Page 166 of My Undead Love Life

She knew that, though.

So we moved behind her.

Keith stayed closest, his hand hovering near her back but not touching unless she leaned into it. Oxi stared at the broken windows. Luck had gone quiet. I scanned every angle. Part of me watched Spencer’s shoulders shake. The other part counted entry points.

Front door was compromised. Windows were broken. The barn was completely unsafe. Cellar access wasn’t an option. The door had caved in. The porch was unstable, and there was blood on the steps. But there was no movement visible or sound coming from inside.

Spencer stepped onto the blood-covered porch and pushed in.

The door whined as it opened. Inside was worse. The smell hit first. Rot, dust, mold, and blood filled the home. Drawers were pulled out. Furniture was overturned. The couch had been slashed open, stuffing spilling across the floor like dirty snow. Cabinets hung open in the kitchen. Plates were shattered across the tile. Someone had ripped down curtains, probably for cloth. The rug in the living room had been dragged halfway across the room and left bunched near the stairs. Anything useful was long gone.

“Someone raided it,” Luck muttered.

“More than one group,” Oxi added, crouching near a set of bloodied footprints near the back hallway. He didn’t touch them.

Keith stayed close to Spencer as she moved through the space.

“This was the living room,” she said, like she was trying to piece it back together. “There used to be a bookshelf there. My mom hated how cluttered it got, but Dad kept bringing home books anyway.”

Her gaze moved to an empty corner. “The kitchen table was there. Tori and I carved our initials underneath it when we were little and then blamed it on each other.”

Luck smiled faintly. “Did it work?”

“No,” she whispered. “Our parents knew.” Spencer stepped over broken glass. “And my room’s upstairs,” she said. “Down the hall.”

She moved toward the stairs before any of us could stop her.

I followed.

Keith was right behind her, but I was already scanning the stairwell, testing each step before trusting weight to it. The wood groaned beneath us. Dust drifted from the railing. A dark smear trailed up one wall, too old to tell whether it had been a hand, shoulder, or something else dragged.

“Careful,” I said.

Spencer didn’t answer.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway was colder than below. Broken windows let in thin drafts that smelled like snow and dead leaves. Doors hung open on both sides. Her room was the third one down. The door was open. Torn almost off one hinge.

Spencer stopped in the doorway. Her room had been destroyed. The mattress was flipped and slashed open. Her closet was empty, hangers scattered across the floor like bones. The dresser was overturned, drawers missing or broken. Someone had pried at the floorboards near the bed and left them splintered. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting the room in jagged pieces.

I could see traces of who she’d been before. A faded strip of painted flowers along the windowsill. A chipped ceramic dish on its side beneath the dresser.

Spencer’s hand lifted slightly, then dropped. “I moved anything that mattered to the Oasis already,” she murmured. “But still…”

I stepped up beside her, careful not to crowd. “This was still yours.”

She nodded.

Keith came up on her other side, his face tight with pain. “I’m so sorry, wildflower.”

Her eyes closed.

Then, a board creaked somewhere below.

Everyone froze.

My axe was up before the sound finished. Keith turned toward the hall, rifle ready. Oxi moved behind us, cane sword drawn.

Luck whispered from the stairs, “I swear, if this house is haunted, I’m going back to the bunker.”