“We’re not going in there,” I say quietly as a bad feeling shivers down my spine.
“No, we’re definitely not.”
“I bet Cowan wants us to.”
“Fuck what he wants.” Baptist takes out his phone and starts snapping pictures. “Let’s get this over with. We’ll document this as much as we can and give him an honest report, and if he wants someone inside, he can come here himself.”
I follow his lead. We move around the exterior, photographing everything from as many angles as we can, along with the fields in the distance and another barn structure on the edge of the fields. He wanders off to get a closer look while I remain at the main house.
Around back, I find a loose board over one of the windows and yank it free. I can just make out a corner bedroom: floral wallpaper, wood floors, dirt and mud and something rusty-red spread in a corner. There’s a bedframe, metal, no mattress. Like something from a prison.
Small squares are tacked to the opposite wall. Small somethings all placed in a cluster. I shove my phone through the hole and snap a few pictures, not sure what I’m looking at, before I pull back and zoom in.
They’re Polaroid pictures. Strange, faded, overexposed images of women. I squint, trying to make them out, but it’s mostly blurry and the lighting’s bad. Some of them are smiling, some of them are frowning. One or two look terrified. Mostly they’re just indistinct blobs, vaguely human. And they’re all taken in the same place, with that exact floral wallpaper in the background, at least from what I can see.
Chills run down my spine. “Baptist!”
He comes running, looking around in alarm. I say nothing, my hands trembling as I show him the pictures.
His face is grim as he flips through them. When he’s done, he says nothing, only peers into the room and yanks off another board to get a better look. We stand there, staring inside at the Polaroids, and the sheer horror of what we’re witnessing begins to creep down my spine.
There are at least two dozen of them. All young girls. All wearing some expression from horror to a strange, dazed happiness. All of them were photographed in this room or somewhere in this house.
“This isn’t right,” Baptist says quietly. “Come on. We should go.”
“Wait. What about those pictures?”
“I don’t want to think about what we’re looking at right now.”
“If those are actuallyvictims—”
“We don’t know that.” Baptist tenses as he turns his back on the house. “All we know is some creepy Polaroids are tacked up in a house Cowan wants to use for a horror movie. He could’ve planted them there.”
I take a long, slow breath, and nod. “Right, yeah. They’re just props, I bet.”
“I’ll go inside and check it out. Maybe there are more clues.” He moves toward the front again but I catch his arm, shaking my head rapidly.
“No, don’t.” The words wrench from my throat. Terror rolls down my spine and I don’t know why I’m so afraid. The pictures are weird, but they aren’t evidence of a crime exactly. We don’t know if those girls were kidnapped or murdered or if they’re all just extras Cowan’s using for his film. Fiction and reality aren’t always clear when it comes to that director, and even though I rationally know the chances that we stumbled on some kind of serial killer murder den are pretty damn low and the most likely explanation is that Cowan left this for us to find.
Even still, the place freaks me out, and the thought of Baptist going in there makes me want to rip my own spine out. I can’t handle it, and I know I’m being stupid, but I won’t let him go. I hold onto his wrist, and move closer to him, staring up into his eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, head tilted. “Come on, Webb. Are you scared?”
“I’m fucking terrified. Don’t go in there, please. We’ll show Cowan the pictures and let him decide what to do.”
Baptist frowns and digests that for a moment. I’m about to beg him some more, but my phone begins to ring.
I jump and release a shocked yelp and Baptist laughs at my sudden response. I glare at him, pull my phone from my bag, and answer it with a shaking voice. “Hello?”
It’s a man’s voice. Older, deep, official-sounding. “Ah, yes, is this Blair Webb? Are you Max’s sister?”
My stomach sinks and I turn away from Baptist, walking a few feet into the field. “That’s me. Is everything okay?”
“This is the vice principal of Max’s school, Robert Shade. I’m afraid we had a little incident just now and unfortunately Max’s father and mother both seem indisposed. He told me to call you.”
I curse inwardly. My worthless freaking parents. “I can be there in—” I hesitate, doing the mental math. “A half-hour.” If I hurry.
“Thank you, Ms. Webb. We’ll speak then.” He hangs up and I curse again, shoving my phone back into my bag.