Her brakes screeched as she slowed to a stop in front of a small, slanted house. It was missing more shingles than it had left, and in the moonlight, the siding glowed bone white. A rectangular window was situated on each side of a front door that was either swung inward or gone so the house looked like it was screaming. Morgan stared at the pitch black of the doorway, paralyzed with a fear she’d all but forgotten.

She kept the car running with her foot on the brake. That way, should Aunt Bern’s ghost come hobbling down the broken steps, she’d slam her foot on the gas and peel away. Her eyes drifted, then, to the spot where Bern’s blood had soaked into the concrete. It was covered by three feet of snow.

The numerals on the mailbox were so faded they were barely legible: 604 Winslow Street. This was where it had all begun, and where it had almost ended more times than she could count. This was home, where all roads apparently led back to.

The skin on her left wrist burned. She dug her thumbnail under her cuff to scratch, and had the unsettling feeling she was playing the hot or cold game. This was where the note wanted her to go. The key opened something inside. But what? Her aunt’s bedroom? Morgan had never been allowed in. To the kitchen cabinets? Bern had kept them locked.

Suddenly, Morgan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where a shadow moved in behind her, a black shape blocking out the glow of the Christmas lights. It crawled to a stop.

An alarm dinged. Morgan jumped out of her skin, and when she looked down, noticed the gas pump icon glowed orange.

How long had she been sitting here?

It was time to go, anyway. Whoever had pulled up behind her wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe they lived around here. Maybe it was a cop. But a cop would have turned his lights on by now, yeah? Watching the shadow, Morgan let out a slow exhale as she lifted her foot off the brake and stepped on the gas pedal. Her nerves calmed as she reached the end of the street and nothing appeared in her rearview mirror. She glanced at her clock and—never one to fall back or spring forward for daylight savings—automatically added an hour to its time. It was 10:46. The Fast Mart was only a mile from here. She could get gas and be home by 11:00.

Morgan turned left into the lot of the Fast Mart and coasted to a stop next to the pump. She got out and slammed her door. Frowned. A handwritten sign taped to the left of the credit card insert read PRE-PAY ONLY!!!

Her breath plumed in front of her as she heaved an annoyed sigh. Of course it was prepay only. Every gas station in Black Harbor was prepay only. Too many drive-offs. People couldn’t be trusted.