Page 127 of Afflicted

“I guess so.”

Thunder rumbles loudly, so loudly we can hear it clearly over the engine. The trees lining the highway are swaying heavily, torn back and forth by the wind that’s starting to howl. I look out of the rear window, and the clouds on the horizon are a dark forest green, riddled with lightning bolts.

“This storm is getting worse.”

Silas huffs out a breath through gritted teeth. “Dammit.”

“Where are we?” I look around us, but we’re on a stretch of highway with no discernible markers, no abandoned buildings, nothing but trees as far as the eye can see.

“We’re in South Carolina,” Silas says, leaning over the steering wheel to look at the storm through the windshield. “But we can’t keep driving in this.” Tiny hailstones begin to ping against the truck, interspersed with fat drops of rain that bead and race down the windows.

“Where do we go?” I don’t like the panic that laces my voice, but for some reason the idea of being stuck out on a highway in rural South Carolina while a tornado is building doesn’t make me feel good.

Before Silas can answer, a fence appears along the edge of the road, running the tree line until it leads to a huge wood and iron gate. One side hangs on just by the lower hinge, the other lies flat on the road. Overhead, in swirly black wrought iron, is the nameChapel View.

“That’s probably an old estate,” I say, pointing at the gate. “If we’re lucky it’s still standing, and they might have a storm shelter.”

Silas turns the wheel, and we bump along what was once a nice paved drive, but is now riddled with holes, the pavers standing up haphazardly or gone completely. The space left behind by the missing gate is wide enough for the truck to fit through easily.

Live oaks line the drive, long mossy tendrils swaying wildly in the wind. It’s almost a little eerie, their color stark against the bruised sky above us.

Then the house comes into view ahead, tall and grand with towering white columns. Vines have taken over much of the frontage, but it’s still impressive, if a little gothic and imposing in this light. I lean forward, bracing my hands against the dash as we approach.

There’s a circular drive, covered in a maze of ivy, and in the middle stands an old fountain. A statue of a woman draped in a toga, a jug in her arms from which once poured water into the large basin below, stands on top.

“Well someone was well off,” Silas says as he brings the truck to a stop. He gazes up at the big house, and shakes his head, before gunning the engine again.

“Where are you going?”

“To find something smaller.” We round the house, following the ivy tracks through the trees and past an old barn. “Houses like this will have smaller houses around them, and that place is ridiculous.”

Sure enough, we come upon a smaller farmhouse, and it’s so perfectly preserved I have to blink several times to make sure I’m not imagining it. It has two gables, and a white porch that’s only missing a few posts from the railing. There are even faded curtains still hanging in the windows.

“How is this place still standing like this?” I murmur. “It looks like someone still lives there.”

Silas brings the truck to a stop and turns to me. “Stay here, with the doors locked and keep your head down, understand?”

I nod, ducking down in my seat. Silas grabs a gun from underneath his seat, even though he probably doesn’t need it. He climbs out of the truck, and the locks click into place. I try not to panic again, taking deep even breaths and reminding myself that the house is more than likely empty, it probably just looks like someone lives there, it’s fine.

The minutes tick by, and the thunder overhead seems to growl almost constantly. The wind swishing through the trees is almost as loud as the storm, and the truck wobbles a little as it’s battered by a gust.

I inhale sharply as Silas tears the door open and climbs back in.

“All clear, just going to park the truck in the barn and then we can go and take shelter in there.”

“Does it have a basement?”

Silas nods, pulling up outside the barn. “I'll go open the doors.” He turns to me with a smile. “You can drive, right?”

I blink at him. “Uh, yeah, I can, but-”

“Good, I’ll open the doors, you drive in.” He climbs out before I can protest, and I stare at the steering wheel for a good few seconds.

I can drive. My mom taught me how, years ago. She was a good driver. I was a good driver. But my palms are clammy as I slide into the driver’s seat.

My feet brush the pedals, and I grip the steering wheel as Silas throws back the doors of the barn and waves me in.OK, this is OK. I can do this. No big deal.

I shift into drive, and the engine roars as I realize the emergency brake is still on. I release it, and the truck lurches forward. I slam my foot on the brake, and Silas laughs, waving me on. I take a deep shuddering breath, and gently press my foot down on the gas. The truck moves forward, into the dark barn, and once I’ve cleared the door, I bring it to a stop.

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