This place was creeping him the fuck out. He’d only crawled a little ways when he saw what he thought was garbage piled in a mass, in a far corner. It reeked. How the hell…? George thought. He was starting to have a very, very bad feeling. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. In one corner, cans, bags, wrappers, and plastic gallon bottles were stacked against a wall in a neat row. Garbage enough to fill more than a dumpster. That’s when, in a panic, he began searching the ground, pausing occasionally to vomit his lunch, and then continuing on. The smell was getting stronger away from the rubbish pile, and his hand hit something wet and sticky; he kept going, though, his knees surely bleeding at this point from the little stones rolling under his palms.

The real estate agent who had sold them this house, a real hard-ass originally from New York, had said something about the former owners. George didn’t care for women’s gossip, but his wife had latched on, asking a dozen follow-up questions. They were new to the area. Was it possible it wasn’t safe? How many families were there on the street? She’d driven the hard-ass from New York to exhaustion with her questions, but at least it gave George a break. Amber had been her name; she’d said the previous owners had moved to Portland after a family tragedy, but there was something else he was trying to remember, something important that had stood out at the time.

He yelped when something cut his knee, stabbing sharply into the soft flesh on top of his kneecap. Glass. He pulled it out, tossing it aside. He was going too far; he should definitely fucking turn back. Turn back. The father had died, along with a woman, that’s what had happened. Killed by his brother-in-law, who then disappeared. George had seen the stories on the news, but the juicy details of people’s lives were his wife’s specialty. He’d not thought anything of that until—fuck—he could see something now. Sweatpants…hair… George panted, head hanging toward the dirt. He’d sweat through his shirt, and he could smell his own ripe smell on top of the stench. A thin line of spit hung from his mouth, swinging toward the dirt. Where had his wife’s bandanna gone? He lifted his eyes again, more slowly this time, reluctant to look but unable not to.