I spot it only because of the faint shimmer in the darkness. A flicker that has me leaning over the wheel to squint at it more closely.
Light.
A pinprick amongst the flurry of snow. It’s just bright enough that it can’t be mistaken for anything else.
Thrilled to finally find some remnants of civilization, no matter how small, I follow it, keeping it in sight as I gingerly maneuver the car closer. With visibility at zero, I don’t even know if I’m on a road anymore, but whatever path I am on takes me down a dip and through a heavily enclosed dense forest before it opens to a clearing and a familiar, four-story Victorian I haven’t seen since last summer.
Aunt Laura’s estate.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, eyes fixed on the dark exterior barely illuminated by the haloes of my headlights and the single light glowing in the second-floor window.
I can’t even wrap my head around it. I don’t understand how it could possibly be here when ... what? I don’t know. I can’t think past the pounding in my head. It has grown to fill my entire skull with the brutal vengeance of a million bees armed with chisels, carving at the walls.
I let the thought drop away. It’s not important when I’m obviously here. Does thehoweven matter?
Prodding at my temple with one hand, I twist the engine off with the other. The one still throbbing. My fingers barely manage to twist the keys, but I get it and kick open my door.
Brittle, angry shards of ice slash across my face. They catch in my hair and rip at my coat as I stand in the screaming storm and squint up at the structure looming with the same formidable force as its previous owner.
It seems ... bigger, if that’s possible. It’s a daunting cluster of dark wood and grimy glass. Eyes in the dark watching me and finding me lacking. My own attention fixes on the lamp shimmering in the upstairs window.
The single yellow stamp against the black.
It’s been two months since Aunt Laura was found. Has it been lit all this time, like the house has been waiting for someone to find it? Or had someone come by, a caretaker, maybe? A criminal?
What if they’re still inside?
My gaze shifts to the front door, drops to the stone steps brimming high with fresh, untouched snow.
I exhale.
Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. Of course no one is inside. That must be Aunt Laura’s bedroom. The room where they found her rotting and bloated corpse.
Mom wouldn’t talk about the how. Barely mentioned the state of her older sister when she delivered the news. She merely looked me in the eye and said calmly that Aunt Laura was no longer with us and we would need to handle her burial.
Not Jenna or Aunt Laura’s other two grown children — Mom. The only person who tackled the whole thing. The only time Jenna decided to have anything to do with her mother was when the lawyer stated that the house was left to her children.
“I’m not living in that shit hole,”Jenna had muttered before the entire room during the will reading.
Two years younger, Kiera had shrugged and pointed out nonchalantly,“Could be worth something. Is there a list of her things?”
At the slow rock of the lawyer’s head, Jenna sighed and decided,“Katerina,”in that same gross, shrewd way her mother used to spit my name,“I think you should go and make a list. Nothing crazy. Just whatever looks like it will sell.”
When I complained it was literally three days before Christmas — at the time — her response was,“Exactly. We,”she wiggled a thumb between her and her siblings,“have children. We have dinners to make and presents to wrap. I’m sure you can take one day off your busy schedule to run over.”
Mom had been no help. Reminding me it was a time of helping others. Aunt Laura’s children were grieving and needed our support.
The only person grieving was Mom and for her, I accepted. I climbed into my car and here I am standing at the foot of a house I swear wants to eat me.
I shudder.
Why am I here?
Why me?
Groaning under my breath, I shuffle to the trunk and pull out my duffle with my good hand. With my numb fingers, I try to find the keys Mom had given me and I had worked into my keyring before leaving.
It’s been two months,I remind myself as I shuffle up the stairs, wade through the snow. Two months with no air circulation and no one to throw out the bed. I’m not a horror fan or a morbid person, but I know I’m walking into a smell I will never forget.
