Page 138 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
Even in the rapidly setting sun, the white two story house doesn’t look like it’s seen a coat of paint in centuries, let alone years. Numerous tiles are missing from the stained brown roof, and three out of the four windows facing the road have had their holes repaired with duct tape. Yellow-tipped, overgrown grass stands as tall as the first story of the worn, rundown house, and weeds have confiscated any garden beds. In the far right-hand corner of the property, there's a red barn that’s at least double the size of the house, and a big, old rusted truck is parked at the front of it.
“Are you sure this is the address you're looking for?” Hugo questions after pulling into the long dirt driveway.
After double-checking the number hand-painted on a microwave at the front of the property with the records I’ve gathered on Megan the past week, I nod. Hugo’s features harden before he continues driving down the dirt driveway. The only sound heard in the interior of the car is my heart madly beating against my chest.I’m not concerned about my safety. It just seems as if we’re walking straight into the set of a horror movie.
Hugo is only driving five miles per hour, but the tires are kicking up the dry dirt from the ground, leaving a cloud of dust trailing behind us. Ignoring the particles of dust scratching my eyes, I absorb the properties surrounding us. Other than another white barn on the horizon, there are no houses within eyesight.
“Whose house is this?” Hugo’s tone is flat and apprehensive.
My gaze drifts to Brandon. His eyes meet and lock with mine before he shrugs. After returning my focus to Hugo, I answer, “Megan Shroud.”
Air puffs out of his nostrils as his lips etch into a thin line. Apparently, he's heard of Megan before. When he parks in front of a set of rickety steps, I swing open the passenger door. I don’t even get one foot out of the car when Hugo’s arm splays across my chest to pin me into my seat. “Let us check it out first.” He waves his spare hand between Brandon and himself.
“I'm a federal agent, Hugo. I’mnota child.”
“Yeah, and that's Freddy-fucking-Kruger’s house.” His voice is riddled with both nerves and cheekiness. “If Isaac finds out I let you go in there without me first scoping the premises, I won’t be on his Christmas card list anymore. He gives very generous bonus checks in his Christmas cards.”
Even in the tense circumstances, I can’t help the smile that tugs my lips high. His playfulness suffocated the despair ridding the air of oxygen, but there’s no way in hell I'm staying out here by myself. Even from the outside, this place gives me the creeps.
After gathering my pistol from my satchel, I shadow Hugo and Brandon onto the leaf-covered veranda. The old wood creaking under my feet gives away my silent follow.
“Stay behind me.”
Hugo’s tone conveys he’s not requesting, he’s telling. Nodding, I position myself behind his left shoulder. I hate that he’s babying me, but now is not the time to argue protocol. Other than wind whistling between the cracks in the floorboards, no sounds come out of the house. The frayed curtains on the grime-covered windows are open, and the paint-peeled door is hanging by the one hinge still attached to the doorframe.
I stop drinking in the rundown home when Hugo pulls out a gun from the back of his jeans. I didn’t know he carried a weapon. He takes on an active stance before straying his eyes to Brandon. With a nod, he instructs Brandon to knock. When Brandon does as requested, a loud creak screeches through the air. His tap was so firm, the door swung open. A foul stench penetrates my nostrils. It’s the smell of trash, rotten food, and something else that makes my stomach churn.
“I'm an FBI field agent, is anyone home?”
Hugo’s eyes snap to Brandon, making me realize I failed to mention that Brandon is also an agent.Oops!I was under the assumption he was aware of that fact.
When the tenant fails to respond to Brandon’s question, he turns to face me. “Did you hear that?”
I eye him curiously. I didn’t hear anything.
“I think I heard someone yelling for help.”
Hugo clicks onto Brandon’s ruse quicker than me. “Yeah, I heard it, too. We should probably check on them.”
Since wehearpleas for help, we make our way into the house. The aroma of rotting food scraps amplifies the further we walk in. The house is as desolate on the inside as it is outside. A square, box television sits on an old milk crate in one corner. It has a recliner sitting in front of it. The remaining chairs from the setting are squashed under the stairwell. They’re covered in the plastic they were originally delivered in. From the material and design, I'd say they were purchased quite a few years ago.
Scary shadows dance around the room since a hill hides the sun. When I flick on a dirty light switch at my side, the tube light on the ceiling flickers a handful of times before illuminating the room with an unnatural yellow light.
Hugo silently signals for Brandon to clear the lower level of the property before gesturing for me to follow him to the stairs. As Brandon paces toward the kitchen with corkwood floors covered with trash and rotten food scraps, we head to the stairwell. Every step we take is met with a loud creak of the frail wood, but its faint squeals have nothing on the one I do when Hugo’s boot falls through one of the steps.
I slap my hand over my mouth, my eyes darting up to the landing to make sure my squeal didn't gain any unwanted attention.
Confident we’re alone, I return my eyes to Hugo. “Are you okay?”
Nodding, he pulls his foot out of the hole, sending splinters of wood onto the plastic-covered sofa below. We continue with our mission, my heart thrashing more with every step we take. The smell of unwashed laundry and another scent I can’t work out becomes more apparent when we finalize the last few steps.
“You clear the left, I’ll clear the right.”
Ignoring Hugo’s furious glare, I pace to the first door on my right. I’m not a baby, so I refuse to be treated like one. My heart freezes when sloshing filters through my ears a few seconds later. Peering down, I noticed the frayed red and black hall runner is saturated with water.
Well, I’m hoping it’s water.
With my heart in my throat, my gaze floats across to the door adjacent to me. A clear liquid is seeping out from beneath it. Through trembling hands, I twist the white porcelain knob before pushing open the warped wood. I keep my gun up high as I absorb the basic yet spotlessly clean bathroom. The cold-water tap on the peach vanity sink is turned on full blast, toppling water over the edge like a rapid-flowing waterfall.
