Page 7 of The Dearly Departed

Locked.

Fuck.

I headed further down the porch, past the door, and the other two followed close behind.

“Hey, Shawn,” Ike whispered.

“What?”

“Where do you think they keep the dead bodies?” my little brother asked in a teasing tone.

“Shut up,” Shawn muttered, unamused.

“You’ve seen a dead body before, right? Why are you so scared of seeing another one?”

“Ike, shut the fuck up,” I threw over my shoulder, following the porch around a corner.

Another door came into view.

"What did your mom look like? I dunno that I've ever asked you that …"

Shawn spun on his heel and grabbed my brother by the throat, pressing him against the side of the house with a thud, rattling a nearby window.

"Isaac, shut your fucking mouth before I rip out your tongue and choke you with it," he hissed in a low, menacing tone.

With an impatient growl, I turned and hurried toward them with catlike precision, quiet on the planks beneath my feet. I loomed over them, looking down with a deadly glare.

"We are here because you two wouldn't shut the fuck up about needing to sleep," I reminded them in a mocking tone. "I'm gonna murder both of you if you get us caught."

Shawn swallowed his pride and nodded, releasing Ike easily. Ike smirked with triumph, the snide little prick, and I leveled him with another glare.

"I'm going to say it one more time," I told him. "Knock it the hell off."

The grin was wiped off his face, and satisfied, I turned away to check out that door on the side of the house.

It was dirtier, definitely older. It looked like it hadn't been used in a while, and that fact was made obvious by the dry, dead leaves that had collected at the bottom, when the rest of the porch was clean and swept.

And then I noticed the cracked windowpane, just above the doorknob.

It’s almost too easy.

I grunted in reply to myself, swinging my gaze over one shoulder, then the other. Unease settled in my gut. It would be no problem to break that window the rest of the way, slip my hand inside, and unlock the door. The possibility of walking inside unnoticed and finding a place to crash for a few hours was tempting and maybe even likely, given the size of the place. But anxiety or intuition—couldn’t tell which one—was telling me there was a reason this door had been left untouched when the rest of the porch was kept clean.

What if the bodies are kept in here?

“What’s wrong?” Shawn asked, noticing my hesitation.

“Just thinking,” I answered.

Something might’ve felt off, and, hell, maybe it was. But what other options were there? It was this place or the streets, and as much as I wasn’t too thrilled myself about sleeping among the dead, it was still more welcoming than the cold ground.

So, with my leather-clad elbow, I quickly jabbed the broken windowpane. Instead of shattering, the pieces gave way from the confines of the frame and fell to the interior floor.

Too easy.

Shawn and Ike watched from beside me, silent but eager despite the creepiness of the place, as I slowly eased my fist through the gaping hole and found the doorknob inside and turned the lock, successfully granting us access.

The door swung open on squeaky hinges. I resisted the urge to flinch or demand it shush itself as I carefully peered inside, poking my head in and swinging my gaze this way and that.