Ghosted

"ARE YOU SURE this is the right address?" I asked my Uber driver as her car squealed to a stop.

"54 Dunbury Lane, that's what it says on the GPS."

On one of my cell phone's many dating apps, I opened the messages I'd exchanged with Date 27, wondering if I'd relayed the wrong street name. But there, on the screen—54 Dunbury Lane.

The driver leaned across the center console and surveyed the property to our right. "Is this a Halloween party?"

"In July? No."

She cocked an eyebrow. "So you wear that kind of thing on a normal day?"

I frowned at the bohemian dress I'd bought from the 1970s section of my favorite store.

"It's vintage" was the best defense I could whip up.

A nod to the window. "So is this house."

Indeed. With a vine-choked facade and sagging roof, the property at 54 Dunbury Lane all but screamed its age. The Gothic style was a rare sight in this city, even for the very outskirts. A few decades ago, it might have been charming, but its darkened windows and overgrown yard suggested its owners had abandoned the place. Or fled from it.

Across the street, rows of bright citrus trees stretched all the way to the horizon. Looming over the orchard was a sky painted in pastels and spotted with cotton candy clouds. But all of that beauty meant nothing under the pall of this decrepit house.

The driver cleared her throat. "And if you keep me waiting much longer, I'll be vintage, too."

Biting back a retort, I climbed out of the vehicle, long sleeves ruffling with each movement. After twenty-two years of living in Los Angeles, I'd come to one conclusion: its people were either pleasant beyond measure or complete assholes.

After transferring money to the driver, I strapped my purse over a shoulder and said, "Wait here for a moment. I just want to make sure someone is home."

I ignored her exasperated sigh while passing through the wrought-iron gate set beyond the sidewalk. A brick path that held evidence of earthquakes unraveled toward the porch, and I carefully watched the placement of my feet.

All was quiet, nothing but the scrape of my knee-high boots on loose stone and the soft humming of the car engine.

Gooseflesh crawled up my spine the closer I got to the mansion. Two naked oaks framed it, swaying and creaking as dead leaves blew across the yard's dry, weed-speckled grass. I crossed my arms to retain a bit of body heat. So much for California's spectacular weather.

As I walked up the steps to the door, I had the distinct feeling that this place was perpetually trapped in autumn. Nothing else explained the uncanny temperatures, though the theory was too absurd to be true.

Realizing there was no bell, I lifted the ornate knocker to signal my presence. When I slammed it down, the door creaked open. I froze, watching until it crashed into an interior wall.

I waited. Nothing happened.

Mentally scolding myself for the shudder that ripped through me, I poked my head inside and called, "Hello? Is Donnie home? It's Suzi—your date."

Silence and shadows were all that greeted me. After another few seconds of waiting, I concluded this entire date had been a hoax. Probably some kind of prank. Why else would I have been sent to a creepy mansion in the middle of nowhere?

Sighing, I wheeled around, intending to return to my Uber, only to discover that she'd vanished.

"Definitely an asshole," I muttered, fishing my phone from my purse.