The doubt in Claire’s voice was gone, replaced by a nascent fear that mirrored my own. I could finally see a path forward.
“Claire, I’m going back,” I told her, my resolve hardening. “I need to find out what they’re truly doing. What that ‘cold hand’ is.”
“Be careful, Dad,” she urged, sounding genuinely worried. “Brandon sounded… different when I called him. Really defensive. Like he was hiding something.”
I waited until nightfall. The Sterling Heights neighborhood was quiet, porch lights glowing softly, families settled in. It was a stark contrast to the dread coiling in my gut.
I approached Brandon and Sierra’s house stealthily. Their car was gone, a small mercy. I found an unlocked back window – a careless oversight, or perhaps they felt secure.
Inside, the house felt colder than it should have been. I moved through the silent rooms, the only sound the soft padding of my own feet. Eleanor’s bedroom door was still slightly ajar, but I didn’t dare go in. I had to find something concrete.
The basement. It had to be the basement. That feeling, that cold, it felt like it was seeping from below.
I descended the wooden steps, each creak a loud report in the darkness. At the bottom, a heavy, bolted door stood out. It was made of thick, unfinished wood, clearly an addition. Soundproofed, I realized, my blood running cold.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn’t for a “virus.”
I fumbled with the bolts, my hands shaking. The latch gave way with a groan. I pushed the door open a crack and a wave of stagnant, sickly sweet air hit me. It was metallic, cloying, like old blood mixed with something floral and artificial.
I stepped inside, my phone’s flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive darkness. The room was small, windowless. No ventilation.
In the center stood a large, rough-hewn stone basin, intricately carved with symbols I didn’t recognize, but that felt ancient and wrong. Dried herbs were caked around its rim, some dark and crusty, others a pale, sickly green.
On a nearby shelf, I saw jars filled with dark liquids, small, oddly shaped bones, and bundles of what looked like human hair tied with thin, black string. It was a complete ritual space.
This wasn’t neglect. This wasn’t a viral infection. This was deliberate.
And it confirmed every terrifying suspicion.
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