"Cold," I murmur, wincing as the icy bite of metal presses against my back. The chill creeps into me like an unwelcome intruder, settling in my bones and refusing to leave. The floor reeks of dog piss, stale vomit, and despair—a combination potent enough to gag a maggot. But the cold… The cold is worse. But how did I even end up in this cold prison? Let me tell you my backstory—because that's how stories start, right? Except... I can't. Nothing. Blank. Zip. The harder I try to pull at the threads of my past, the faster they unravel into a big, fat nothing.
Okay, fine. Let's start smaller. My name. Simple enough. Except... nope. Nothing there either.
My age? Not even a clue.
Panic curls in my chest, I'm a blank slate. I think I am going to have a panic attack any second now.
Then I hear it: a groan. Low, guttural, and entirely too human. My head jerks upright so fast my vision blurs. Someone is lying next to me. His face is scrunched up like he's debating whether to wake up or stay unconscious forever.
"Hey," I rasp. No response. "Dude, wake up," I say louder, but he doesn't stir. I consider slapping him awake—nothing says "good morning" like a face smack—but before I can, his eyes flutter open.
We lock eyes, and I become more aware of my senses.
My sense of smell specifically. Oh, the smell. He gags violently, clutching his nose, and I instinctively wave a hand in front of my face like that'll somehow help. The stench is unbearable—like something crawled in here to die. Twice.
He coughs, his watery eyes narrowing at me as if I'm personally responsible for this olfactory nightmare. And instead of screaming or demanding an explanation—both of which would've been totally reasonable—he rasps out, "Did you… kidnap me?"
I blink. Kidnap you? Seriously?
I snort—well, attempt to. It comes out as a hacking cough. "If I did, don't you think I'd pick a better location? Maybe one that doesn't reek like a haunted outhouse?"
"People do weird stuff." His voice is hoarse, but there's a bite to it, like he's not buying what I am saying. "You don't exactly scream 'trustworthy.'"
I huff. "Says the guy who looks like he fought a raccoon and lost."
"Hey!" He rubs a hand over his face, glaring at me. "At least I don't look like I just crawled out of a dumpster fire."
"Dumpster fire?" I scoff. "That's rich, coming from you. I'm just saying, if this were a crime scene, you'd be the prime suspect based on appearances alone."
He pauses, giving me a once-over. "You've got jokes. Great. That's exactly what we need right now—comedy hour with my kidnapper."
"I didn't kidnap you alright and comedy hour is better than your paranoia hour." I lean back, crossing my arms, even though my cold hands against my skin make me regret it immediately. "What's your name, anyway?"
His lips twitch, like he's fighting back a scowl. "Mason. And you?"
"No idea," I admit. Mason frowns, skepticism flashing across his face. "Convenient."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, super convenient. Because waking up in the smell-o-rama capital of the world with amnesia is exactly how I'd plan to spend my weekend."
His eye twitches as he shoots me a glare. "Guess I should be relieved you're not crying or screaming."
"You were the one crying a second ago. Oh no—I've been kidnapped by the fair maiden!" I mock, pitching my voice into an exaggerated imitation of his and rolling my eyes as I scan the room.
That's when I noticed it—a block of wood stuck to the wall, pretending to be a door. "Is that supposed to be a—"
He's on his feet before I can finish, moving so fast he nearly knocks me over as he strides straight for the excuse of a door.
What the hell? I thought we were having a civil conversation here.
"Wait!" I hiss, my horror-movie instincts kicking in. "What if there's something out there?"
"Something out there?" He gives me a sideways glance. "Look around. Whatever nightmare's in here can't be worse than what's outside."
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed in horror movies," I mutter, but he's already pushed the door open, leaving me no choice but to follow.
The dim light from the shack fades as we step into pitch darkness. Perfect. I can't even see my own hand, let alone the idiot in front of me.
Trust Issues moves ahead like he's got this all figured out, running his hands over rusted tools and half-rotted beams, inspecting every surface like he's conducting an investigation. Meanwhile, I trail behind him like a lost puppy, arms out, trying not to trip over my own feet.
"Awesome," I mutter. "This is definitely how I die. Lost in the dark with Trust Issues."
"You got a better plan?" his voice drifts back to me, clipped and annoyed. "Because standing around isn't it."
We push farther in—and then the space opens up.
Moonlight spills in through long, narrow windows lining the walls, pale silver bars cutting through the darkness. It's just enough to see by, and just enough to make things worse. The room stretches upward, the ceiling impossibly high, wooden beams disappearing into shadow. This isn't just a shack. It's a shed. A big one.
That's when something shifts underfoot.
A faint squelch.
My stomach churns. The air thickens, heavy with a metallic tang that prickles at my nose. Then something wet and cold splatters against my cheek. I freeze.
"What the—?" Another drop hits Trust Issues. He curses, swiping at his back. "What is this?"
I look down at my shaking hands. Dark. Sticky. Gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
"Yep," I mutter weakly. "Just red juice."
I refuse to believe it.
The smell hits next—sharp, unmistakable. Blood. My stomach twists as panic crawls up my spine. I glance at Trust Issues, but he's already stopped moving, his gaze locked upward.
I follow it.
Hanging from the ceiling is a hogtied sheep.
Its belly has been slit open, entrails spilling down like some grotesque piñata, swaying slightly in the draft. Blood smears the beams above it, forming jagged symbols carved into the wood, their sharp angles glowing dark in the moonlight.
Buzzing fills the silence—flies swarming the carcass. Somewhere overhead, a faint creak groans through the beams, as if the ceiling itself is straining under the weight.
Trust Issues' breath hitches in front of me. "This is…" His voice cracks. "What the hell is this?"
"I don't know," I whisper, cold terror sinking its teeth into me. "But I'm pretty sure we're not alone."