The storm raged on as the detectives made their way to the address Sergeant Michael had provided. The thick, dark clouds in the sky were starting to gain definition as they began to illuminate—dawn was approaching.
Yet, the trickle of light was still not enough to lift the enshrouding darkness that kept most of the city out of view. Even with the streetlights and the car's headlights, James occasionally struggled to see the road in front of him.
The drive took some time. James wasn't completely unfamiliar with the area, but not many calls came from this part of town. It was a run-down district—quiet, mostly due to the low number of inhabitants. Many of the houses here stood abandoned and had been for years.
Francis sat in silence for most of the drive, listening to the radio James had turned on. Despite the constant intrusion of static through the speakers, he didn't want to pester the older detective any more than he already had—except for asking details about the crime scene James had come from.
As they rolled through the neighborhood of mostly empty houses, they finally approached one with two squad cars sitting out front, their lights off.
Great, James thought. That's a good thing and a bad thing. They most likely cleared the house and found no one.
He pulled the car to the side of the road, opposite the police cruisers. Outside, the rain was finally letting up. With the drumming of the rain quieting, the drumming in his head felt louder. Another throb. He reached for the flask inside his coat, absentmindedly forgetting about the other detective sitting right next to him. He unscrewed the lid and pressed the flask to his lips.
Francis leaned in and took a deep breath through his nose. "Yeah, that's not milk."
James lowered the flask and swallowed, glaring at Francis. "You gonna write me a ticket?" The growl in his voice was unmistakable.
"No, I'm just making an observation," Francis said calmly. He was one to follow the rules, but he knew James Nolan—everyone on the force did. They had also watched the change in him after his wife passed. He stopped smiling, stopped joking. Everyone used to love him, before he started hating the world.
"Good," James grunted, shifting his attention to the dilapidated house.
Under the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, they could see that the house was small and in terrible condition. The framework seemed to lean at an angle. Shingles were missing from most of the roof, with holes peppering the top. The glass from the windows was gone entirely, and the front door looked barely attached.
"It's a miracle that place is still standing," Francis remarked.
James nodded. "If it's that bad on the outside, imagine what we'll find on the inside." He groaned.
His eyes shifted as he caught movement near the side of the house. Two officers and Sergeant Michael rounded the corner from the backyard. James watched as the sergeant reached for his radio. A chill ran up his spine. He turned in his seat and leaned over Francis, opening the glove box.
"Oh, excuse me," Francis said, startled, leaning back in his seat.
James pulled the box of .357 Magnum rounds from the glove box and slid it into his coat pocket. Then, he took out his revolver and checked it once more. Fully loaded.
"The house is probably clear, James." Confusion was evident in Francis's voice and on his face.
"It's just a feeling," James grunted. "Besides, can't be too careful." He holstered his weapon and slammed the glove box shut. Without another word he popped open his door to exit the vehicle.
Francis sighed but followed suit. The two detectives crossed the street and entered the overgrown front yard, making their way toward the officers. The thick, wet grass clung to their shoes, making each step heavier than the last.
The sky was lightening more, and they could see a bit better now.
"Detective!" Sergeant Michael called out, extending his hand to James. Then he looked at Francis. "I didn't know you were recruiting."
James shook the sergeant's hand. "Michael, so glad you could babysit the house for me." He glanced at the two officers standing nearby. Not the same ones from earlier.
"I'm just here to lend a hand if I can," Francis said, offering his own handshake.
Sergeant Michael shook Francis's hand with a chuckle. "Well, detectives, we cleared the house. It's a mess in there—some real messed-up stuff happened, that much is obvious. But we didn't find anyone here or any more tracks."
"Did you check the attic?" Francis asked.
Michael laughed. "In a way, we did."
James glanced at the front door, hanging by a single hinge. "Was the door like that when you arrived?"
"It was," the sergeant replied, his face dropping into a frown. "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but it doesn't look good."
Michael turned to the two officers and instructed them to head to their next call. "And we'd love to stay, but something is in the air this morning. We've been getting multiple calls, and I've been requested elsewhere."
James nodded. "That's fine. I think we can manage an empty house."
"Best of luck, gentlemen," Michael said before heading to his cruiser.
James watched as the sergeant walked casually to his car. The other officers were already long gone. Another chill ran up his spine. Before Michael climbed in his car, he looked to the detectives once more, and gave a breif smile before opening the door and dissappearing behind the tinted glass. He watched Michael drive off then turned to Francis and motioned toward the front door.
"Shall we?"
The detectives stepped closer, and as they did, the smell hit them—like a punch in the nose. It was a scent they were all too familiar with.
The smell of death.
Both detectives brandished their flashlights as James slowly pushed open the door. The pair stepped in one at a time, carefully placing their feet down as they walked. Each step let out a loud creak beneath their weight.
Rotten trash and a couple of dead animals littered the floor. The detectives swept their lights across opposite sides of the main room. Graffiti covered the interior walls of what had once been a living room.
James looked up, the beam of his light catching bare rafters and the open holes in the roof above. "I guess they did check the attic."
Francis followed his light upward. "Everything in here is soaked from the rain."
From the front door, they could see an opening to another room on the left and a small hallway to the right.
A loud crash echoed from the left.
Both detectives jumped, drawing their firearms and training them on the doorless opening. Francis glanced at James, who slowly approached.
"This is Detective Nolan!" James's voice boomed through the small house. "If someone's in there, I want to see some hands!"
A faint noise this time. A repeated tap—something clanking against metal.
The detectives flanked the doorway.
James nodded to Francis. Then, in one clean motion, he rounded the corner, flashlight and gun sweeping the room. His beam hit the far corner.
A shriek.
Teeth. A slender snout.
A possum, perched on an old stove, hissing at him.
"Jesus!" James exhaled in relief, waving his arms. "Get out of here!"
Francis stepped in. "What is it?"
James watched as the possum scurried out a broken back door. "Damn thing nearly gave me a heart attack."
Francis laughed. "Done in by a possum. Wouldn't that be the way to go."
"Shut up," James growled, shaking his head as he walked back toward the living room.
But deep down, he had the same feeling as before.
Something was very, very wrong with this house.
James moved back into the living room, his headache pulsing with each step. The rain outside had settled into a soft drizzle, leaving only the occasional drip from the roof's holes to break the silence inside.
Francis continued searching the kitchen while James turned toward the hallway. Only two doors on the left. Both were closed.
Did the officers really clear this place? He wondered. Or did they just close the doors when they were done?
The smell of decay thickened as James neared the first door. He holstered his gun and reached for the knob, slowly twisting it. The door creaked open, releasing a wave of stench that almost made him gag.
Inside, a sink stood by the door next to a rusted bathtub. Against the far wall sat a toilet.
James stepped in, sweeping his flashlight over the room. His breath caught.
A small shrine had been erected atop the toilet. Used candles were scattered across the porcelain tank, their wax hardened into grotesque drips. Above them, something had been pinned to the wall, a raccoon, its carcass flayed open, its limbs outstretched like a crude offering.
The walls were covered in symbols. Some of them looked similar to those on the note, but they weren't quite right--distorted, incomplete, or... wrong, like someone had tried to copy them without fully understanding their meaning.
James's vision blurred. A sharp pain lanced through his skull.
The note.
The headache pounded in time with his pulse, an unbearable rhythm that made his knees buckle. He clutched his forehead, stumbling backward out of the room.
"Francis!" he called, his voice hoarse.
Footsteps rushed down the hall. "What is it?" Francis asked, concern washing over his face.
James pointed his flashlight toward the bathroom. "You should see for yourself."
Francis stepped inside, his flashlight sweeping over the grotesque display. "My word..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "This is exactly what it looked like when we found the goat." He moved closer, examining the altar with morbid curiosity.
James backed away, pressing his fingers against his temple. The pain was receding, but a deep unease lingered. He turned toward the second door at the end of the hall.
Holstering his flashlight, he reached for his flask, took a quick drink, then shoved it back into his coat. He steadied himself.
Then, he opened the door.
The rising sun outside cast just enough light through the clouds and broken windows to see it was a bedroom, if it could still be called that. A rotting mattress sat in the corner, half-buried under layers of discarded trash. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something worse.
James moved inside, his boots crunching over debris. His flashlight traced over the walls, no symbols here. Thank God.
He turned toward an old dresser, somehow still standing despite its decay. As he stepped forward, a loud metallic boom echoed beneath his boot.
He froze and look down. Moving his foot to the side, he eyed metal shining in the beam of his light, covered with trash. He bent to examine it.
Francis's footsteps sounded behind him. "Something catch your interest?"
James exhaled sharply. "No, I was thinking about taking a nap on all this garbage." He shot Francis a look. "Of course something did. Get over here."
Francis stepped closer, now noticing what James had found. A metal handle, partially buried beneath the sticky mess of trash.
"Is that... a hatch?" Francis asked.
James knelt, peeling away layers of debris. The garbage clung stubbornly, like it had been pressed down deliberately. With a few firm pulls, he cleared the rest of it, fully exposing the handle.
Francis frowned. "Maybe it leads under the house? Like a crawl space for maintenance?"
James shook his head. "That trash was stuck to this thing. Someone was hiding it." He ran a hand over the metal surface. "And why the hell would a cheap wooden house have a metal hatch?"
Francis shrugged. "Maybe the homeowner just really wanted one quality thing in life."
James rolled his eyes. "Watch out."
He stood and yanked the hatch open. A cold gust of air rushed upward, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of damp earth and something stale, something old.
Both detectives leaned over, shining their flashlights into the darkness below. The beams didn't reach the bottom. A rusted metal ladder was bolted to the side, disappearing into blackness.
James frowned. "Where the hell does this go?"
"Sewer, maybe?" Francis guessed. "What else could be down there? A hidden bunker in the middle of the city?"
"Unlikely," James muttered. "And if it is the sewer, why or how is an entrance built directly under this house?"
Francis hesitated. "Maybe the house was built over it?" He rubbed his chin. "Or maybe this place was always meant to look abandoned, so no one would mess with it."
James grunted, then grabbed the ladder's rungs. "Only one way to find out."
Francis took a step back. "Are we really going down there?"
James looked up from the hole, his expression unreadable. "There could be answers down there." He didn't wait for a response before descending.
Francis sighed. "I'm beginning to regret coming with you." Still, after a moment's hesitation, he followed.
The darkness swallowed them whole.