Follow Her Down (Her Monsters, Her Crown #1)

Chapter 1 Sera

Sera

My body isn’t a temple. It’s a mausoleum. And I bury things in it every night.

I sometimes wonder what archaeologists would find if they excavated me—memories calcified into bone, rage preserved like amber, grief packed in salt. The things I’ve swallowed would fill a museum.

The things I’m about to do would burn it down.

I come to town when the storm does, and the first fat raindrops hit my windshield as I pass the rusted sign for Wichita, Kansas.

Lightning cracks the sky open. For a single white-hot second, I see this place for what it is: a collection of fading buildings huddled together against the darkness, like teeth in a rotting mouth.

I ease off the gas. No reason to hurry now that I’m here.

The rain picks up, drumming on the roof of my car like impatient fingers.

Through the blur of water on glass, I see empty storefronts with newspapers in their windows.

A church with a crooked steeple. A diner that looks like it’s been closed since the eighties, though the flickering neon sign still says OPEN.

Someone stands in the shadowed parking lot watching me pass.

My GPS chirps, the robotic voice too cheerful for this place. “Turn right in 500 feet.”

The road winds uphill, and here, the houses grow sparser, older. Trees close in on both sides, branches stretching over the pavement like grasping claws. The storm intensifies, as if trying to push me back the way I came.

I turn onto a pockmarked gravel driveway. At its end looms a house—three stories of a weathered Victorian, silhouetted against the storm-dark sky. Black shutters hang askew from tall windows, and dead vines cling to the siding like veins on an old woman’s hand.

It’s absolutely perfect.

I kill the engine and sit, listening to rain hammer the car roof. From here, I can see a curtain shift in an upstairs window, though there shouldn’t be curtains or anyone to rustle them at all. The house is supposed to be empty.

Maybe it isn’t.

The thought doesn’t scare me. Nothing does, not anymore. Fear seems like a luxury for people who still believe the world has rules.

I grab my purse and step out into the deluge. Water soaks through my clothes immediately, plastering my black hair to my skull. I stand in the rain, letting it hit my upturned face, and study the house.

The For Sale sign dangles from one hinge, swinging violently in the wind.

“I’m here,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m talking to.

The house, maybe. Or the man across town who doesn’t know I’ve come for him.

A car splashes up the drive behind me. Headlights catch the falling rain, turning it to silver needles. A car door slams, and heels crunch on gravel.

“Ms. Vale? I’m so sorry I’m late.” The woman’s voice is strung tight with forced cheer. “This weather is just dreadful.”

The realtor is petite, middle-aged, clutching a leather portfolio over her head in a futile attempt to stay dry. Her blonde bob is already plastered to her cheeks. She winces when she peers at me, likely because I applied my eye shadow with a razor blade this morning.

No, not literally. I just like my eye wings lined extra sharp.

“Let’s get you inside.” The realtor fumbles with keys, dropping them once before managing to keep them in her grip. “I’m Meredith Byers. We spoke on the phone.”

I nod, not bothering with pleasantries. Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly.

“Shall we?” she asks, already moving up the cracked stone path.

The porch steps groan under our weight. Meredith’s heels click across the wooden boards as she hurries to the front door. More fumbling with keys. More nervous glances at me, at the sky, at her watch.

“This house has been vacant for a while now. The previous owners left rather suddenly,” she explains, her voice pitched too high. “Hence the…well, the condition inside. But the structure is sound. The inspector found no major issues.”

Liar. I can hear it in the way her words rush together.

The key turns in the lock, and the door swings inward on its own, as if pulled by invisible hands. Meredith steps back, letting me enter first, and I step over the threshold.

The air inside feels thick and cold. It smells of dust and something else, something sweetly chemical beneath the mustiness.

When Meredith hits the lights, I see that the foyer is cavernous, with peeling wallpaper and a grand staircase rising into shadows.

A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, gray with cobwebs.

The house breathes around me, in, out, the sound of settling wood.

Meredith hovers near the door, not coming fully inside. “As you can see, it’s quite spacious. Four bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms. The kitchen was updated in the nineties.”

“And the basement?” I ask.

Her smile freezes. “Oh, there is one, yes. But it’s not…accessible at the moment. The door is sealed for safety reasons.”

But Meredith, sweetie, remember five seconds ago? When you said the structure is sound? That the inspector found no major issues?

Shaking my head, I walk deeper into the house, my wet shoes leaving prints on the wooden floor. In the sitting room, rain lashes against tall windows. Lightning flickers, casting my shadow, long and distorted, against the wall. For a second, it doesn’t look like my shadow at all.

“Tell me why the basement is sealed,” I demand without turning around.

Silence stretches between us. I can almost hear Meredith calculating how much truth to tell me.

“It’s probably nothing serious,” she finally says. “A leak, some mold. The previous owners decided it wasn’t worth fixing before they left.”

I wonder how many lies she’ll tell before we’re done here.

I move to the staircase, running my hand along the banister. The wood is smooth beneath my fingers, polished by years of hands. How many? Whose? I imagine them all—families, children, lovers, ghosts—touching this same spot where my hand now rests.

“Tell me about the previous owners,” I say.

“The Mulligans? Lovely couple. He was in finance, I believe. They had to relocate for his job.”

I turn to face her. Her mascara has started to run, leaving faint black trails down her cheeks.

“And before them?”

Meredith shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’d have to check the records.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” I step closer. “You know exactly who lived here and when they left. And why.”

She glances toward the front door, seeming to calculate the distance. “Ms. Vale, if you’re not serious about the property—“

“I’ll take it.” I pull an envelope from my purse. “Cash. Like we discussed.”

Meredith stares at the envelope, conflict clear on her face. Responsibility versus commission. Warning me versus washing her hands of whatever happens next.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second viewing?” she asks, even as she reaches for the envelope. “Perhaps once the weather clears—“

“I don’t need a second viewing.” I hand her the envelope. “I already know what this house is.”

She holds the envelope like it may bite her. “And what is that?”

I smile, all teeth. “Exactly what I need.”

Meredith opens the portfolio on a small table by the door, her movements jerky. Papers appear—contracts, disclosures, all the bureaucracy that’s supposed to make this transaction normal. We pretend together, two women performing a ritual of signatures and initials while thunder growls outside.

“You’ll need to sign here. And here.” She points with a manicured finger that trembles slightly. “This is the disclosure about the basement. By signing, you acknowledge that you’ve been informed not to enter it until proper remediation can be completed.”

I sign without reading. The basement is exactly why I bought this place.

When all the papers are signed, Meredith hands me a set of keys with obvious relief. “Congratulations, Ms. Vale. The house is yours.”

She doesn’t say, “Enjoy your new home.” Even she can’t manage that lie.

Then she’s gone, fleeing through the rain to her car without looking back. I watch from the window as her taillights disappear down the driveway, swallowed by the storm and the trees.

Alone now, I listen to the house, the rain on the roof, the wind moaning through cracks in the windows, the subtle shifting of old joints. And beneath it all, something else. A waiting sound.

“It’s just you and me now,” I say to the emptiness.

I explore slowly, methodically, the way I do everything. Everything is outdated, and the ceilings all have water stains, brown blooms spreading like cancer.

I stop in front of the basement door next to the laundry area. It’s been nailed shut, boards crisscrossed over its surface like a warning. Or a cage. The wood around the nails is splintered, as if someone tried to tear them out.

I press my ear against the door, but I hear nothing at first. Then a soft scratching sound, like fingernails against wood. Or claws.

The hallway light flickers overhead, casting shadows. I check the thermostat mounted on the wall nearby. It’s set to seventy degrees, but the temperature display reads forty-two. Cold for October, even with the storm.

Something brushes against my ear, a whisper of air, too deliberate to be a draft. I spin around.

Nothing. No one. Just the empty hallway stretching back to the foyer.

Then I hear it. A footstep from below in the basement. One heavy tread, followed by another. Then silence.

I back away from the basement door, one step at a time, keeping my eyes on it. The boards seem to bulge outward, though that must be a trick of the light. My back hits the opposite wall. I wait, my breath held.

Nothing moves. Nothing breaks through.

Slowly, my lips curve into a smile.

It’s getting dark outside, the storm bringing night early. I have a few supplies in my car, like an air mattress, a duffel stuffed with clothes, some groceries. I didn’t hire movers because I sold almost everything before I left Kansas City, so now all I have is myself, this house, and a plan.