Page 32 of A Christmas to Die For
My muscles are so tense when I should be loose, ready to defend myself, given what's in his hand.
A small knife.
"Albert?" I repeat. His glossed-over gaze fixes on the cell phone in my grip. Can he even hear me?
I wave my hand in front of his face. I tremble each time my palm crosses over his eyes.
And then, he lunges, stabbing at the air. The blade misses me, but I still scream.
"Help!" I dart behind the small desk, scrambling for something to use as a weapon.
He charges, hurling the keys into the fire, sealing us in with no way out, unless I can figure out how to open the hidden door… and pray there's a back exit.
"I know who you are," he hisses, the knife raised above his head, ready to strike.
"Wh-what do you mean?" I stutter, grateful there's at least two feet of space between me and the knife.
"I know you grew up here. InFrosthaven Falls."
Idon't know what to expect now that the door is open. I'm sure it's a cobweb-filled trap, thick with dust and spiders—like a creaky skeleton just waiting to collapse on top of us.
I keep the camera steady as I follow Sabrina through the doorway, and immediately the stench hits—wet rot mixed with something unmistakably metallic. Dried blood reveals itself at the base of the staircase, smeared in drag marks and puddles that are so dark it could be tar.
And weirdly enough, there's the sharp, sterile sting of bleach beneath it all. It doesn't help. If anything, it makes it worse. Like someone tried to clean up after a mess so big it'll never come out.
Caution tape flutters slightly, even though there's no breeze. It was maybe once used to secure an area to keep the media back, but has since deteriorated.
"Holy shit," Sabrina mutters, yanking her scarf up over her nose.
It smells like a grave cracked open, like death left too long in the sun, the odor soaked into wood, into the drywall. I don't know how we're going to translate this into video, but it's rancid.
I glance at my phone while still keeping my camera focused on Sabrina inspecting the house, no service out here, just like I expected. But that also means I won't be able to call Mara on the way back. Or worse… call for help if something goes wrong.
"I'm going to be sick," Sabrina says, and it's real, not just playing it up for the camera. She bolts toward the tiny bathroom maybe five feet away, her steps shaky.
Then I see it—thin, nearly invisible fishing wire strung below the doorframe, just above the baseboard.
Her foot snaps it the same moment she bends to vomit, missing the toilet completely.
She set off atrap.
I'm so distracted by the nausea that I don't notice the door slam shut behind me. Not until Phoebe screams, "Sabrina, it's a trap!"
I spin, heart and bile in my throat.
The door handle is gone. Just bare hardware where there should be a knob, like it was broken off on purpose.
There's no window, barely any space to move at all. Just a shattered mirror above a rust-streaked sink, a toilet to my other side. The walls feel too close.
But there—some kind of booby trap, ropes and pulleys tucked behind the door. It must've triggered the second I stepped in.
Above the toilet lies a two-by-four held by frayed twine, and it shifts with a quietpop. It had been holding up a shallow metal bowl, hidden just out of view.
The wood piece gets pulled and the bowl tips. Its contents spill into the toilet with a soft splash.
The smell hits a second later.
Bleach. That's where that sterile scent was coming from.
