Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 2
the lamb
the house takes almost no time, especially with Halen and Kennedy's help. A couple of suitcases full of clothes, two crates of linens, a few miscellaneous boxes, and some groceries I picked up to fill the fridge is all I have. I think it took longer to drive here than it did to unpack Halen's van.
Growing up with a mother who was more concerned with scoring her next hit than holding on to school projects or taking milestone photos, Halen and I didn't start our adult lives with much. Of course, she's been able to accumulate her own special keepsakes throughout the years between her and Kennedy. Anything of value that may have crossed through my hands was either lost or stolen in my various moves. That's what I'm hoping to change with this new start.
Halen has tried to convince me not to move here at least a dozen more times since I first showed it to her last week, but I've stood my ground. She just doesn’t get it—this need to settle. She's never been unsettled enough to feel it.
The stillness doesn't sink in until they leave, and I'm left alone for the first time in years—and then, it lingers. I thought I would get used to it after some time, but it continues to haunt in the next couple weeks. The house is so silent, it pulsates and rings in my ears as I walk through each room, deciding what will go where, the same way I've been doing each night since I moved in.
It's a fun, distracting game to move things all around until I find the perfect spot. Every moment I'm not working, I'm turning this place into my own little sanctuary.
There're two extra bedrooms and an entire living room that I've decided I have no use for. They sit on the opposite side of the house from my master bedroom, family room, and kitchen. I keep each door pulled shut, closing off the setting sun's natural light from the small hallway. It's an odd habit I learned from living with my mom and the number of random roommates she always kept. Bedroom doors were never open, because no one wanted us seeing what was happening behind them.
I'm pulling the last door closed, when the distinct clatter of something metal hitting cement echoes throughout the kitchen, where the garage is attached. I stop in my tracks, holding my breath to listen for any other noise to follow, but nothing does. My heart is punching holes through my chest as I take the three steps into the kitchen and grab a knife from my new butcher block, then tip toe over to the door.
I haven't turned on any lights yet, though the sun is quickly descending behind the trees and blanketing my new home in hazy, dark shadows. Maybe someone didn't realize I was home, and they're trying to break in. Or, the owners did admit they haven't made it out here in quite some time… maybe there's a squatter that's been living in the garage.
Any scenario I come up with in my head terrifies me. But standing here frozen with my back to the wall isn't going to save me from the impending murder I've convinced myself is coming, so I've either got to move or hide.
I allow myself to take three deep breaths before swinging open the door and stabbing the knife into the black, empty air.
Okay, so my self-defense skills are lacking. Sue me. I've never lived on my own before, and I've always been in the city, where anyone could hear me if I screamed loud enough. Here, I bet I could be slaughtered right on the back patio and no one would be the wiser.
Fortunately, there's no one in the garage. An old oil can is lying on its side in the middle of the floor, clearly having fallen off the storage shelves. I quietly walk over and pick it up, taking the opportunity to look around.
The owners made it clear that this was just an unused vacation home for them. In fact, there’s hardly been any trace of them throughout the entire house. No family pictures, no meaningful knickknacks, no forgotten clothing. The shelves are scarcely peppered with random things that no one really has any use for anymore, which doesn’t shock me. It was all probably left behind by the people who lived here before.
What does surprise me is the light peeking through the bottom crack of the door on the other side of the garage. I walk across the dusty cement floor to turn it off, assuming it's just a storage room or shed and that they forgot to flip the switch the last time they were here. That obviously isn't helping the energy bill, though what should I care? I'm not paying it.
As I get closer, I could swear I hear the deep rumbling of a man's voice. I pause in front of the door, listening carefully to see if that's where it came from. But there's no noise on the other side. I lean forward to check the cracks beneath the door for any moving shadows against the dim light, but again, I find nothing. Assuming I misheard something over my dragging footsteps, I twist the handle to open the door and turn the light off.
Only to find that the door is locked.
I wiggle the handle a few times, hoping that maybe it's just jammed. Still, it doesn't give. With a sigh, I start back toward the house, making a mental note to ask the owners where the key to that room is.