“No. Don’t even think about canceling,” Tiffany scolds. “You did that last week.”
“I know.” I take my work seriously and put it first. Always. I might not have any family, but this guy does. Or did. And they deserve to know what happened. “I don’t think I can put it off any longer, anyway. The government wants their taxes on the place and the bank certainly isn’t going to pay it.”
“I think it’s cool. Or at least it looks cool from the pictures you showed me. I’d love to inherit a huge house like that. Hell, I’d love to inherit a small house.” She laughs. “When is your appointment?”
“Two.”
“I’ll remind you at one-thirty.”
“Thanks, Tiff.”
“See ya in a bit.” She unlocks her car and gets in.
I go to my own, pausing when I get to the driver’s side door. As a cop, I know to always trust my intuition. But right now, I’m questioning it. Because it’s telling me the world I’ve worked so hard to prove doesn’t exist might very well be real.
2
I do not have time for this.
I double-checked the address I’d entered in the GPS. There’s only half a mile left until I reach my destination, and there’s nothing in sight. I’m already driving slow, cringing when I hear the gravel fly up under the tires of my Charger. I continue down the road, looking through the thick, overgrown trees for any signs of a house.
“You have reached your destination.”
“Really?” I give an incredulous look to my GPS. “Are you sure about that?” I take my foot off the gas and let the car idle along the road. It took longer than I expected to sign all the papers at the bank, and then at the title company. The house is officially mine now, and officially a thorn in my side. And I haven’t even seen it yet.
Through the trees, I spy what I think might be the mailbox, well, what’s left of it. The numbers have peeled off, leaving the faint outline of the number three. I put the car in park and get out. The woods on both sides of the road are alive with chirping birds, almost deafening, yet a welcome distraction from the noise of the city I’m used to. My small apartment in downtown Philly is surrounded by the freeway and trains.
Loose stone crunches under my boots as I walk around the car, going to what I guess is the driveway. Once gravel like the road, most of the stone has washed away from years of neglect, leaving behind only two shallow tire ruts in the earth.
Zipping up my leather jacket, I step into the brambles to drag a fallen tree branch off the driveway. I toss it to the side and it disappears into a tangle of overgrown weeds. I take in a deep breath, getting a lungful of thick spring air. A storm is coming, and I hope to be in and out of this place before it hits. I’m not sure my sports car could make it out if the driveway became muddy.
The feeling of being watched falls over me, causing the nerves to prickle along my back. My hand inches toward the gun that’s almost always on my hip. I take a final look around, unable to see past the row of pine trees lining the driveway, then rush back into the running car.
I make it a few yards before having to get out and move another large tree branch. An old, leafless oak tree stretches to the red sky, looking like it’s one good windstorm away from coming down completely.
The driveway takes a sharp turn, and once the pine trees clear, the house comes into sight.
“Wow,” I whisper out loud. I knew the house was large, since I saw the square footage on the many official papers I signed at the bank, but I had no idea it was this ostentatious. The photos don’t do it justice. I let off the gas, allowing the Charger to roll to a stop before putting it in park.
I kill the engine and get out, grabbing my bag on the way. My eyes are on the house as I exit the car, unable to look away. The feeling of being watched intensifies, and a small voice in the back of my head tells me to get my ass back in my car and get the fuck out of here.
As a cop, I knew the importance of listening to that little voice. But something else—something stronger—is pulling me forward. My heart speeds up, and I blindly reach inside my bag for the keys, which seem to have disappeared into the black hole my bag magically becomes every time I’m trying to find something. Unable to take my eyes off the brick mansion before me, I stand rooted to the spot as I feel around for the damn keys.
Suddenly, I know where the feeling of being watched is coming from. It’s the house, and I know that makes zero sense. But as I stand there looking at the red brick estate in front of me, it feels alive. The freaky gargoyles aren’t helping either.
Two are positioned on either side of the steps leading to the large, covered front porch. Their wings are out, mouths open in a hiss, showing off large, fanged teeth. They are similar, yet different in ways I can’t describe, and their eyes are more detailed and lifelike than carvings in stone should be.
The cobblestone path leading from the house to the gravel drive is overgrown and patchy with moss. Still staring at the gargoyles, I walk along it, swatting mosquitoes away from my face. My fingers wrap around the cool metal of the key needed to get into the damn place, and I look away from the gargoyles for a moment to pull the key from my purse.
When I turn my face back, I swear one of them moved. Too curious to be afraid, I keep moving forward, not stopping until I’m right in front of the large stone statues. Up close, I can see the incredible detail carefully carved into each one. Ridges of muscle. The wrinkles of skin around their knuckles. Tiny little hairs on their feet. Veins running along either arm, up their necks, and throughout their wings.
And the eyes.
The sunlight is fading fast, making it hard to tell if their eyes are made from obsidian or if the stone darkened over time. Whatever it is, it was unnerving, though not necessarily in a bad way.
There is something familiar about the pair of gargoyles, and I cannot for the life of me place it. I didn’t know this house existed, let alone belonged to my estranged Aunt Mary, until last week, when I was told it had been passed down to me. I step back, taking a good look at the house before going up the stone steps.
Another gargoyle perches on the top pitch of the house, looking down at me. Like the others, his wings are spread and his mouth is open, but there is something off about him, almost as if he is pained.
The setting sun is directly behind the house, blinding me as I look. I hold my hand up, shielding what I can, and see an outline of more wings. Four gargoyles seem a little excessive, but who was I to judge? From what I was told, my great aunt was a little on the eccentric side, and I’m hoping the strong Gothic vibe coming from the place will attract buyers willing to pay for the authenticity.
I go back to the porch, compelled to reach out and touch the cool stone of the closest gargoyle. Only he isn’t cool. The stone is as warm as human flesh. I jerk my hand back. It’s from the sun. It has to be from the sun. There is no other reason for the stone to feel so warm.
I knock down dust-covered cobwebs from in front of the door, then stick the key in the lock. The deadbolt shoots back, and the second my fingers graze the metal doorknob, I get an electrical shock. I pull my hand back, shaking it, and then open the door.
Dim light from behind me spills in, illuminating the large foyer. My breath catches, and I’m yet again stunned by the house. The foyer stretches two stories up, and a sweeping, curved staircase is before me. Dark hardwood is underfoot, and a large, twelve-light chandelier hangs above me.