Alone • Liam Dunbar

Thirty

The engine of Theo's truck lets out mighty roars through the streets of Beacon Hills. The roads are still packed as night has only just broken over town. Theo cuts around the cars with ease, whizzing through traffic. People honk aggressively as we pass, and I find myself gripping my seat's armrest to remain steady at our increased speed.

None of it makes Theo relent. He keeps the gas pedal to the floor and continues to head in the general direction Lydia had given us.

"Astoria Lane," I call out to him, pointing to an overhead sign. Theo makes a sharp turn, both of us leaning against the direction of his truck.

"Which one is it?" he asks as we journey down the street.

"Lydia said it's a big white house with a black gate," I reply, urgently scanning the various homes that surround us, waiting to find one that shares those qualities.

Theo's speed finally slows, his eyes focused on a point up ahead.

"Like that?" he asks.

I follow his gaze, finding a substantial house at the end of the lane. A black metal fence with spiked posts guards it, keeping any living thing from entering the grounds. It seems like a place removed from time as we advance on it. Its architecture is reminiscent of a neoclassical period, meant for eighteenth-century France with its wide columns and simplistic arches, not the suburbs of California.

"It's a big white house with a black gate," I repeat sarcastically as confirmation.

Theo and I swiftly exit his truck once he parks on the curb in front of the house. He uses his strength to tear off the padlock that binds the gate and pushes it open. We freely walk along the cobblestone path and approach the door, climbing into the rickety veranda. I move to test the rusted knob and see if it's unlocked, not wanting to wait another second.

"Wait." Theo reaches to stop me.

"If you even try to tell me to stay up here-" I begin in a heated tone, more than ready to argue.

"Hell no," he brushes me off. "All I was gonna say is that they don't need a front door."

I'm puzzled by his words at first and move to question them. Though, before I can, Theo's revving up and slamming the sole of his boot into the edge of the fraying wood. The door busts open instantly, splinters flying in random directions. The musty interior of the house is promptly exposed, a trail of dried blood and black goo waiting for us on the floor.

"I like your style, Raeken," I mutter as we enter.

There isn't much in the house except for the presence of dread. We pass canvas-covered furniture, most of which is spotted with mold, and broken chandeliers, their glass scattered across the floor. Cobwebs paint the walls, more prominent than the aged and peeling wallpaper. Other than the furniture, there didn't seem to be any remnants of people living here. The interior acts like a display more than anything; an illusion of a home.

The trail takes us to the basement door at the far end of the house. Theo enters first, using his enhanced eyesight to guide us through the dark. The wooden stairs moan beneath our combined weight, an indicator that we shouldn't linger there for long. When we reach even ground, we find a short hallway filled with uniform rooms. All of them are the same size and don't contain any windows, only lifeless shadows.

I understand then that this is no home, it's a prison.

That thought is only heightened by the pungent smell of rot that hits our noses. Theo's face contorts into a disgusted snarl and I hear his breath shorten as he attempts to adapt, his senses becoming a burden in times like this.