Chapter 21
Sabrina and I buckle our seatbelts, hearts thudding a little too hard. The weather's holding—for now—but up here, it could change in the blink of an eye, so we don't have time to waste.
Thank God the chains are still latched tight around the tires. It wouldn't surprise me if Albert removed them in the middle of the night just to spite us.
I have no idea if a snowplow has even made it up this far to clear the roads to our destination. But why would it? There's nothing out there except the cabin and one other house—both abandoned, both rotting into the hillside like they've been erased on purpose.
Sabrina starts up the car and adjusts the rearview mirror. The backup camera flickers on, and something flashes across the screen. A dark blur, fast and low. Like a person crawling on all fours. My breath catches, and a heart attack threatens my chest.
"Holy shit, did you see that?"
I stare at the tiny screen, desperate for the image to reappear, but it's gone.
"No?" she says slowly.
"It was this thing!"
"Don't be like Mara and back out on me now," Sabrina teases, but there is nothing lighthearted or playful with the way my pulse is pounding.
I glance at the side mirror, waiting for a face or limb to smack against the glass. But there's nothing.
Maybe I am losing it. Maybe my brain's spinning stories out of fear.
Sabrina backs out of the parking spot, the Whispering Pines Motel shrinking behind us like it never existed.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yes, sorry. I've got my video camera to record you." There's a lapse of comfortable silence that I interrupt with, "Mara kept trying to tell me something but never got the chance. Know what it is?"
"Not a clue."
Sabrina keeps her eyes on the road while the tires crunch over the packed snow, driving down the empty, desolate streets.
It's still early enough that most people are tucked inside, but the few homes we pass are wrapped up in the nostalgic chaos of Christmas Eve morning.
Kids race by their windows in flannel pajamas, their faces pressed against the glass to watch the snow, while moms sip hot coffee by the fire, the faint warmth of their homes contrasting with the frigid air outside.
The falling flakes are sparse, barely enough to make an impression, and we silently pass the few scattered homes, finally reaching the street we've been waiting for.
"Right there," I point. The menacing entrance is ahead, innocent looking enough in its own way. There are no roadblocks or barricades, and so far, we've made it through the first level.
We're less than a mile from the cabin now, and a strange sense of anticipation twists in my gut. I can't shake the feeling that when I finally see it, it'll be like stepping up to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland for the first time as a child—an eerie blend of excitement and fear.
I've been tracking small details as our navigation system shows us inching closer and closer. There are no other tire marks in the snow, no footprints, and no signs of life—nothing to suggest anyone's been here for a while.
"Where do you want to look first?" I ask Sabrina.
"Let's start with the front door. We'll check the basement last, kind of like how Romee did."
I practically quiver in my seat. There it is.
The lonely, sinister cabin sits atop a small incline on a hillside, its silhouette sharp against the endless white hills and sky.
The lot is dangerously close to a steep cliff, and with no garage in sight, the only place to park is right up against the barrier keeping the hillside from sliding down the mountain.
We appear to be alone, but Romee thought the same thing a whole year ago.
"We're finally here!" Sabrina squeals, excitement bubbling in her voice. "How about you record me, like it's truly a documentary?"
"Sure, whatever you want." I unbuckle my seatbelt just as Sabrina puts the car in park, the Range Rover settling into its parking spot. The sudden equilibrium shift gets my heart racing, or maybe it's the anticipation of stepping inside a home where people were killed.
"I'll leave the key fob in the cupholder," she tells me.
"Good idea."
I step around to the rear of the car, and the cold catches in my throat.
"Sabrina…" I motion her over, hovering near the back hatch where I'm about to grab my filming camera.
She joins me, and the moment her eyes land on it, her gloved hand flies to her mouth.
Blood.
It's smeared across the back of the SUV—five distinct finger marks trailing downward. Fresh. Wet. Deliberate. Impossible to ignore.
"Is this fake?" Sabrina leans in, sniffing the unmistakable crimson stain. Maybe it's just corn syrup and red dye.
"Well?" I ask, waiting.
"I think it's real."
"What the fuck!" I shout, stomping my foot into the crusted ice. "Who would do this? This wasn't here when I put my stuff in."
"OOooOOoh, maybe you did see someone in the camera." Sabrina is wavering her voice like she's a ghost, clearly not seeing the severity of our situation.
"Let's just go back," I suggest.
"Are you crazy? The cabin is right there. We can't solve the problem here on our own. Here, look."
Sabrina unclips something from her waistband.
"A pocket knife? Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's a Benchmade!" Sabrina boasts. "These are pretty expensive."
"Do you even know how to open it?"
"Yes, missus. Do you want to hold onto it?"
"It's fine. I'm just—"
"The staircase is gone, look!" Sabrina gestures to the entrance, where a weathered "No Trespassing" sign swings on a rusted chain. The handrail is still intact, but the cement steps are broken apart, scattered across the ground, as if the police thought this would actually keep people out.
"Looks like we'll have to climb up the hill," Sabrina points, and the decision to go has already been made.
"Great," I deadpan.