Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
I train my ears, waiting for it again, but nothing happens.
It’s probably a prank.
I rock back and forth a little, because I don’t want to stay, but the last thing I want to do is swallow my pride and run, either.
It’s a prank. I take another step, a creak vibrating under my foot, and I sigh, continuing up. Houses creak. Maybe it was just the stairs.
Upstairs, the walls are just as empty, except for the five closed doors. If anyone is in the house, they’re behind one of them.
Taking the handle of the door to my left, I open it to find a bathroom. I flip on the light.
There’s a porcelain sink, built-in shelves and drawers for storage, and a bathtub shower with the curtain closed. I don’t hesitate. I throw it open, sucking in a breath and thankful to find it empty.
I move to the next room, seeing a linen closet behind the door, but all it’s stocked with is old two-by-fours with nails sticking out of them and a Dustbuster. Like, the first Dustbuster ever.
There’s a bedroom to the right, empty except for a corner table and chair.
No dark, mysterious shadows loom behind the curtains. No bloodstains on the floor.
I close the door, moving to the next room which has a bed. Yay. And a dresser. And torn posters plastered on the walls, most of which I can’t make out what they’re advertising. Movies? Bands?
There’s no bedding, not even a pillow, and I am not that brave. I’d rather sleep on the floor than on an unwashed mattress with an undocumented history.
Closing the door, I move to the last one, not sure what I’m going to do if it’s a bust, as well.
But when I open the door, I’m hit with the scent of flowers. Something warms under my skin, making my hair rise, and I step in, unable to take it in fast enough.
It’s a guy’s room, but it certainly doesn’t smell like Hawke’s or my brother’s. It smells like shampoo and my mom’s perfume and Juliet’s candles.
Unlike the others, this one is furnished with a twin bed, black wooden dresser to match the headboard, and a nightstand on the wall next to the bed. A desk sits to my right, next to the closet door, with an old wooden chair that looks like it might’ve been part of the dining set downstairs. A bookshelf stands behind me, to my left, and there’s a Chesterfield chair in the diagonal corner, next to the desk.
And ahead of me, there’s a window. Leaves flutter outside, and I see brick through the branches. Must be the next house on the other side of the tree. Hmm. I have a tree outside my bedroom window at home. Except my room—my mom’s old room—has French doors instead of a window.
Reaching over, I feel for a switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens. I flip it a few more times, with no success. A lamp sits on the bedside table, so I walk over and reach under the shade, turning the knob. Soft light fills the room, and I’m about to go to the window, but I spot the white sheets on the bed below. Peeling them back, I scan the fitted sheet, just making sure I don’t see anything weird.
I lean down. It even smells good. I grunt my approval, pretty damn grateful. This must’ve been what Coral was doing in the house. Putting fresh sheets on the bed.
Which means they weren’t expecting to keep anyone here before I jumped in the truck tonight. Otherwise, they would’ve had the room ready. Why the change of plans?
The walls are café au lait, but I can tell they’re faded from age and probably from the sunlight that streams though the windows during the day. There are several dark patches where pictures used to hang.
Walking to the closet, I breathe deep, expecting anything. It’s the last place I haven’t checked.
But when I open the white door, there are only clothes. No hidden prankster. No monsters or Pirate girl killers.
The house is empty.
But I thin my eyes, noticing something. The clothes aren’t men’s.
Shoving hangers aside, I slide one after another, taking in the jeans, T-shirts, three classic Gap tees—which I think they stopped making years ago—two skirts, a few tanks, and one silk crop top. I pull out the jacket, running my fingers down the black wool and large orange S on the breast. It’s a Pirate varsity jacket like mine, but this one has a number on the arm—eighty-two.
And it’s the real deal. My school doesn’t sell these anymore.
We have everything you need…
I shake my head, hanging the coat back in the closet. They certainly went to great lengths to keep up the pretense of an urban legend. Like I’m really supposed to think these are Winslet’s clothes? The Pirate girl who supposedly died during Rivalry Week?