Page 29 of A Christmas to Die For
"Holy shit, did you see that?"
I stare at the tiny screen, desperate for the image to reappear, but it's gone.
"No?" she says slowly.
"It was this thing!"
"Don't be like Mara and back out on me now," Sabrina teases, but there is nothing lighthearted or playful with the way my pulse is pounding.
I glance at the side mirror, waiting for a face or limb to smack against the glass. But there's nothing.
Maybe I am losing it. Maybe my brain's spinning stories out of fear.
Sabrina backs out of the parking spot, the Whispering Pines Motel shrinking behind us like it never existed.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yes, sorry. I've got my video camera to record you." There's a lapse of comfortable silence that I interrupt with, "Mara kept trying to tell me something but never got the chance. Know what it is?"
"Not a clue."
Sabrina keeps her eyes on the road while the tires crunch over the packed snow, driving down the empty, desolate streets.
It's still early enough that most people are tucked inside, but the few homes we pass are wrapped up in the nostalgic chaos of Christmas Eve morning. Kids race by their windows in flannel pajamas, their faces pressed against the glass to watch the snow, while moms sip hot coffee by the fire, the faint warmth of their homes contrasting with the frigid air outside.
The falling flakes are sparse, barely enough to make an impression, and we silently pass the few scattered homes, finally reaching the street we've been waiting for.
"Right there," I point. The menacing entrance is ahead, innocent looking enough in its own way. There are no roadblocks or barricades, and so far, we've made it through the first level.
We're less than a mile from the cabin now, and a strange sense of anticipation twists in my gut. I can't shake the feeling that when I finally see it, it'll be like stepping up to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland for the first time as a child—an eerie blend of excitement and fear.
I've been tracking small details as our navigation system shows us inching closer and closer. There are no other tire marks in the snow, no footprints, and no signs of life—nothing to suggest anyone's been here for a while.
"Where do you want to look first?" I ask Sabrina.
"Let's start with the front door. We'll check the basement last, kind of like how Romee did."
I practically quiver in my seat. There it is. The lonely, sinister cabin sits atop a small incline on a hillside, its silhouette sharp against the endless white hills and sky. The lot is dangerously close to a steep cliff, and with no garage in sight, the only place to park is right up against the barrier keeping the hillside from sliding down the mountain.
We appear to be alone, but Romee thought the same thing a whole year ago.
"We're finally here!" Sabrina squeals, excitement bubbling in her voice. "How about you record me, like it's truly a documentary?"
"Sure, whatever you want." I unbuckle my seatbelt just as Sabrina puts the car in park, the Range Rover settling into its parking spot. The sudden equilibrium shift gets my heart racing, or maybe it's the anticipation of stepping inside a home where people were killed.
"I'll leave the key fob in the cupholder," she tells me.
"Good idea."
I step around to the rear of the car, and the cold catches in my throat.
"Sabrina…" I motion her over, hovering near the back hatch where I'm about to grab my filming camera.
She joins me, and the moment her eyes land on it, her gloved hand flies to her mouth.
Blood.
It's smeared across the back of the SUV—five distinct finger marks trailing downward. Fresh. Wet. Deliberate. Impossible to ignore.
