bag full of dog toys, his favorite blanket, and another bag of ferret food and supplies. My basement is dark and unfinished, but I can’t really call it creepy for any reason other than it’s the basement. It’s small, like the rest of the house. All I have down there is my washer and dryer and several storage bins full of holiday decor, junk I couldn’t part with—including two large Rubbermaid bins full of random stuff from Aunt Estelle—and my winter clothes that I have to switch out at the end of the summer season since I don’t have room in my tiny closet.
I find the small cage behind my Christmas tree and remember I put a load of laundry in the washer two days ago and forgot to switch it over.
“Dammit,” I grumble, opening the top of the washer and getting hit with the smell of musky clothes right away. I can do a speed wash cycle and switch it over to the dryer before bed, crossing my fingers it actually dries before I have to leave. My dyer is on its last legs and sometimes requires two or three cycles to fully dry whatever is in there. I glare at the dryer, instantly annoyed at the dying appliance.
“Oh, right. I can get a new one now.” I blink a few times, still not wanting to let myself get too excited in case this all is some sort of big joke—which it almost feels like it very well might be. I’ll believe it when I’m at the bank and everything is confirmed to be true—really true.
Times were tough when we lived in Michigan and Mom was still in med school. My parents met in college and didn’t intend on having kids until Mom was closer to being done with her residency, but Harrison and I came along anyway. It took a few years, but my parents do very well for themselves now. Moving out and figuring out how to adult on my own was an adjustment, and being constantly tight on money is just something I’m used to, and that nervous feeling I get anytime I check out at the grocery store probably won’t ever go away.
Hunter stays by my side as I pack a suitcase for myself. I’m a chronic over-packer, afraid of forgetting something, though it’s not like there are no stores in Thorne Hill and I won’t be able to buy new underwear in case I somehow go through the ten pairs I packed for my three-day trip.
Half an hour later, I have everything I need all packed, including snacks for the airplane. I shower, get ready for bed, and then double-check my suitcase one last time before dragging everything by the front door. I snuggle in bed with Hunter, trying—and failing—to stop thinking about the blonde-haired ghost. His fear was tangible, though not in the normal way I sense a spirit’s emotions.
It was apparent on his face, making me believe whatever danger he was talking about was real…or maybe it still is real.
The plane lands at Midway Airport in Chicago nearly two hours later than it was supposed to, thanks to a delay. It’s bright and sunny here, a sharp contrast from the rain that started back in New York as soon as the plane took off. Following a couple who was on the same flight as me, I walk through the airport to the baggage claim.
I text James as I wait for my suitcase like he requested. He sent a car to pick me up, and I’m not sure if he’s supposed to be here or not. I’m hoping not, because it’ll be really awkward to sit in the car with him for the hour or so it’ll take to drive from Chicago to Thorne Hill.
He texts me back not long after I get my suitcase, telling me to head toward the doors leading outside. There’s a limo waiting for me, with the driver holding a sign that says “Benson”.
“Hi,” I say with a wave. “I’m Anora. Anora Benson,” I quickly add. “I think you’re picking me up and taking me to Thorne Hill, right?”
“Right,” the driver says and comes around to take my suitcase. I just gave him all the info he needs to drive me to a secluded area to murder me, but hey, I’ll take my chances. I hate how much I second guess myself sometimes, though once I’m inside the limo I know I’m in the right one.