The road had been empty for miles, save for the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across the asphalt. George Milden gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening. The GPS had led him here or maybe it hadn't led him anywhere at all. The old shack appeared suddenly, half-hidden behind tangled branches and shadows stretching unnaturally in the late afternoon sun. Its roof sagged like a weary back, and the windows were darkened with grime.
He parked the car on the cracked driveway, listening to the sudden silence that seemed to press against him from all sides. The air smelled damp, of rot and something faintly metallic. George stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel. Each step echoed, too loud in the stillness, as if announcing his trespass to someone or something that had been waiting.
The door protested with a low creak as he pushed it open. Dust swirled in the shafts of light that pierced the grimy windows, motes floating like ghosts suspended in time. He had imagined this place differently quaint, secluded, peaceful. Instead, it was a tomb masquerading as a home.
George walked through the rooms, his mind wandering to the promise of solitude, of inspiration. He wanted to believe that the isolation would heal him, erase the shadows of the past that clung to his memory like cobwebs. But the deeper he stepped into the shack, the heavier the silence became. It wasn't empty. It was waiting.
A sudden chill ran down his spine. From somewhere above, a floorboard groaned, and the faintest whisper or was it the wind? stirred his hair. He shook his head, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow in the oppressive quiet. Yet the feeling remained: someone was watching.
George didn't know it yet, but he had already been seen. And in the shadows, Darren Cruelden smiled.