Drag marks.
“Oh god,” I whisper.
The hum under the floor deepens. Not subtle anymore. It feels aware, like whatever did this knows we’re standing in its house now.
Shaun crouches and drags his good hand through one of the streaks. He lifts his fingers. They shine red.
“Fresh.” He stands, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grind.
The trail drags straight out the back door and keeps going, a dark ribbon smeared through the dying grass toward the farmhouse. Thick in spots. Thin in others. Like whoever made it tried to run, then gave up. Or got dragged.
Beyond it, the farmhouse waits—windows black, porch light flickering weak and uneven, like it can’t decide whether to die now or later.
Sandie!The word jumps to the back of my throat.
I don’t say it.
I don’t know why. My brain just... won’t. Like my body understands something my thoughts haven’t caught up to yet. Like shouting her name is the same thing as ringing a dinner bell.
Shaun’s gaze stays locked on the blood. His jaw flexes once. “We go quiet,” he whispers.
I nod, because yes. Because my lungs feel too loud. Because every instinct I have is screaming the same message:
Don’t announce yourself to whatever did this.
We move anyway—fast, but not sprinting. Controlled. Silent. My boots land carefully, toe-heel, toe-heel, like I’m trying to sneak through my own nightmare.
My brain claws for normal.
Head wounds bleed like crazy. Sandie could’ve clipped her scalp on something. A nail. A fence post. A cabinet edge. It happens. It looks worse than it is.
It has to be that.
We follow the trail right up to the back steps. The door is ajar, hanging crooked on its hinges like someone shoved through in a hurry.
Not. A. Good. Sign.
Shaun lifts a hand, holds me back for a second, listening.
Nothing.
No voices. No TV. Just the farmhouse settling with soft ticks and pops, old wood adjusting.
Shaun eases the door wider.
A rush of cold, damp air spills out, carrying mildew and something faintly sweet underneath, like overripe fruit left too long in a bowl.
We step into a mudroom.
Boots line the wall like soldiers. A coat rack sags under the weight of heavy jackets. A basket of gloves sits overturned on the floor, fingers pointing in every direction.
The blood trail continues across the worn linoleum and into the kitchen.
My stomach tightens.
“Sandie?” I whisper, the name barely a breath.
Still no answer.