Page 1 of Because the Night

The house is protected by a tall, stone fence and hidden by an overgrown garden. Given the way the hinges of the wrought-iron gate screech when I push it open, I doubt anyone has been here in years. Which is weird. This Spanish Revival in the Hollywood Hills must be worth a fortune. A weed-infested gravel path leads to the large, arched, wooden front door. Three stories of white walls and terracotta roof tiles tower above me.

My boss, Jen, said to go through the place from top to bottom and make a note of anything that needed to be fixed. Any water leaks or signs of animals, etcetera. The Thorn Group doesn’t normally provide this service. Guess the client is special.

Inside the house, the air is stale, and sheets cover much of the furniture. The place feels like a museum. It has all of the original features, wooden rafters on the high ceiling and French doors opening onto a courtyard. But the overall atmosphere is oppressive as fuck. When I sneeze from the dust, the sound echoes through the empty house. Same goes for my footsteps. The electricity works, but half of the bulbs are blown, and the other half are too dim to be useful. It all adds to the haunted house vibe.

I wander through room after room, carrying the set of heavy, old house keys, peering into corners and under shrouded chairs and tables. There’s no security system, and yet the place hasn’t been touched. It’s nothing less than a miracle. A grand piano and a wall full of leather- and clothbound books take pride of place inthe living room. Art and photos and antique mirrors hang on the walls. And a bar cart stocked with half-empty bottles of liquor sits beside the ornate fireplace full of ash. It looks like the owner just up and left—walked out mid-cocktail party or something.

The view is spectacular on the third-level balcony. All of the glamor and grime of the Sunset Strip. Streetlights flicker down below as the sun sinks in the west. There’s an old saying about a red sunset. Some warning of the weather and things to come, but I can’t remember what it is. A cold autumn breeze has me wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. Time to get this job done. There’s a hot bath and a good book waiting for me at home. Though there’s no food, so a grocery stop will be required. A salad from Trader Joe’s sounds good, so does their sea salt brownie bites, because balance.

Taking notes on my cell, I move from room to room as night sets in. The house is in good condition for its age. And if I focus on my work, I can ignore its general spookiness—right up until a branch scrapes against a window, making me shriek.

Shit.

I rub the heel of my palm against my rib cage. My heart is hammering inside my chest. Jen not giving me urgent, last-minute jobs would be great. Exploring abandoned buildings with bad lighting is also officially not my thing. Something I might want to add to my contract moving forward. None of this situation should have happened. I entered Jen’s office to ask for a raise, only to have her forget I scheduled the meeting and send me here.

Having walked through the upper, main, and lower levels (the latter of which is partially set into the hill), only the basement remains. Another of those weak lightbulbs barely illuminates the staircase. I have to force my feet to keep taking the next step and go down there.

The basement is about what I expected: a boiler and storage in one vast room. But the sheer amount of stuff down here is awe inspiring. Furniture and paintings and wooden chests. Endless racks of dusty old bottles of wine. It’s like an antique store and a vineyard had a baby and that child chose chaos.

This is wild. Who owns all of this? How many generations did it take to collect it all?

I plod along, leaving footsteps in the dust. With the way the hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention, it feels as if someone is watching me. Which is ridiculous. But then, I always did have an overactive imagination. If this were one of my true-crime podcasts, the psycho killer would absolutely be about to jump out and grab me. And each and every member of the audience would shake their heads and say what an idiot I was to enter the creepy basement. They would absolutely be right.

In the shadowy back corner is a locked door. It’s made out of thick, scarred wood, as if the surface had been burnt and attacked over time. I don’t want to know what’s behind it. I don’t even want to go near it. But I pull up my big girl panties and search the old ring of ornate keys for a match. As much as I try to be quiet, the keys clink and scrape. Not that it matters—there’s no one here but me. I remind myself of this fact over and over again. However, my shoulders rise higher and higher with each passing moment.

There are six keys. I try them all, testing them against the rock-solid lock. Until finally I am left with only one. Every fiber of my being is praying that it won’t work. Meaning my job here is done and I can haul ass back home.

Click.

But no. The key turns and the sound of the lock releasing echoes around the room. I’ve heard screams that were quieter. My throat is so damn tight it’s hard to breathe.

Nope. I can’t do it. Jen can fire me for all I care. No way am I turning the handle and opening the door to see what’s inside. I’ve never been a big believer in the unknown. But the bad vibes or whatever the hell they are rolling off of this door are too intense to be denied. I don’t want to know what’s back there. What I do know that I’m doing is getting out of here. Right now.

Having made the decision, my sense of relief is mighty.

A calm and reasonable person would take their time in the low lighting. Be careful not to trip over anything. But each step I take away from that door is faster than the last. The urge to vacate this place is now the only thing I am feeling.

As I near the staircase, a low, menacing growl comes from somewhere behind me. Next comes slow, shuffling footsteps.

This cannot be fucking happening. My thick thighs rub together beneath my skirt as I bolt for the staircase. Blood pounds a hectic beat behind my ears. Forget locking the house. I just flee. Up the stairs and out the door and through the garden and onto the street. And my car is right there—it’s all going to be okay.

But two strong arms, like bands of steel, wrap around me from behind. There’s a stinging pain in the side of my neck. Some deep, animal instinct tells me it’s sharp, predatory teeth stabbing through my skin. I struggle and writhe; however, there’s nothing I can do. My scream echoes down the empty street and into the uncaring night. No one is coming to save me.

The attack goes on and on, draining me of my strength, robbing me of my life. It doesn’t hurt exactly, at least after the first sharp sting, but it sure as hell isn’t pleasant feeling my life’s blood drain away.

Dark spots float before my eyes as my heartbeat slows to next to nothing. I feel myself being lowered to the ground. The asphalt is cold and rough against my back, and yet my mind is peaceful. Is this what dying feels like?

A cool hand grabs hold of my chin and a disinterested blue gaze in a gaunt face looks me over. His lean features seem to be filling out before my eyes. A hint of color returns to his ashen skin. His teeth are white, even for California, but what’s bizarre is the length and sharpness of his canines. Animals have teeth like that. And other things known for biting people and drinking blood do, too.

Things I don’t want to name because they’re impossible, and don’t exist, and oh God.

“Everything is fine,” he says, meeting my gaze.

And it’s true. I should be terrified, but for some reason I’m not, and I don’t understand why.

If I have to die, at least I’m doing so in the presence of beauty. Because he is breathtaking. Longish dark hair and white skin with a sharp jawline, angular cheekbones, and a high forehead. He looks like a Hollywood hero, and his suit is obviously vintage. I can tell by the wide lapels and baggy pants. It’s as if he just stepped out of an old black-and-white movie. Something with James Dean or Jimmy Stewart, like my grandmother used to watch when I was a child.

For a long moment, he looks up. No idea if he’s staring at the streetlight, the jet plane passing overhead, or even the blinking light from a satellite high in the night sky. But his gaze is thoughtful when he turns back to me. He looks over my face and figure with renewed interest.

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