Curiosity

“Lost in Love” by Air Supply rolls through my mind on a loop as I sit on my bike at the edge of the property, staring at the farmhouse like it’s trying not to stare back.

I don’t remember when that song got stuck in my head, but it’s there now. Completely out of place with where I’m sitting. Feels like something that should be playing in a grocery store while someone debates between two brands of cereal, not while I’m parked in front of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere that technically belongs to a man like Ted Polmey.

The farmhouse sits right in the middle of everything and nothing at the same time. About twenty-five minutes one way gets you back to Paradise. Go the other direction and you’ll eventually hit Mercantile Falls. The farm just kind of… exists between them. Not claimed by either, which is probably exactly why Ted uses it.

Paradise is the one people talk about now. Growing like a weed nobody bothered to pull when it was small enough to handle. Glass buildings, fresh pavement, neon signs that don’t flicker yet. Tech money poured in, bought up farmland, flattened it, and told everyone it was progress. Jobs showed up, people followed, and suddenly Paradise wasn’t a stop on the way to somewhere else—it was the place people were trying to get to.

And with people comes everything else.

Bars that stay open too late. Places that don’t ask questions. Lights that stay on long after they probably should. You can get just about anything you want in Paradise if you know where to look—or if you know who to ask.

That’s where Ted operates.

That’s where I operate.

Mercantile Falls, though—they like to pretend they’re different. Older town. History. Brick buildings that have seen a hundred years of bad decisions and still think they’re standing for something. People there act like Paradise is the problem, like all the rot started there.

It didn’t.

Paradise just gave it room to breathe.

Mercantile Falls just hides it behind tradition and calls it dignity.

The farmhouse doesn’t bother pretending anything.

It just sits here.

Waiting.

I take off my helmet and set it on the handlebars. The skull—painted by a woman I can only remember as Ginger—stares across the field like it’s judging the place.

Ginger had roses and doves tattooed from her left wrist to her shoulder. Designed the whole thing herself. Long fingers. Right pinkie slightly crooked from an old break.

Artist’s hands.

Good with a brush. Better without one.

And I don’t just mean the paint job.

Never did see her again after that night.

Funny how that works.

Woke up to her gone and a fresh red-haired flaming skull painted on my helmet. I asked the skull where she got to. Skull didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Acted like people disappear all the time and we’re just supposed to accept it.

Maybe we are.

I swing my leg off the bike and stretch, working the stiffness out of my back. The ride wasn’t bad, but there’s something about this place that settles into your muscles whether you want it to or not.

The grass is cut.

That’s one of the first things I notice.

Not just cut—maintained. Edges clean. Lines even. Like someone takes their time with it.

No one lives here. But we’ve got a new barn. Fresh-cut grass. And the driveway’s been graded.

No potholes.

Someone's been taking care of the place.

I don’t like that.

I have two choices. Barn or house.

Barn is the safe choice. I’m sure my supplies are in there. Whatever I’m being asked to do. Might even get lucky and find instructions.

Or I could go check out the house.

I’ve never been in the house.

That should make the decision easy.

It doesn’t.

I stand there a second longer than I need to, looking past the barn, past the open space, straight at the front door of the house like it’s already made the decision for me.

I don’t know why, but I can’t shake the feeling I need to go inside.

Not want.

Need.

It sits wrong the second I think it.

The barn makes more sense. The barn is why I’m here. That’s where Ted’s stuff would be. That’s where I should be heading.

Instead, I’m walking toward the house.

“Lost in Love” keeps circling through my head. Same few notes. Same quiet pull.

I don’t remember deciding to move.

I stop at the front door.

Up close, it looks newer than it should. Paint too clean. Handle catching the light just enough to make me notice it.

I remember seeing the name Bowman on the mailbox coming up the drive.

Maybe it was there before.

I don’t remember it being there.

Never met a Bowman. Don’t know a Bowman. Don’t know why that name would be sitting out here attached to this place.

Ted owns this farm.

Or he doesn’t.

Hard to tell with him.

If he does, it’ll never trace back. Maybe he bought it from the Bowmans. Maybe the name is just a front. One of those shell setups people use so nothing ever points back to the source.

If he doesn’t…

Then someone else is involved. And that somehow feels worse.

I glance back toward the barn. That’s where I should be. I look back at the door. My hand’s already halfway up before I realize I moved it.

The door is unlocked.

It doesn’t creak when I push it open. No cobwebs, no dust cloud, no haunted house welcome committee. Just a small hallway stretching in both directions like it’s trying not to be noticed.

Kitchen to the left. Living room to the right.

I can’t see much into the living room. The curtains are drawn tight, and the light from outside doesn’t push past them. It just kind of… stops at the doorway. Like it knows better.

Kitchen’s brighter. I go that way.

Lucky for me, I’m great at snooping. Comes with my whole accountability thing. You want answers, you go find them. Preferably in other people’s cabinets.

I start opening things.

Cabinets first. Empty.

Not “nobody’s lived here in years” empty. Clean empty. No plates, no glasses, not even a chipped mug shoved in the back. Like someone made a point to clear it out.

Drawers next. Same story.

Except one.

Playing cards. Poker chips.

No utensils.

I hold the deck up for a second, then drop it back in.

Yeah. This tracks.

Ted owns this place. Or at least uses it. His crew’s been through here. Maybe stayed. Maybe didn’t want to look like they did.

I glance toward the living room again.

Still dark. Still not inviting.

I leave it alone.

The fridge hums when I open it, loud enough to make the rest of the house feel quieter than it should be. Like it’s the only thing in here still doing its job.

No food.

But there is a case of Guinness Blonde.

I don’t know who was holed up here, but at least they had standards.

I grab one, pop the cap off on the edge of the counter. It leaves a dent in the wood. I stare at it for a second, then rub my thumb over it like I can smooth it out.

Doesn’t work.

Shocker.

I take a swig and give the kitchen one more look over. Nothing else jumps out. No trash. No crumbs. No signs anyone relaxed here long enough to make a mess.

Clean in all the wrong ways.

I step back into the hallway.

It’s narrower than it looked from the door. My shoulders nearly brush both sides as I move, like the place is trying to keep me centered. Keep me moving.

I don’t know who built this house, but I’m guessing he used to make cookies in a tree and never grew out of it.

Halfway down, I stop.

Not because I mean to. Just… do.

Listen.

Nothing.

Fridge hum fades in and out behind me. The rest of the house holds still. Too still. Like it’s waiting for me to do something interesting.

I take another drink instead.

“Yeah,” I mutter to nobody. “Real subtle.”

Back of the house opens up into a few doors. Bathroom. Laundry. And a set of stairs heading up.

I stand there a second longer than I need to, staring at the steps.

Then I start up.

The stairs complain under my weight, slow and drawn out, like they’re trying to warn me off.

Upstairs is different.

Downstairs was clean. Empty on purpose.

Up here… nobody cared.

The carpet’s old, stained in patches that don’t even try to hide what they are. Cigarette burns pepper the floor, little black craters, and there are butts ground into the fibers like someone got bored halfway through quitting.

Four doors.

Two on each side of the hallway.

At the far end, a pull chain hangs from the ceiling. Attic access. The string sways just a little, even though there’s no breeze.

Three of the bedroom doors are open.

The last one on the right is closed.

Graffiti covers the walls. Not good graffiti either—no art to it. Names. Symbols. Sloppy tags layered over each other like nobody respected the last guy enough to leave his mark alone. Spray cans are scattered across the floor, some on their sides, one slowly rolling until it taps the baseboard and stops.

“Ted’s not going to like this,” I mutter.

This isn’t his style. Ted doesn’t do sloppy. Doesn’t do loud. And he definitely doesn’t bring in amateurs with a can and something to prove.

I step past one of the open rooms, glance inside.

More of the same. Mattress on the floor. Walls covered. Smell of stale smoke baked into everything.

“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “Real high-end operation.”

I move down the hall.

Something feels off.

Not big. Not dramatic.

Just enough that I check over my shoulder.

Nothing there.

I keep walking.

The can under my boot crunches when I step on it. I nudge it forward, send it skittering down the hall. It spins, rattles, then settles near the closed door.

I take another drink, finish the beer without really thinking about it.

Now I’ve got an empty bottle in my hand.

Feels about right.

I stop in front of the closed door.

Listen.

Nothing.

But the feeling’s still there. That same quiet pressure between my shoulders, like someone’s standing just behind me, waiting to see what I do next.

I turn.

Hall’s empty.

“Yeah,” I say. “We’re not doing this.”

I face the door again and push it open, bottle raised just enough to pretend it counts as a plan.

Nothing jumps out.

No one’s hiding behind it.

No movement.

Just a room.

I lower the bottle slowly.

Step inside.

And everything… stops.

No graffiti.

No stains.

No trash.

A bed sits in the center of the room, perfectly made. For some reason, I can’t stop looking at it.

A dresser leans against the wall. Nightstand beside it. Clean. Ordered. Untouched. Like the rest of the house never made it in here.

I reach back into the hallway without thinking and grab a spray can off the floor by the door. Give it a small shake.

The rattle sounds too loud in the room.

Then—

something shifts.

Not in the room.

In me.

A pressure, soft at first. Like someone flipping through pages too fast.

A classroom.

Construction paper.

Red hearts.

Abilene Whittleberry sitting across from me, tongue caught between her teeth while she cuts along the line.

She looks up.

Smiles.

I remember that. I remember exactly how that felt.

I smile back.

My hand moves.

I don’t think about it. Don’t question it.

I lift the can and press down.

The hiss fills the room. “Lost in Love” plays somewhere beneath it, distant now, like it’s coming through a wall.

A heart takes shape on the wall directly above the center of the bed.

I step back, tilting my head.

Yeah.

That’s… that’s good.

Abby’s going to like that.

I turn and walk out of the room.

Down the hall.

Down the stairs.

The bottle slips from my hand halfway down and shatters against the wood. I don’t even look back.

The living room waits.

Still dark.

Darker than it should be.

I step inside anyway.

The air feels heavier in here. Thick. Like I’m pushing through something I can’t see. Every step takes just a little more effort than it should.

Doesn’t matter.

I’ve got something to finish.

I shake the can again and start drawing.

Big this time.

Right on the carpet.

A heart. Huge. Taking up the room. The spray hisses steady as I walk it out, circling, filling it in, going back over the lines again and again until it feels right.

Perfect.

My foot catches on something near the couch.

I stumble, steady myself with a hand on the armrest.

Too dark.

Can’t see.

I reach over the back of the couch, grab the curtains, and yank them open.

Light floods in.

And I freeze.

There’s a couple on the couch.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Hands clasped together.

They’re still.

Too still.

A bullet hole sits clean in each forehead. No blood left. Just bone and the dark, empty space where something used to be.

For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Then—

whispering.

Soft. Close.

I lean in.

“Hey—”

The voices overlap, too quiet to make out. Like they’re talking through water.

I lean closer.

“—what—”

Still can’t hear it.

Just a little more—

BAM.

A bird slams into the window.

The song cuts off.

The sound snaps everything.

I jerk back, heart kicking hard, the room rushing in all at once—the smell, the bodies, the dark.

The can drops from my hand.

Cold hits me like I just stepped into winter.

“Nope.”

I’m moving before I finish the word. Out of the room, down the hall, through the kitchen, out the door. I don’t stop until I’m halfway across the yard.

I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to get my head straight.

“What the hell was that?”

I look back at the house.

It just sits there.

Quiet.

Normal.

Like it didn’t just try to crawl inside my skull.

I run a hand over my face, shake it off.

“If I wasn’t already scared out of my pants,” I mutter, “I’d go back in and grab another beer.”

I could use one.

Bad.

I frown a little, thinking.

“Abilene,” I say.

That’s what my brain pulls?

Haven’t thought about her in years.

That’s a lie, but there’s nobody here to call me on it.

I shake my head.

“Man. That’s a weird one to bring back.”

My phone rings.

I check it. Unlisted. I know what that means.

I straighten up, take one last look at the house, then answer.

Time to get serious.