Charles stood in front of the rundown duplex for nearly five minutes, frozen by indecision. This was supposedly Alicia Michaels' house. He had already gone home, cleaned up, replayed Mrs. Eggon's entire rant about Alicia's past, and mentally prepared himself for the worst kind of welcome.
Yet somehow, this standing on a dead lawn staring at a half-collapsed house-felt worse than anything he imagined.
He hovered between knocking and ringing the doorbell before finally settling on the latter. The bell gave a weak, sickly buzz. He waited.
No footsteps. No irritated voice. No gun aimed at his face.
Nothing.
He rang again. Then again.
Still nothing.
Frowning, Charles jogged to the street corner and counted the houses one more time. Mrs. Eggon said "the fourth house on the right." He traced them carefully.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He was at the right place.
He stared at the duplex again, confused. How could someone anyone actually live here? The lawn was a graveyard of weeds, the walls were cracked like broken porcelain, and the roof sagged with the exhaustion of years without repair. Dead leaves smothered the pathway. Dust and cobwebs coated the windows thick enough to blot out the sun. Vines crawled along the bricks like they'd claimed the place for themselves.
This house hadn't been lived in for years.
Or so it seemed.
Charles sighed heavily and walked back up the steps. This time, he chose knocking just in case the ancient doorbell had been long dead.
The moment his knuckles touched the wood, the door creaked open on its own.
He jerked back with a startled breath, scanning the porch and yard. No one in sight. No prankster hiding behind a bush. No camera. No wind strong enough to shove an old door inward.
"Great," he muttered. "Perfect. Exactly what I needed."
Against every instinct screaming at him to run, he stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Charles slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the yelp clawing up his throat. He spun around, nobody there.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He forced himself deeper into the house. Each step on the old floorboards made long, painful creaks that echoed like warnings.
"Hello? Is anyone home?" he called out, voice cracking slightly.
Silence.
"Uhm, my name is Charles. A friend of Derrick's. I'm looking for Alicia Michaels."
He stopped at the foot of the stairs. A dark, narrow hallway stretched out behind him, but the room adjacent to him caught his attention.
It was the living room or what once had been.
"What the hell..." Charles whispered, jaw dropping.
Every inch of the walls was covered in newspaper clippings. Crimes. Disappearances. Police reports. Maps. Timelines. Red string connecting different pages. It looked less like décor and more like the inside of someone's mind unraveling onto walls.
He took one step toward the room.
Then he felt it.
Cold metal pressed to his right temple.
He froze.
"Don't. Fucking. Move," a woman's voice said, low and sharp.
Alicia.
He gulped and slowly started to retract his step
"Oh shit"
His foot slipped on a loose floorboard, the world tilting as he stumbled forward, reaching for anything to grab.