The rain is relentless, streaming down my face and soaking through my clothes. My boots squelch as I take a step forward, and the wind howls like it’s trying to blow me right back to Betsy. I glance over my shoulder, but the car is a dark, lifeless lump in the distance. It’s not an option anymore. Not even close.
“Anywhere’s better than standing here,” I grumble, pushing the gate just wide enough to squeeze through. The metal scrapes against itself, a sound so sharp it sets my teeth on edge, and I have to fight the urge to slam it shut behind me like a kid afraid of monsters.
Because let’s be real: if therearemonsters here, they’re already watching. Probably eating popcorn.
The wind picks up again, pushing me forward, and I stumble into the muddy path on the other side of the gate. It’s darker here—darker than it should be, even with the storm. The flickering light is farther away than I thought, and the shadows seem thicker, deeper, like they’re closing in around me.
“This is fine,” I say aloud because, apparently, talking to myself is the only thing keeping me sane. “Totally fine. Just anice little nighttime stroll through the creepy woods. Nothing weird about that.”
The mud grabs at my boots, and my bag keeps slipping off my shoulder, dragging me down with every step. I swear I hear something rustle in the trees to my left, but when I whip my head around, there’s nothing there. Just darkness and the faint sound of rain hitting leaves.
“I am not imagining things,” I grit out, picking up the pace. “I’m not losing my mind. Not yet, anyway.”
Another crash of thunder shakes the air, and I jump again, my heart leaping into my throat. The light ahead flickers brighter—like a lighthouse guiding me through the storm—and I latch onto it like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
“Okay, light,” I whisper, clutching my bag tighter. “You better be leading me somewhere good. Like a cozy cabin with hot cocoa. Or a Starbucks. Hell, I’d settle for a sketchy gas station at this point.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to keep moving. The trees seem closer now, their branches clawing at the edges of the path. The light is still ahead, teasing me with its inconsistency, but I keep going. Because anywhere—anywhere—is better than the gate. Than Betsy. Than standing out there, waiting for the storm to consume me.
8
Bella
“Well, call me crazy,” I mutter to myself, “but that isnotwhat I expected.”
I stop dead in my tracks, staring up at the towering structure at the top of the hill. My boots squelch on the rain-soaked path, water pooling around my feet like the universe is justdyingto add insult to injury. I tilt my head, blinking through the rain, but the building doesn’t change. It’s not some creepy, crumbling Gothic monstrosity like I’d been imagining. No gargoyles. No boarded windows. No ominous clouds swirling overhead.
Instead, it looks… expensive. Like,Jeff Bezos decided to cosplay as Draculaexpensive.
The mansion sprawls like it knows it doesn’t have to try. Stone and glass. Sleek, modern lines married to something old and timeless. The kind of architecture that makes you feel poor justfor looking at it. An infinity pool shimmers at the edge, reflecting the misty trees like some kind of enchanted mirror.
“This,” I say, pointing at the house as if it can hear me, “issomuch worse.”
Because now it’s not just a creepy house in the middle of nowhere. Now it’s a creepy house in the middle of nowherethat someone clearly takes care of.No sagging roof, no overgrown lawn, no broken windows. Just pristine, glossy perfection, perched like a jewel on the edge of the hillside.
I glance behind me. The winding path is barely visible in the mist, the woods pressing in on either side like they’re alive and plotting my demise. Another crack of thunder splits the air, and I flinch. The rain picks up again, cold and relentless, and suddenly, the glowing lights spilling out from the mansion’s massive windows look a lot more appealing.
I stop in front of the door, craning my neck to take in its sheer size. It’s absurd, really—massive and imposing, the kind of door that looks like it belongs on the cover of a fantasy novel, complete with dragons etched into the brass. I half-expect it to laugh at me for daring to approach.
“Alright, let’s see what kind of secrets you’re hiding,” I mutter, wiping my damp hand on my jeans before gripping the cold, ornate handle. I give it a tentative push, expecting resistance, maybe even a lock. Instead, the door swings open so easily it feels wrong, like I’ve just been invited to my own kidnapping.
I step back instinctively, my heart thudding as the door creaks ominously on its hinges. The sound crawls up my spine, and for a moment, I just stand there, frozen. Rain drips from the ends of my hair, splattering onto the stone steps, and I glance back at the shadowy woods behind me. My choices are pretty clear: walk into this house—or let the forest eat me.
“Well,” I say, squaring my shoulders, “this isn’t suspicious at all.”
Taking a deep breath, I peer through the opening. Warm light spills out into the stormy night, glowing softly against the polished floors inside. It’s not the eerie, cobweb-laden foyer I’d been bracing for. No peeling wallpaper. No taxidermy collection. Just sleek elegance and… silence.
I hesitate, one hand still on the handle. “You could just close the door and go back down the hill,” I tell myself. “Sure, it’s raining, and your car smells like melted crayons and despair, but—”
A fresh gust of wind blows in behind me, icy enough to make my decision for me. “Nope. Not doing this outside,” I grumble, stepping inside, my boots echoing on the marble floors. Warmth hits me immediately, a stark contrast to the icy rain outside. The entryway is enormous, lit by a chandelier that looks like it was plucked straight out of a royal palace. The floors gleam like they’ve never seen a speck of dust, and the faint scent of cedar and something floral lingers in the air.
“Hello?” I call, my voice cracking slightly.
Nothing. Not a creak, not a cough.
Just my own breathing and the faint patter of rain outside.
“Well, this is how every horror story starts,” I say, louder this time, though I can’t shake the feeling that even my voice doesn’t belong here. It feels too loud, too human, in a space that looks like it was designed for gods—or, at the very least, people with an unhealthy obsession with interior design magazines.
