We follow the trail past the sink. Past the fridge. Past a calendar on the wall withFARM FESTIVALin cheerful block letters.
The kitchen opens into a short hallway—thank god for old farmhouses and their closed-concept sins. Doors everywhere. Places to hide.
The blood thickens at the edge of the living room.
And then we see it.
Chairs tipped on their sides. A lamp shattered, cord ripped from the wall. Mud smeared across the rug in wide dragging arcs.
Pumpkin vines crawl along the walls.
Not decorative. Not cute. They’re thick and glossy, shoved through cracks in the wood like they forced their way inside. The wallpaper is torn where they burrow through—red threads hanging loose, shredded into ribbons.
And in the center of the room?—
Blood.
A wide, dark pool spreads across the floor, deep enough to reflect the ceiling fan as it spins lazily overhead, blades clicking with each slow rotation.
My lunch crawls up my throat.
“Shaun . . .” I breathe.
His shoulder brushes mine. He’s tense like I am, but steadier. Like his body is already moving through the steps.
Back out. Quiet. Now.
He grabs my hand. “Val . . .”
My brain spirals, questions firing faster than I can grab them.
Why are there vines in a house?
What the hell happened here?
Where are Sandie and Fred?
Whose blood is that?
The answers don’t come.
We start to retreat through the hall?—
—and then we hear it.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
Not in front of us.
Behind us.
From the kitchen.
My breath locks in my chest.