Chapter 22
"I'm not exactly the most graceful, so please don't catch me face-planting in this slush," I tell Phoebe as I awkwardly side-step up the giant, slippery hill. That blood was really unexpected, but I'm not about to give up now when we are literally here, at the entrance.
I'm half-sliding my way up this hill. A large branch to balance with would've been nice. Poor Phoebe is clutching her handheld stabilizer, trying to keep her camera steady while climbing at an odd angle to keep me in frame.
At the top, I roll out my shoulders, my heart pounding and my blood turning toxic with nerves. In my calmest voice, I ask, "You good, Phoebes?"
She nods and gives me a thumbs-up just out of frame—her signal that she's recording.
"Hey, everyone. Welcome back to Maske of Sanity. I've got the ultimate treat for you today. Look where I'm at."
Phoebe pans to the cabin as we both dig our feet into the half-frozen earth, trying not to slip and slide all the way back down—like we're contestants on some ridiculous obstacle course game show.
"I'm standing at the very cabin that made national headlines, exactly one year after all hell broke loose. That's right. We're in Frosthaven Falls."
Even though this format is new for us, Phoebe's a pro. She gets wide-angle shots like she's reading my mind, no need for me to even say a word. She even captures the icicles still dangling from the eaves—sharp and glistening, glinting in the dim light like crystal knives. Menacing, yet beautiful.
"You ready?" I ask, my skin buzzing like it's crawling with invisible static. My nerves are getting the best of me. Why am I so jumpy? It's just an empty cabin. It's not like a killer is going to be hiding inside, waiting.
"Ready as you are," Phoebe replies. She's just as eager, and maybe just as scared.
A small wooden porch wraps around the entire house, though a large overhang shields us from the falling snowflakes.
The front door sits innocently enough. Not bolted up like I expected, no caution tape draped across it. The only warning was that simple, almost mocking sign at the base of the broken staircase. It shouldn't be this easy… right?
"What if it's locked?" Phoebe asks off-camera.
"We might have to do some Hollywood magic—break a window, crawl in, unlock it from the inside, and pretend it was open the whole time."
"Whatever you want," Phoebe agrees.
My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob and twist. There's resistance, but it doesn't feel locked.
"Put your shoulder into it?" Phoebe suggests, still recording.
I brace myself and lean into the solid wood. The peephole is still missing, and the whole frame shudders under the pressure. It must be swollen shut, but nothing a few hard shoves can't fix.
Then, behind Phoebe, there's a sharp crack, like glass exploding.
We both freeze, instinctively flinching, bracing for someone to come crashing through the window.
"What the hell?" Phoebe turns. One of the icicles that had been dangling from the roof's overhang now lies shattered on the landing—splintered into jagged shards, glinting like broken glass at her feet.
"Whoa," I breathe, adrenaline spiking. There's something strangely rousing when danger hits out of nowhere.
"I wasn't expecting that," Phoebe says, her breath visible now, each exhale curling into the cold air like smoke.
I'm breathing too fast. The cold cuts through my nose like tiny blades, sharp and burning with every inhale.
"God, I hate the snow," I grumble, already fantasizing about warm, smoggy L.A. "You ready?"
The door swings open and the house softly groans—as if waking up.