Chapter 38 Louise
LOUISE
It took us almost two hours to get to Hollow Hill, the haunted house. The snow was falling quickly, sheets of white against a gunmetal gray sky. I suggested turning back, but Ryder was hell-bent on carrying on.
I asked him what he’d seen in the picture that intrigued him so much.
Instead of answering directly, he reminded me that he didn’t like the idea of me going back out to the estate alone.
I didn’t push. I figured I’d find out soon enough, because whatever was in that picture, Ryder would find it.
And I’d be right there next to him, in my brand-new down winter jacket and hiking boots.
“Turn here.” I leaned forward, squinting. “I think this is it.”
“Nope. Next road.”
“Are you sure? I think—”
“It’s the next road. I’ve been here before.”
“Yeah, but I was here days ago.”
“It’s the next right. I checked the map before we left.”
“Why can’t men take directions from a woman?”
“Why can’t women read maps?”
I rolled my eyes and looked out the window, pretending he wasn’t right. I was the worst at directions. Obviously.
We turned onto a narrow dirt road enclosed by low-hanging, skeletal trees, their twisted limbs sagging under the weight of snow and time.
Fallen branches and splintered limbs littered the unplowed path.
The only tracks in the snow were faint and scattered—coyote, maybe deer—but no tire marks. No sign of recent human presence.
As we rounded a bend, the house came into view—and a chill crept up my spine.
Hollow Hill stood like a corpse in a wedding dress.
Once grand, now grotesque, the colonial-style mansion loomed behind a screen of dead trees.
Its four towering columns, warped and weather-worn, reached up to a collapsing roof riddled with holes like open wounds.
A crumbling balcony slouched above the door, its missing slats gaping like broken teeth.
The paint—once white—had rotted into a patchy, jaundiced brown, peeling in long strips like shedding skin.
The snow around the house glittered in the soft morning light, untouched and deceivingly pristine—stark against the ruin it framed.
Ryder pulled the truck close to the steps, steering around the fallen limbs.
I zipped my coat, slid my camera into my pocket, and climbed out, boots sinking into the soft, untouched snow. A heavy hush wrapped around us.
It was creepy.
Ryder was already on the porch, standing still as stone as I joined him at the rotting front door.
“Tell me again why Kara came here?” he asked, his voice low.
“Her friend said she wanted to check it out while she was camping. Like it was some kind of local legend.”
“And still no idea who she was meeting?”
I shook my head. “None.”
The door moaned as Ryder pushed it open. The air hit me first—damp and sour, like mold, rust, and decay.
We stepped into the darkness.
A shattered chandelier lay like a corpse in the center of the foyer, its rusted iron arms curled in on themselves, draped in cobwebs that trembled with the draft.
Graffiti stained the cracked walls—obscenities, Wiccan symbols, strange markings that didn’t look like any language I knew, and of course, a few crude, adolescent sketches of anatomy.
Broken chairs and beer cans littered the entryway, remnants of teenage bravado.
Glass from the shattered windows sparkled under our boots like ice.
A black staircase rose sharply to the second floor, disappearing into a void of shadow. It looked like something out of a nightmare—too steep, too narrow, too dark. Something you didn’t come back down from.
And still, what unnerved me most wasn’t what I could see—it was what I felt.
That deep, prickling instinct in my gut that said something awful had happened here.
Evil lurked in Hollow Hill.
And I was certain—it was still here.
“Did the cops find anything here? Any trace of her?” Ryder asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. I’m hoping to find something they missed. Any clue to help put this damn puzzle together.”
We stepped around the fallen chandelier, and I turned to go into the next room.
“Stay with me,” he said, taking it all in. “Please.”
I wondered if Ryder felt the same evil I did.
I pulled my camera from my pocket and took more pictures, paying attention to every nook and cranny as we walked through the first floor. Ryder was looking for something too, but his search was different from mine. I just didn’t know why.
The staircase creaked and groaned as we walked up it. Ryder reached back and grabbed my hand.
Midway up the stairs, my heart beat faster. Irrationally, I had the urgent compulsion to turn and run.
I gripped his hand tighter as we took the curve in the stairs and stepped onto the second floor. Mounds of snow from the holes in the roof littered the hardwood floors. There was little trash and graffiti upstairs, as if the partygoers knew to avoid it. I wondered why.
Gripping my hand, Ryder quickened his steps. He pulled me along, glancing into each room until we came to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
The room was large with a fireplace and a small balcony. There were only a few holes in this part of the roof and most of the floor was still intact, along with the two windows. It was warmer too, and I noticed the faint smell of ash. He dropped my hand and scanned the room.
“Ryder, you have to tell me what you’re looking for. Maybe I can help.”
Laser-focused, he ignored my question as he clicked on his phone, using it as a flashlight. He walked to the fireplace, crouched down, and leaned forward. I squatted next to him, following his gaze into the ashes. Something small and colorful sparkled in the beam of light.
“What is that?”
His eyes widened as he stared at it.
“Ryder?”
“It’s a pendant. From a necklace,” he whispered, his tone chilling me to the bone.
We both stared at the dirty oval blown-glass pendant with a rainbow of colors swirling inside. It was beautiful, like a million flower petals had been captured in glass. The pendant was caught under the corner of the iron grate, as if it had been tossed and forgotten.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Is this what you saw in the picture this morning?”
He stared at the pendant, entranced almost.
“Ryder. You’re kind of freaking me out. Are you okay?”
He blinked, shook his head, then pulled a baggie from his pocket that he must have brought from his house. I watched him carefully remove the pendant from the ashes and zip it in the bag.
“What are you doing? Do you think that’s Kara’s? If so, we need to call the cops.”
“It’s not Kara’s.”
“How do you know? This could be evidence. You have to leave it. It could be Kara’s—”
“It’s not Kara’s.”
“Whose is it then?”
“It’s mine.”