‘My mother used to tell me a story,’ Masahiko grinned, ‘about a haunted house.’

His grin grew wider as the group shuffled closer around the fire.

‘Go on,’ Nigella prompted, hands splayed towards the embers for warmth.

‘The story goes like this,’ Masahiko tucked his legs underneath him, ‘there was once a happily married couple-’

‘Pass,’ Nahara stood up from her log, arms stretched above her head.

‘What? Why?’ Masahiko was indignant. ‘I’ve barely started.’

‘And already you’re conforming to heteronormative standards,’ Nahara sighed, stepping away from the campfire, towards the tents.

‘What if I told you, literally in the next sentence, that this couple dies?’ Masahiko offered.

Nahara cocked her head, considering. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

‘Alright,’ Masahiko smiled, ‘so, spoilers, they both die-’

‘How?’ Nigella interjected.

‘… What?’

‘How did they die?’ Nigella prompted, pushing her wire-rimmed glasses further up her nose. ‘Natural causes? Murder? Medical negligence?’

Masahiko waved his hands to stop her verbal tirade. ‘Suicide,’ he said quickly, ‘which was why is was so strange. Their family insisted they’d never do such a thing.’

Nahara scoffed, arms crossed over her chest. ‘Remind me how this is supposed to be scary?’

‘Well, maybe if you’d let me finish,’ Masahiko huffed, ‘you’d find out.’

When neither girl said anything, he took a calming breath and continued.

‘So. The coroner ruled suicide. But the family said it was impossible.’ Masahiko leaned forwards on his log, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘That’s when the screaming started.’

As a rule, Nahara wasn’t one for ghost stories. They were an unnecessary embellishment of the truth. But she was trying, really trying, to be more social – admittedly at her mother’s insistence. So when Masahiko had invited her to sit with him and Nigella at the campfire, Nahara had put aside her reservations and agreed. It would only be for a few minutes, she’s told herself, just to show her face and then leave.

That was before Masahiko told the screaming house story. And suddenly, Nahara was doubting her ability to sleep alone tonight.

Something about his delivery, his smug-boy persona feeding into his orator’s confidence, sent shivers down her spine when he spoke of the way the screams echoed through the house, driving even the most stalwart sleeper mad. Nahara didn’t want to think what such a thing would sound like. Still, her brain provided some examples. Some very detailed and slightly terrifying examples.

That's when Nigella reached across and offered Nahara her hand.

It was rough with calluses where Nigella had eagerly led the gardening club in repotting plants, fingertips ink-stained from her fountain pen.

Normally, Nahara was uncomfortable with skin-to-skin contact, knowing her palms were unnaturally sweaty, but her hand leapt into Nigella's anyway, grateful for the other girl's support.

And if they kept their hands clasped well

after the story was told, well, that was nobody's business but theirs.