The house was old.
The morning was cold.
And the stories, told.
But never loud enough to reach ears that could help.
The man stood by the tree, a tree he’d been using to watch the home for over two weeks. The lone house surrounded by land and mist was eerie enough in itself. Woods at the back, river a mile away, the nearest road two miles, it was truly a home of nightmares. From the outside, it looked like a home he’d once known – with thin, dilapidated walls that never silenced the screams, the rot on the inside enveloped in the stone.
He saw the young boy at the window, early in the morning, his curious eyes trying to find something in the thick fog. He knew that if discovered, the boy would take a severe punishment. But the kid was brave, or maybe desperate. The man didn’t know.
He should probably feel bad about using him. He didn’t.
The man flicked on the lighter in his hand and raised it to signal the boy. He saw the little eyes notice his arm, quickly looking back to check if anyone was coming. Satisfied, the boy nodded twice. Two very slow, precise nods, just in case the man missed it. The man lowered his arm, getting the answer he’d come for.
Brave little shit had been more help than he’d hoped.
He watched as the kid went back to the room, away from the window, and hoped he didn’t die. That none of them died before they were found. That’d be such a waste.
Getting the answer he’d been rooting for, the man stepped back into the fog he’d come from, disappearing from sight.
They weren’t ready.
None of them.
