I start to get nervous when the Uber driver pulls over and says,
"This is as far as I go."
Not in a 'my shift's over' kind of way. In a, 'I have a wife and kids and don't want to be sacrificed in the woods today', kind of way.
I blink at him through smudged eyeliner and the last thread of optimism I own.
"Bro. The address is still a mile away."
He doesn't meet my eyes, just stares out the windshield, eyes twitching side to side.
"Yeah. And I'm sure not driving there."
I glance out the window. Trees, so many trees.
Not friendly Disney princess trees, no cozy cottagecore vibe here. No. These are the kind of trees that whisper in Latin and watch you pee. Old, gnarled things, tangled in fog and secrets. The paved road gives up like it just noped out of existence, dissolving into a narrow dirt track that screams this is how you get possessed.
I squint at the one landmark available: a half-rotted wooden mailbox with faded cartoon paw prints painted on the side.
Howl & Growl. The "o" in "Growl" is scratched out.
Charming.
There's no visible house. No lights or people. Just the buzzing of insects, the caw of a raven doing its best horror-movie impression, and somewhere in the distance…howls.
Great. Just great.
I get out of the car with the kind of confidence usually reserved for people who don't have anxiety-induced heartburn. The moment my foot hits the dirt, the Uber driver slams the door shut and speeds off. He U-turns so fast he nearly clips a fern and disappears.
Coward.
"If I die, at least I won't have to pay rent." I mutter.
Sighing, I pull out my phone, and do what any responsible adult would do in this situation.
I take a selfie.
Messy curls, combat boots, forest in the background, caption:
"If I go missing, avenge me. Also check this address first. Xoxo."
Then I post it to my story. Because if I'm going to be kidnapped by cultists, I'm at least going viral.
I stand there for a beat, backpack slung over one shoulder, half a Twix in my hoodie pocket, and stare down the path like it might bite.
It probably will.
But honestly? I've done worse for less.
Once I wore a polyester sausage costume for twelve hours straight to hand out samples of vegan hot dogs outside a strip mall. At least this job involves trees and not meat substitutes that stink of sweat.
I step onto the path, the forest immediately swallows the light.
The walk is longer than it should be. The dirt is uneven, the humidity is rude, and something definitely rustles in the underbrush at one point. I pretend it's a squirrel even though it sounds like a saasquatch with asthma.
Branches slap me in the face, nature's apparently trying to alpha check me. A bird overhead screams in a way that sounds personal. I lose a clump of hair to a bramble and immediately consider turning back and demanding danger pay.
But I keep walking.
Because 1 rent, 2 debt, and 3 I already posted the selfie and there's no way I'm backing down now and admitting I chickened out. I'd rather die dramatically than live humbly. Always have.
It takes me twenty sweaty, mosquito-infested minutes to hike the rest of the way. My boots are covered in dirt. My hair's a humid disaster. There's a twig in my bra and I've accepted it as part of my personality now.
When I finally reach a clearing, I stop dead. There it is.
Howl & Growl Therapeutic Daycare.
Except it's… not what I expected.
The building is massive. Two stories of timber and moss-covered stone, more akin to a lodge used to host yoga retreats. The roof leans a little too far to the left. A faded wooden sign with peeling paint hangs above the porch, one cartoon wolf's smile chipped off entirely.
A playground sits to the left, its plastic slides cracked by weather and time. There's a chain-link fence, but the gate's open. No cars. No kids. No noise. The swings creak gently in the breeze, even though there's no wind.
The place smells like pine needles and secrets.
I stand there like an idiot for a second, wondering if I should knock, scream, or run. I approach slowly, the building might bolt if I move too fast. The front steps groan under my boots, every board screaming in protest.
Before I can decide to run, the front door creaks open on its own.
Not ominous at all.
Inside, it's weirdly clean. Like, suspiciously clean. White and modern, completely renovated with brand new fixtures and fittings. Totally the opposite of the outside.
Not the kind of clean you get from a daycare run by well-paid staff with Pinterest folders and laminated chore wheels. No, this is, sterile-military-experiment-pretending-to-be-normal, kind of clean.
Bleached wood floors. Neat cubbies with evenly spaced name tags. Folded blankets so crisp they look ironed. Everything symmetrical. Everything perfect.
No juice stains, no puddles of mystery liquid or glitter explosions. No toys abandoned mid-play like a toddler apocalypse struck mid-nap.
No children.
At all.
I take a cautious step inside. The door swings shut behind me with a soft click that definitely sounds like a trap.
My boots make soft thuds against the polished floor as I glance around. There's a mural painted along one wall, wolves howling at a cartoon moon, one inexplicably wearing a tiny backpack, but it's too good. A professional had to have done it.
And what is with all the wolves? I mean, they've got a theme and stuck to it I suppose.
It's so quiet too, where is the chaos?
I clear my throat just to hear something, anything. The sound falls flat.
The hallway stretches ahead, daring me to walk it. I pass a row of tiny lockers, each painted in pastel colors with little paw print stickers. There's a basket of rolled-up yoga mats beside them. A reading nook with bean bags that look untouched. A table set up for crafts, but every glue stick is full, every crayon sharpened to an identical point.
Nothing looks used.
Or if it is, someone came behind and cleaned with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for serial killers or men named Jimmy who alphabetize their herbs.
The back of my neck prickles.I tug my hoodie down over my wrists and mutter, "Okay. Cool. Not creepy at all."
I peek through a half-open door marked 'Cub Den'.
Inside: cribs. Rows of them. Empty. Blankets folded into hospital corners. A mobile spins lazily above one crib, even though no one touched it.
I stare at it.
It spins slower.
Slower.
Stops.
Nope.
I back out and shut the door quietly, lets not wake the ghosts.
As I walk deeper into the building, the temperature seems to change. The air feels thick and heavy.
Is it hot in here, or just me?
I pause, fanning myself with my hand, trying not to be dramatic. But my skin feels flushed. My heartbeat's doing that weird double-thump thing, like it's skipping steps. I tug at the collar of my hoodie and instantly regret wearing this many layers.
There's a scent in the air I can't place, warm and spicy. Peppercorn and smoke and…
"You're late."