Chapter Twenty-Five Loser Takes the Basement
twenty-five
Loser Takes the Basement
The dirt road to the lumberyard is bumpy and narrow, overgrown with weeds that brush against the SUV like claws as we inch forward in the dark.
The headlights cut through the trees, illuminating glimpses of rusted metal and rotting wood, but the rest of the yard is swallowed up in shadows.
It looks abandoned. Forsaken. Like a place that never sees light.
“This place is so creepy,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter as we approach the open gate.
Jasmine rolls her eyes. “People come here all the time for bonfires and stuff. It’s not that creepy.”
To me, it is. The buildings and broken-down machinery loom in the distance.
The closer we get, the quieter it becomes.
No crickets, no birds, just the faint hum of the car engine.
I slow down as we reach the main area, the beams of the headlights falling on empty concrete slabs and scraggly weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement.
I park, my heart pounding. Jasmine’s out of the car in an instant, already scoping the area, bouncing with excitement.
“Come on,” she urges, glancing back at me as I finally open my door. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”
I shiver as the cool air wraps around me. “Curious about what, exactly? Finding pieces of people?”
My cousin shrugs, pushing past an overturned wheelbarrow.
“The police barely searched this place. They missed things. There’s no way they didn’t.
And we don’t have to find, like, full-on body parts or anything.
But even a scrap of fabric, something that belonged to someone—that counts as information for the reward, right? If it leads to the bodies?”
I look around warily. Why did I ever agree to do this? This is the last way I want to spend my Saturday night. Or any night, for that matter.
But I know my cousin well now. She would’ve found a way to do this with or without me. Someone needs to be here to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. Or worse, get hurt.
“This is messed up, Jaz,” I say, keeping my voice low. “These were human beings.”
“Exactly. Were.” She sounds unfazed, even hopeful. I watch her pick her way over the gravel and into the shadows. “They’re already dead, Ryan. It’s not like we’re hurting anyone by looking.”
I peer past her at the hulking silhouettes of the abandoned lumber shed and rusted-out machinery. The uncomfortable ache in my stomach deepens as I scan the woods beyond.
Before I can voice any more doubts, Jasmine nudges me, pointing toward a small bungalow off to the side.
“That was Ellerbee’s place,” she says. “Let’s go there first.”
“What?” I shake my head. “No. I’m not breaking into some house. Let’s look around here in the yard.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “The house is a smaller search area. What if that’s where Uncle Psycho brought the bodies? Kept them in Ellerbee’s basement or something before Ellerbee ran them through his wood chipper. C’mon. I bet we find something.”
I follow her toward the bungalow, which is dilapidated and sagging, its facade warped from years of rain and neglect. Turns out we don’t even need to break in. There’s no front door. Just a dark, gaping space where a door used to be, rusty hinges still dangling off the wooden frame.
I pull out my phone and click the flashlight function. It cuts a weak, narrow beam through the stale air as we creep inside, the floorboards groaning beneath our feet. Every shadow seems to flicker, shifting in the corner of my vision.
Jasmine laughs, unbothered. “All right. Rock-paper-scissors. Loser takes the basement.”
I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”
She holds out her fist. With a sigh, I reluctantly play, throwing paper. She shows scissors. I lose.
“I hate you,” I mutter. I’m filled with dread as I glance toward the basement door. “Don’t you dare leave without me.”
My cousin gives a mock salute, already disappearing down the hallway. I steel myself and push open the door. A gust of cool, musty air immediately hits me. After a beat of hesitation, I descend the staircase, each creak of the old steps sending chills down my spine.
The basement is darker than I could have imagined.
My phone’s flashlight barely scratches the surface, illuminating only dust particles and shadows that seem to move as I venture deeper into the cold, damp room.
I sweep the light over the space and find broken furniture, ancient shelves thick with grime, and stacks of empty mason jars.
The silence is unnerving, every sound amplified by my pounding heart.
I keep moving, scanning corners, shelves, the floor. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, and to be honest, I no longer care to search. My skin prickles with the sense that I need to leave. Now.
“Anything?” Jasmine calls from the top of the stairs.
“No. Nothing but dust and cobwebs.”
We meet up on the main floor, and as we head back toward the door, a noise echoes from somewhere inside the house. A soft creak followed by a snap, like a twig breaking.
We freeze.
I meet her wide-eyed gaze. “Someone’s here,” I hiss, barely able to get the words out.
Jasmine’s bravado finally crumbles. She clenches her jaw and nods. “You know what? Forget this. Let’s just go.”
Thank God.
I shove my phone in the pocket of my hoodie and hurry out of the house after Jasmine.
I can almost taste the relief, but it’s short-lived.
I’m sliding into the driver’s seat when I realize my phone isn’t in my pocket anymore.
I slide my hand deeper into it, frantically searching, but I come up empty.
“Shit!” I turn to Jasmine. “I dropped my phone in the house. I have to go find it.”
Face pale, she doesn’t budge from the passenger seat. “I am not going back in there.”
So much for intrepid detective Jasmine Shipley.
“Fine. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I take a deep breath, then force my unsteady legs to carry me to the house alone.
Inside, the shadows seem even darker, pressing around me as I retrace my steps.
I don’t have a flashlight this time, but I know where we were standing the last time I had my phone.
Sure enough, I crouch down and find it lying on the dusty floor.
Before I can pick it up, there’s a new noise. A shuffle, followed by footsteps.
Footsteps.
Those are fucking footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, and coming from somewhere in the house.
Every hair on my body stands on end as I listen, my heart in my throat. Someone else is definitely here.
I snatch my phone and spin around to find the quickest way out. That’s when I catch a glimpse of movement. A dark shape slipping past a doorway at the other end of the hall. I don’t wait to see who it is. I bolt for the front door, lungs burning, adrenaline surging.
I race toward the SUV, cutting diagonally over a tarp-covered area because it’s faster. I’m halfway to the car when the ground beneath my feet disappears. Crumples. And then I’m falling.