We turn toward the gate as the twilight thickens around us. The two massive wooden doors on either side of the road give phantom sighs as they sway in the breeze. The slow screech sends more goose bumps over my arms. The long stretch of road leading into town is empty. On either side are squat brick structures lining both sides of the street in various states of disrepair. A broken stoplight, drooping on a few fraying wires, jangles in the breeze. A rusted car with a smashed front end sits off to the side as if someone got in an accident as they were trying to leave. And leave they should. The eerie quiet—not even animal sounds breaks the stillness—makes the thudding of my heart too loud. The smell of decay hangs on everything. Warning bells blare in my head. Turn tail and run.

“Come on,” Clay says, as he takes a step in.

What else can we do? We follow.

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

When I was young, Auntie used to tell me about picture shows they had when she was a kid. Back then there was enough electricity to run a local theater once a week. I’d sit on the warped porch boards and listen as she wove tales of adventure, love, laughter. I learned the plot to Cinderella by heart. But on nights when my mama went to bed early, and I could drag them out of Auntie, she’d tell me about horror movies. Horror movies with dark basements, raspy breathing coming from a bedroom closet, ax-murderers running after their victims who screamed into the night. I’d clutch my knees to my chest and listen, barely breathing. Those nights I’d be so scared, any sound would send me flying upstairs to sleep on my parents’ floor.

That is how taking our first few steps into this ghost town feels. Like any minute we’re going to die. In the twilight, shadows lean from every corner. The dark doorways remind me of rancid open mouths. When the wind whips through, paper rustles and gates squeak, making me sure an ax-murderer will come barreling toward us from an open doorway. Each shadow might hide any number of horrors.

We shuffle through the gate and stop just inside. My legs feel like lead. I can’t make myself leave the safety of the open road. What if we get inside town and the gate slams shut? What if this is some horrible trap? What if there are monsters … Cut it out, I tell myself. I’m supposed to be brave. I look to Clay. His face locked up tight, his lips a white line, his eyes locked forward. Sweat beads beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Ethan, to my left, trembles like an eight-year-old should. His bug-eyes flit between doorway, alley, abandoned car. I grab his sweaty hand. I want to feel him next to me.