It flickers, then steadies, glowing from inside that house. My stomach twists into knots. Maybe it’s nothing. A reflection, a trick of the moonlight. But something about it doesn’t sit right. No one’s been in that house for years.
In no time, I head downstairs. I grab my jacket, step into my boots, and reach for the flashlight by the door. As I step outside, the night air bites at my skin, crisp and cold, turning each breath visible. The wind moves through the trees, carrying a quiet unease I can’t quite shake.
The light flickers again as I make my way across the field, the flashlight bouncing in my grip. The next door neighbor’s barn comes into view first, its doors slightly ajar. I stop, my pulse ticking up. I don’t jump to conclusions, but this doesn’t feel right.
“Who’s there?” My voice cuts through the silence.
No response. Just the creak of the barn doors swaying in the wind.
I move closer, sweeping the flashlight inside. The beam catches on old tools, piles of hay, and shadows stretching like fingers across the ground. Everything looks untouched, abandoned. But the air—it feels alive.
And then I see her.
She’s crouched behind a stack of hay bales, her face half-hidden but unmistakable.
Like my brother Malerick—who worked for the FBI—taught me, I catalog the basics. Shoulder-length dark auburn hair. Brown eyes, wide and startled, locked onto mine like a deer caught in headlights.
For a second, neither of us moves. Time suspends, the world holding its breath.
“Are you okay? Can I help you?”
She doesn’t answer. She just tightens her grip on something—then I see it. A knife, small but firm in her hand. She’s cowering, but not in fear. More like she’s bracing for a fight.
I take a careful step closer, keeping my voice calm. “You don’t need to hide. What are you doing out here? Do you need help?”
Her breath comes in quick, shallow pulls. Then, finally, she speaks, her voice low but edged with steel. “I’ll call the police if you don’t leave.”
I exhale, tilting my head. “Not sure how well that’ll work since you’re the one trespassing.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “This is my property.”
She stands, all five-foot-three of her, her chin lifting in defiance. I’m six feet, and she still manages to make it feel like a standoff.
“This place has been abandoned for years,” I counter, arms crossed.
“Not abandoned. Just . . . momentarily unoccupied,” she shoots back.
I arch a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because in the two and a half years I’ve been living here no one has been around.”
“Here, you live here?” she asks.
“No, I live next door,” I correct. “And I know for a fact that this place has been abandoned.”
“This land belongs to me,” she states.
I want to believe her, but a couple of weeks ago, there was an explosion. According to the sheriff—Malerick— the Doherty mansion caught fire due to a faulty gas line. That’s the official statement. However, I dragged the truth from him. It was criminal activity.
This woman might be part of the gang or whoever set the house on fire.
“Listen, I want to believe you,” I say, crossing my arms, “but I know for a fact there’s no listed owner. I tried to buy this place three years ago, and no one could even tell me who it belonged to.”
“Well,” she says, gripping the knife a little tighter, “now you know. Go away.”
I let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, see, that’s not how this works. How about we just call the sheriff and clear this up? You know, make sure everything is nice and legal.”
Her fingers tighten around the handle, her knuckles pale in the dim light. I half-wonder if she’s about to plant that blade between my ribs or just bolt.
“Honestly,” she exhales, “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
