We scourboth floors of the dilapidated house. Faded wallpaper peels from the walls like ancient memories unraveling, and the air is thick with mildew and disuse.
Stepping back out into the fading daylight, we rejoin Diaval, Khal, and Easton. Their somber expressions mirror my own as I inquire about their findings.
A collective shake of heads answers my question, leaving us with the disheartening realization that these crumbling houses don't hold the key.
In my hands, I cradle the two pictures—fragile artifacts that seem to carry the weight of untold stories possibly linked to my past. I share them with the others, and a silent understanding passes between us.
Easton studies the image of the red-haired woman thoughtfully. "This is a positive," he declares, handing the picture back.
Diaval takes his turn, scrutinizing the captured moment. "The mansion at the end of the road should be the pack house. In theory, we should find more answers there. After that, we look for the house in the image."
I nod in agreement. It's a logical plan. The prospect of finding answers at the pack house holds the greatest odds for determining our next move.
The setting sun casts long shadows across the landscape as we embark on the next leg of our journey.
Steppinginto the rotting pack house to search what looks like hundreds of rooms sets my nerves off. The thought of locating the house in the picture makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
The floorboards on the first floor prove more resilient than those in the smaller house Torben and I explored earlier. Perhaps it's the added protection of an entire floor above, but the uneven creaking beneath our steps isn't as disconcerting.
Yet the air down here is dense with stagnation, carrying a dampness that clings to the senses. A subtle undertone—whether mold or mildew—taints the atmosphere, leaving a lingering trace of decay.
Room after room, I discover spaces that seem to have been systematically emptied, as if a professional mover had swept through, erasing any trace of life. The abandoned remnants create an eerie silence that amplifies the desolation.
My exploration comes to a halt in front of the last door at the end of the hallway—a locked barrier that beckons my attention.
"Torben, I need you."
Within moments, he stands by my side. Our eyes meet, and without a word, he rams his shoulder into the door, splintering it into a hundred pieces.
What greets us beyond the shattered entrance is an unsettling tableau of death frozen in time.
The skeletons of at least a dozen beings litter the floor, their remains telling a grim tale. Some skeletons are mid-shift, caught in the tragic limbo between human and wolf forms. Stains on the wallpaper bear witness to old blood spray—a chilling reminder of violence that once stained these walls.
My stomach lurches. These were my people. Wolves. Packmates, maybe even family.
Torben and I exchange a sobering glance.
Claw marks, larger and deeper than anything a mere wolf could inflict, scar the surface of a once-sturdy desk and the north-facing wall. The sheer brutality of whatever force wreaked havoc here hangs heavy in the air.
"I wonder what happened here?" I murmur, my voice a hushed whisper.
The echoes of a violent past cling to the walls, and as we navigate the morbid scene, the oppressive weight of unanswered questions settles upon us.
Navigating through the skeletal remains with a mixture of caution and sorrow, I carefully step over bones strewn across the floor, making my way toward the desk. The air seems heavier here, as if the room itself mourns the lives lost within its walls.
My fingers brush against the icy surface of the desk. I grip the knob on the center drawer, anticipation building. Despite several attempts, the drawer remains stubbornly closed.
Frustration boils within me, and a low growl escapes at the inanimate object defying my efforts.
My gaze sweeps the room, and that's when I notice it—a skeleton lying on the floor, a key peeking out from under the tattered remains of what once were pants.
"Sorry, Alpha. I need this more than you," I murmur apologetically to the long-forgotten leader.
Retrieving the key, I walk back to the desk, a silent acknowledgment of the tragedies that befell this place etched in my every step.
The key fits snugly into the lock. As I turn it, trepidation courses through me.
The drawer yields, revealing a hidden trove within the recesses of this decaying room.
