The light isn’t steady. It flickers faintly, like someone’s messing with a dying flashlight, or maybe setting the mood for a séance. The property it belongs to is almost invisible, swallowed by the storm and the trees. What I can see, though, is a gate. A massive, wrought iron monstrosity that looks like it belongs in front of a castle or a high-security prison.
My stomach twists.
“What the hell is this, a Bond villain’s vacation home?” I mutter, squinting at the vague outlines of the gate. It’s tall. Too tall. The kind of gate you build when you don’t want anyone to see what’s inside—or get out.
I stay in Betsy, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles so white they could be glowing in the dark. The rain hammers against the windshield, making it almost impossible to see, but I catch it again—a flicker of light, barely visible through the fog and trees. I lean forward, squinting, willing the rain to let up just enough to give me a better look.
I dig into my bag with trembling hands, fumbling for my phone. The rain outside pounds harder, a relentless assault that turns the world outside Betsy into a blur of gray and black. The screen lights up when I press the button, but the sight of the familiarNo Servicein the corner almost makes me hurl it through the windshield.
“Come on, you stupid thing. Just one bar. One!” I hiss through clenched teeth, gripping the phone so tightly it’s a wonder I don’tsnap it in half. I hold it up like I’m offering it to the gods, twisting in my seat to angle it toward the faint flicker of light in the distance, as if that’s going to help. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
I glance at the time—6:47 p.m. Not that it matters; I’m not sure time even exists here. It’s already pitch-black outside, the storm swallowing up any lingering light. The chill seeps through the cracks in Betsy’s aging frame, the kind that settles in your bones and refuses to leave. California isn’t supposed to be cold like this. Wet? Sure. But this? It feels like winter’s claws are digging into me, and I’m wearing jeans and a jacket better suited for a fall coffee run. Not an Arctic expedition.
My breath fogs up the window as I press my forehead against the glass, staring at the gate. It’s so still, so forbidding, like it’s daring me to come closer. The flickering light behind it is the only sign of anything remotely alive in this nightmare, but it feels wrong—like it’s there to lure me in rather than lead me to safety.
The rain drips down the windshield, streaking the glass and distorting the gate until it looks like it’s moving. Shifting. My stomach churns, and I jerk back, wiping my sleeve across the fogged-up glass.
“Calm down, Bella,” I mutter. “It’s a gate, not a ghost. Probably.”
I glance down at my phone again, refreshing the screen for the fifth time. Still no signal. The pit in my stomach deepens, and the urge to dosomethingpresses against me like the cold. Sitting in Betsy isn’t an option anymore. The car is dark and lifeless, a metal tomb in the making. Even with the engine off, I can still smell the faint stench of burning rubber from her earlier tantrum, and the idea of staying here until morning—or whenever someone magically stumbles across me—isn’t just impractical. It’s impossible.
The temperature inside Betsy is dropping fast, and my shivers are turning into full-body tremors. I try to tell myself it’s the cold, but there’s a part of me that knows better. It’s the panic—the gnawing, rising fear that no one knows I’m here. That no onewillknow.
I rub my hands together, my breath coming out in quick, shallow bursts. Think.Think.I need help, and there’s only one place that might offer it: beyond that massive, iron monstrosity of a gate. I stare at it again, willing myself to move, but my legs stay glued to the floor of the car.
“What if no one’s there?” I whisper into the silence. But the louder thought, the one I’m too scared to say out loud, is worse:What if someone is?
I shake my head, trying to dispel the mental image of a shadowy figure standing just beyond the gate, watching, waiting.
“Okay, stop,” I say to myself, my voice louder now, as if hearing it out loud will make it more real. “You’re not dying here because you’re too chicken to knock on a gate.”
The decision makes itself. I grab my bag, quickly checking the contents: phone (useless), keys (also useless), wallet (who’s even going to take cash anymore?), and… oh, right. Elena’s neon-green vibrator and the joint. Of course. I pause, holding up the vibrator, its bright green plastic gleaming even in the dim light of the car.
“Could be worse,” I mutter, weighing it in my hand like it’s Excalibur. “Not exactly a baseball bat, but desperate times, right?” I shove it back in the bag because, at this point, why not? Between that and the joint, I might actually have a fighting chance. Light up for courage, smack a ghost with the world’s most obnoxious sex toy—solid plan. Absolutely foolproof.
The rain hasn’t let up—not even close—but I shove the door open anyway. The wind whips inside, carrying cold droplets that sting my cheeks and soak my clothes before I’ve even steppedout. My boots sink into the mud with an audiblesquelch,and I nearly lose my balance as I slam the door shut behind me.
The cold wraps around me instantly, the kind of damp chill that clings to your skin and gnaws at your bones. I zip up my jacket and pull the hood over my head, though it’s more for psychological comfort than actual warmth at this point. Every step toward the gate feels heavier, the mud clinging to my boots like it’s trying to drag me back.
When I reach the edge of the gate, I stop, staring up at it in all its intimidating glory. Up close, it’s even worse—taller, thicker, and somehow more menacing than it looked from the car. The bars are sleek and black, the patterns etched into them sharp and almost predatory. There’s no bell, no intercom, no convenientPush Here for Helpbutton. Just cold, unyielding iron.
The flickering light catches my eye again, and for a moment, it almost feels like it’s signaling me. Like it knows I’m here. I shake my head, pushing the thought away as I wrap my hands around the bars and give them a tug. They don’t budge.
“Hello?” I shout, my voice hoarse against the storm. “Is anyone in there?” My words echo briefly, then disappear into the rain.
The light flickers again, and I swear it’s brighter this time. Fuck, something moves behind the gate—or maybe it’s just the storm messing with my head. Either way, I know one thing: if I don’t push forward, if I don’t do something, I’m going to freeze out here.
“Okay, Bella,” I say under my breath, my grip tightening on the bars. “You’ve made it this far. Might as well knock.”
I tighten my grip on the bars, planting my feet in the mud as if that’s going to give me extra leverage. “Come on,” I mutter, gritting my teeth. “Open sesame. Abracadabra. Wingardiumfreakin’ Leviosa—ugh!” I give the gate one last frustrated shove, and with a sound like an ancient groan, it moves.
Not much. Just a tiny crack. But enough for me to wedge my shoulder against it. I push, teeth clenched, and the gap opens wide enough for me to slip through.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” I mutter, staring into the darkness ahead. The flickering light is still there, distant and faint, like it’s daring me to follow. I glance back at Betsy, now just a sad, lifeless silhouette in the rain. There’s no going back. Not unless I plan to freeze to death.
Thunder crashes overhead, so loud it feels like the ground shudders beneath me. I yelp, clutching my bag like it’s a shield.
“Okay! Okay, I get it!” I shout into the storm, my heart pounding like it’s auditioning for a drum solo. “I’ll move! Geez.”
