No! NO!
Not again!
My insides quake as I edge closer and reach out with stiff fingers. I tug on the ribbon and slide off the top of the box to reveal possibly the strangest gift I’ve ever received in my life.
Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed black velvet, is a silver bell.
Small and ornamental. The kind you might find on a butler’s tray or use for decoration at Christmas.
I don’t dare touch it, my breath caught in my chest.
I’m not crazy! I’m not imagining these things! This bell was not here when I came back from outside and got undressed for my shower.
On a panicked note, I dress fast, throwing on leggings, a hoodie, and my snow boots. My hair stays pinned up like I’d had it under the shower cap.
I race down the stairs, skipping two at a time, boots skidding against the hardwood as I veer toward the east wing of the house where the garage connects. My thumb smashes down on the button on the small remote Mr. Taylor gave me that operates things like the garage and front gates.
The door rises with a jerky whine.
Six cars sit neatly parked in a staggered row—two luxury sedans, an old SUV, a pickup truck, a sleek vintage coupe, and a beat-up Jeep with snow tires. All of them gleaming under the motion sensor fluorescents that flick on.
Every single one of them dead.
I try them all, one after the other. Slamming doors, jamming keys, hitting start buttons until my heart aches from how hard it’s beating.
Nothing. Not even a flicker of life.
It’s as if the batteries were drained. As if someone intentionally made them inoperable knowing I’d eventually try to drive one.
A chill spreads across my skin, deeper than cold and bringing goosebumps to my arms.
I bolt from the garage and return to the large house, wrenching my phone from my hoodie pocket as I dial Mr. Taylor.
The number rings a couple times, then is abruptly cut short by a flat monotone female voice delivering the worst news imaginable.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you believe you’ve reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again.”
The message repeats with a beep.
I yank the phone away and stare at the screen like it might correct itself, but when I dial it again, I’m greeted by the same daunting message.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “What the hell’s going on!?”
I try Mark the driver next. I was provided his number before I ever landed in Silver Hollow, when Mr. Taylor had sent me the initial set of instructions for my travel arrangements.
But it’s not as if his number brings any more luck.
This time, I’m sent to a personal voicemail. His recording is brief and casual.
“Hey, this is Mark. I’m not available. Leave a message.”
The beep sounds louder than usual in my ear. I blurt out everything on my mind.
“Mark,” I gasp desperately, “it’s Ivy. I… I don’t know what’s happening. Something’s wrong here. Someone’s been inside the house. I don’t know how, but they’re leaving gifts in my room and I—fuck, I don’t even know if I imagined it, but there was a man in the woods. He… he chased me and he… he had this mask with antlers on. And t-the cars—they won’t start! Please come get me. I can’t stay here. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
I hang up with a trembling hand and press the back of the phone to my forehead, forcing myself to breathe in and out.
There’s still one more number I can try. Sheriff Paloma had given me his when he visited after Mr. Taylor left. I quickly dial it next.
