Page 50 of The Blood we Crave

Which means I’ll have to keep Conner close.

“Keep your friends close,” I mutter, swiping my thumb across the picture.

“And your enemies dead.”

the garden on the hill

TEN

lyra

The house that haunts Pierson Point.

It’s the story all little children are told in Ponderosa Springs.

A rite of passage.

If you grew up here, at least once in your life, you have stood in front of the wrought-iron gates and crow statues that perch against the sides. It’s usually a group of young kids who make the brave trip up the base of the hill just to stare at the house as a test of courage.

The estate that sits atop a knoll has a sweeping view of Ponderosa Springs and all who inhabit it. It watches ominously, monitoring misbehaving children. Legend says once it knows all the naughty things you’ve done, it lures you in, calling to you like a siren to a sailor, whispering a lullaby into your ear until you’re pulled to the front gates and allowed to pass through.

But once you’re inside, you never come back out.

That myth had only grown once Thatcher’s father had been convicted of his crimes. Now, it’s not just children who go missing once entering the infamous property.

Music plays low through my speakers as the gates creak open, letting me in. A fly caught in a trap, a willing bug buzzing into the spider’s web. The lengthy driveway is lined with dark green western juniper and leafy maple trees that create a shady canopy across the paved road.

It hadn’t taken much searching to find the history and layout of the fifty-seven-acre Gilded Age estate the Piersons have called home for decades. I’d looked into it shortly after taking my stalking habits outside of school.

I’ve followed Thatcher to a lot of different places, butinsidehis home was never one.

Not for lack of trying either. It’s impossible to get into the house without triggering an alarm or being noticed by a groundskeeper. So once Thatch enters the privacy of his home, his life becomes a silent mystery to me.

For short periods of time, I would peek in through the ground-floor windows, seeing him stalk through the kitchen and into various rooms, but I couldn’t hear him. His grandmother, May, is rarely in the west wing of the home, so I never saw his interactions with her.

I imagine what he’s like, maybe playing classical music over the speakers while he makes breakfast. Does he make his own bed? Bleach his own sheets? Are they even white? Does he color coordinate his closet?

So many unknowns about the specimen I’ve held so fondly in my heart, and it drives me mad. When I hyperfixate on a new species of insect, I want to know everything about it. The way it moves, how it lives, what the inside skeleton looks like. I want to closely examine every movement and habit.

The glass windows put an entire world between the two of us. And the worst part is once he disappears into his basement, the spying stops completely. There are no windows in that area.

It’s the one space I know he’s unashamedly himself, all his guards down, existing in his natural habitat, and I’d never once even been able to see it. But that is changing today.

There’s relief in knowing there’s a possibility of learning things from Thatcher no one else could teach me, guiding me towards some form of release for these overwhelming morbid fantasies I have.

But there’s also excitement. I should be focused on what I’m going to learn, not consumed with the thought of being inside his home, where his smell is fresh and his movements are genuine.

Just me and him. No hiding.

My body taking up room in the private spaces he keeps to himself. It makes fingers tingle.

When the trees part and the driveway ends, I’m met with a cobblestone motor court decorated with magnolia bushes bursting with vibrant color. The limestone chateau-style manor never fails to take my breath away, with its delicate architecture and archways with decorative corbels and pillars. Every detailed medallion and cornice are hand-carved, making the house fit those who dwell inside of it.

I park my older-model vehicle, feeling incredibly inadequate compared to the Cadillacs and other luxury cars that are nearby. Looking down at my phone, I see I’m several minutes early, and my options are limited to staying in my car or getting out. Considering I’m quite a curious individual, I go with the former.

My clunky yellow rain boots make a splat sound when they hit a puddle of water. My face is immediately greeted with the feeling of warm rain against my skin. I look up at the silver clouds, thick and angry.

Instead of walking inside the immense, stately home, I walk around the side of it, trying to count all the windows as I go. I get to thirty-one when I finally make it to the backyard.

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