A chill shrouds the front porch. It’s not a full-on ghost infestation, but the house is rapidly aging, becoming haunted. It has the feel of a place long abandoned and unloved.
I study the series of numbers scrawled on the tiny piece of paper in my palm. The keypad barely registered yesterday. Despite my bravado on the sidewalk, I’m not one hundred percent certain I can get in.
I test the door with a brush of a fingertip, just in case I’m wrong about the infestation. The surface is cool, but not so cold I’ll risk frostbite. Each key beeps as I press it. A light flashes. The deadbolt churns in the mechanism.
So far, so good.
Then, on its own accord, the door creaks open.
Or not so good.
The foyer is dim. The air is cold and stale and makes the back of my throat ache. This is what anger
