Visit Smith Construction

I pull my powder blue antique pickup truck into the gravel parking lot of the Smith Construction Company, the engine's familiar rumble echoing through the area. I see heavy machinery and sturdy workmen, evidence the company's hard-earned reputation. I feel a surge of determination as I climb out of the truck, my mind focused on the trail I'm following.

As I approach the entrance, several workers notice my arrival and catcall with whistles and shouts. "Hey, baby, those overalls would look great on the floor beside my bed," one of the workers bellows with a leer, adjusting his tool belt. I can't help but roll my eyes and clench my jaw as I hear the cacophony of inappropriate comments.

This is the unintended consequence of my curse. "Hey, honey, you know how to handle tools? I've got a tool I can let you handle," another one adds with a crude laugh, whistling while he swings a sledgehammer. My raw charisma often drives men to act inappropriately, throw themselves at me, or even stalk me. Their lewd comments make my skin crawl, but I maintain my composure.

My sights are set on the man I've come to see. I ignore their advances, keeping my focus on my investigation as I stride purposefully across the gravel parking lot. My determination to unravel the mysteries surrounding Benicka House and the suicides grows with each determined step, something that the lecherous stares of the construction workers can't touch.

The receptionist at the front desk gives me a dirty look, sighing in annoyance as she buzzes Mr. Smith and instructs me to wait in one of the chairs. It's clear she doesn't approve of my appearance, eyeing me like I'm some kind of a slut, which I reckon that I am. I feel no shame in that. I'm used to this treatment.

Ignoring her disapproval, I sit in one of the plush chairs, feeling the smooth leather beneath my fingers. I can't help but think of how superficial her judgment is, how it has no bearing on the truth that I'm so close to uncovering. I flip through a copy of Architectural Digest, my mind only half on the glossy spreads.

My thoughts wander back to the campus, the gothic spires of Benicka House, and the ominous feeling that it's been harboring a secret for far too long. I can sense the receptionist's disapproving glare, but I refuse to be cowed by her petty judgment. I straighten my spine, my determination to find the truth and expose the truth seeing me through.