The afternoon brought a different energy. The crowds thinned as families left and the students who remained settled into longer visits, ordering second and third rounds while taking photos for social media. Harlow changed the playlist from gothic organ music to something with a beat, and a few tables started swaying along.
The fog machines had been toned down to a gentle mist that crawled along the floor, and the candelabras cast warm flickering light across every surface.
Rebecca Ashworth appeared at 2:47. I tracked her entrance because she walked through the coffin archway like she owned the gymnasium, her crimson eyes scanning the room with the same cataloguing attention I had seen in Sabrina.
She wore something from 3-C's haunted house, a white dress that was either a ghost costume or a nightgown depending on interpretation, and her midnight-black hair spilled across her shoulders in waves that she had not bothered to tame.
