the man before you’ve even made it inside.
“I like the fear, the panic, the jump scares. That moment when you think you’re about to die, but you’re actually fine. All that adrenaline is such a rush, don’t you think?”
Peter screws up his face, and we continue walking.
Good job, Jenna. Not.
A lot of these places go to great lengths to decorate the approach to the main event and build anticipation. I’ve seen fake bodies hanging from trees, battered signs warning us to ‘keep out’, trails of fake blood on the ground as if someone has recently been dragged away.
Here, they’ve kept things simple. Fog machines and orange lighting make the house look even spookier than usual. From hidden speakers, music drones with the sounds of howling wind and birds cawing. In the trees that line either side of the driveway, fake crows stare down at us, their eyes glowing red.
I watch carefully as the group before us heads inside, screaming at whatever awaits them behind the heavy wooden door. It slams closed behind them, and Peter flinches.
“Are you ready?” I ask, holding my palm out for him to take.
I’m curious whether he’s the type of man who sees himself as a protector, or if he’ll be vulnerable enough to allow me to protect him.
“No,” he says, keeping his hands in his pockets. “You knock.”
It’s official. Peter is a wet blanket.
He cowers behind me while I raise my hand to press the old bell, and when the door slowly creaks open, the sound effects are all real.
From the shadows inside, a small man appears before us. Like all these events, I’m instantly looking for signs of makeup and costume, the things that make or break these experiences. A bad costume will have me snapping out of the fantasy real fast.
He clears his throat as if it’s full of dust. Short and scrawny, with long, white, stringy hair, he has a pallid complexion that makes him difficult to age.
“Come on in then,” he grunts. “If ya dare.”
“I don’t dare,” Peter whispers behind me. I grab his arm and drag him over the threshold.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Just as I’d seen with the previous group, the door slams shut, and from somewhere a speaker plays the obligatory haunted house music. So far, so obvious.
There’s a ghostly noise behind us, and Peter leaps about three feet into the air. “Oh my God, what the fuck?”
“Feeling brave, are we?” our host cackles. “Think you’ll be the special little snowflakes who’ll survive the Miller Mansion?”
He grunts again and shuffles closer, sniffing at the air between us. Peter hides behind me.
“No,” he says. “We’re nobody special.”
