The Negotiation with Lucas Blackwood

Ethan Collins stood outside the dilapidated Blackwood Mansion, the ominous estate looming in the distance like a harbinger of all things dark and mysterious. He clutched a small pack of cigarettes, the thin paper crackling in his hands as he rehearsed his lines. This was no ordinary visit. He was about to ask a favor from Lucas Blackwood, a man reputed to have knowledge of the supernatural and someone not easily convinced.

Stepping inside, Ethan immediately felt the chill of the place. Blackwood was seated behind a wooden table, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His sharp eyes flicked toward Ethan as he entered, a sly smirk spreading across his face. Ethan didn't waste time. He tossed the pack of cigarettes onto the table, offering a respectful nod.

"I need your help," Ethan said, his voice laced with urgency. Lucas raised an eyebrow but didn't reach for the cigarettes.

Lucas let out a mocking laugh, glancing at the meager offering. "You think two packs of cheap cigarettes are enough to buy my services? You're bold, I'll give you that."

Ethan's heart raced. He met Lucas's gaze, his tone turning sincere, almost pleading. "Come on, Lucas. Why make this harder than it needs to be? We both know you're the only one who can handle this."

Lucas stared at him for a moment, then picked up one of the cigarettes, inspecting it as if debating its worth. "You want me to handle the Blackwood Mansion problem, right?" he asked. "But what makes you think I'm even interested?"

Ethan inhaled deeply. "Because I know you can do it. I'm not here just for the mansion, though," he confessed, his tone dropping slightly. "I also want you to work with us on the show. We're producing a paranormal investigation series, and you—well, you'd be a perfect fit."

Lucas scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "You compare me to those TV 'masters'? I don't work for anyone unless the price is right."

Ethan had expected this. Negotiation was part of the game. "I can offer three thousand a month. Nothing too heavy—just driving and assisting with the shoots. It's not like we're asking for your soul."

Lucas leaned back, taking a long drag of the cigarette. "Three thousand?" He raised his eyebrows, his expression turning from amusement to disdain. "I'm a full-time employee at the funeral parlor. I've got benefits, a stable income. You know how much I make on the side, crafting paper dolls and wreaths? At least five thousand a month. And you're offering me three? Is this a joke?"

Ethan felt the sting of Lucas's words. He had underestimated how lucrative the funeral parlor work was, especially for someone with Lucas's... unique talents. He tried to stay calm, despite the growing tension. "Look, money isn't everything. Isn't working on something meaningful better than hanging around a funeral parlor all day?"

Lucas's laugh was harsh. "Meaningful? Your show, using ghosts and spirits as entertainment, is what you call meaningful?"

Ethan could feel the conversation slipping away. Lucas was sharp, too sharp. Persuading him wouldn't be easy. He tried every argument he could muster, but the more he spoke, the clearer it became that Lucas wasn't budging.

After what felt like hours of fruitless back-and-forth, Ethan's throat was dry, and his energy drained. He realized he had failed. "You're afraid to leave the funeral parlor," Ethan muttered as he stood to leave. "Afraid of the world outside, so you hide behind your paper dolls and funeral wreaths. But is that how you want to live the rest of your life? Alone, in the dark, with only the dead for company?"

That struck a nerve. Lucas's mocking smile faded, and his eyes hardened. The air between them thickened with tension as he waved Ethan off, signaling that the conversation was over.

Ethan left the parlor in silence, slipping a business card onto Lucas's desk as he walked out. As he exited the chilling embrace of the building, the warm sunlight hit his face. Ethan took a deep breath and lit his own cigarette, the frustration bubbling up inside him. He glanced back at the Blackwood Mansion in the distance, determination flaring in his chest.

"No one's stopping me from going tonight," Ethan muttered. "Even without help."

Back at his apartment, Ethan began preparing for the night ahead. He knew the spirits in the mansion weren't ordinary. The previous encounter had made that abundantly clear. Researching online, he searched for ways to protect himself. The internet, of course, offered a mixed bag of tips—some useful, some utterly absurd.

He skimmed through various websites and forums, reading posts from ghost hunters and skeptics alike. "Spitting is one way to deter spirits," one site suggested, claiming that human saliva contained enough 'yang' energy to frighten most spirits away. Ethan rolled his eyes. He needed something more reliable than spit.

He stumbled across an article detailing garlic's protective properties. "Used since ancient times to ward off evil spirits," it read. "Often combined with crucifixes." Ethan considered it for a moment. Garlic was easy to come by and harmless enough to carry. He made a mental note to pick some up on his way.

Then there was something about dog teeth. "Dogs can sense spirits, and their teeth are said to repel them," the article claimed. That wasn't much help either, considering Ethan didn't own a dog. He laughed at the absurdity—what was he supposed to do, go find a dog and pull out its teeth?

The deeper he delved, the more ridiculous the suggestions became. Paper talismans, blessed mirrors, old butcher knives with a decade of history—none of it seemed accessible or reliable. He sighed, continuing his research. There were a few mentions of items imbued with emotional significance. Gifts from loved ones carried powerful protective energy. Ethan thought of the old shirt his father had given him years ago. It wasn't much, but maybe it could offer some comfort, at least psychologically.

Next came the mention of jade. According to legend, jade, especially the purest forms, held immense protective properties. "Not something I can afford," Ethan muttered to himself, scrolling down further.

As he was about to give up, his phone rang, breaking the silence. He hesitated for a moment, wondering who would call him at this hour. Picking up the phone, he was greeted by a familiar, lazy voice.

"I'll take the job," Lucas said, his tone flat but confident. "Part-time only, though. And I make my own hours."

Ethan felt a wave of relief, grinning into the phone. "Deal. You won't regret it, Lucas."

"You better hope I don't," Lucas replied, hanging up before Ethan could respond.

Ethan stood there for a moment, absorbing what had just happened. It felt like a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. With Lucas on board, they had a fighting chance against whatever was lurking in the mansion.

Later that night, equipped with his camera, a few cloves of garlic, his father's old shirt, and a determination to face whatever awaited him, Ethan headed toward the Blackwood Mansion once more. He glanced at his phone, reading Lucas's terse message: "Meet you there at 9."

For the first time in days, Ethan felt like the night might not end in disaster. Maybe, just maybe, they'd make it out alive.