The Locked Lodge•

The snow isn’t just falling. It’s erasing the world.

My Subaru’s headlights push into the whiteout and bounce straight back at me, like I’m driving inside a snow globe somebody shook way too hard. The heater’s cranked all the way up, but the mountain cold is still sneaking in through the floorboards, freezing my toes even through my boots.

The dashboard lights up: Mom.

I tap the steering wheel to answer. “Mom, I can barely hear you over the wind.”

“The highway patrol is pulling cars off the interstate, Cathy.” Her voice crackles through the speakers, tight and already on the edge of panic. “Please tell me you’re at the turnoff. You shouldn’t be driving up the pass in this.”

“I’m at the base of the mountain, Mom. The road’s plowed.” My back end fishtails a little, and I grip the wheel hard, correcting it before it gets away from me. My heart does this stupid hummingbird flutter. “It’s a sweepstakes. All-expenses-paid luxury retreat. I’m not turning around and blowing the trip of a lifetime.”

“I don’t care about the free vacation. I care about my daughter.” She’s full-on spiraling now. “That lodge is in the middle of nowhere. If you slide off the road—”

“I won’t slide.” My pulse says otherwise, but I keep my voice light. “It’s a massive estate, Mom. Full staff, private security, backup generator. I’ll call you when I’m sitting by the fire with a glass of wine. Promise. Love you.”

Before she can spin up another worst-case scenario, I tap the screen and kill the call. Not gonna lie, my hands are shaking just a little as I put them back on the wheel. I blow out a breath, fogging up the inside of the windshield, and squint into the snow.

Through the swirl, something huge materializes.

Blackthorn Lodge.

It rises out of the white like it’s been waiting for me: dark wood, stone, insane floor-to-ceiling windows glowing gold against the storm. It looks like a sanctuary. Or a movie set. Or both.

I pull into the circular driveway, tires crunching over packed snow, and throw the car into park. My duffel is riding shotgun; I grab it, shove my phone into my pocket just in case, and crack the door.

The wind hits me like a punch, straight to the chest. It steals my breath for a second, icy air knifing down into my lungs. I duck my head and push into it, trudging through fresh powder, clutching the duffel to my side.

The front doors are heavy oak, the kind that probably cost more than my car. I lean my shoulder into them, shove, and stumble when they finally give.

The storm roar cuts off like somebody hit mute.

Inside, it’s all heat and orange light. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flames crackling loud and deep. The ceiling soars above me, timber beams crossing like ribs. Plush leather couches, throws, a long dark dining table dressed to the nines with crystal and silver—it’s like a glossy magazine spread for “Mountain Billionaire Chic.”

But it’s not empty.

Seven people are scattered around the great room, and every single one of them looks up when the door clicks shut behind me.

“Thank God,” a woman near the fire says, lifting a glass of red wine like she’s making a toast. She’s wrapped in cashmere that probably has a brand name I’d only recognize from Instagram ads. “We’ve been in that winner’s email chain for a month, but it is so nice to finally see actual faces. I’m Sloane.”

“Cathy,” I say, shrugging off my coat and shaking snow onto the stone floor. My cheeks are burning from the temperature whiplash. “Cathy Bennett. Sorry I’m the last one. The pass was brutal.”

“Don’t apologize, just drink,” Sloane says, flicking her wrist toward a gleaming mahogany bar in the corner. The bottles catch the firelight—whiskey, wine, everything looks top shelf.

“We’re all accounted for, then,” a smooth voice says.

A man in his late thirties steps forward from near the hearth. He’s annoyingly put-together: perfect haircut, perfect jaw, the kind of face you just know is on the front of a book called something like *The Work You Deserve* or *Healing from Within*. His smile is warm in a way that feels practiced, but not fake. Yet.

“Adrian Parker,” he says. He turns slightly. “And this is my wife, Delia.”

Delia stands close enough to him to scream “we rehearse this,” but her vibe is pure cool precision. Dark hair, an outfit that somehow manages to be both simple and expensive, eyes that do a quick scan of me like she’s checking boxes on an intake form.

“It’s a pleasure,” she says, voice soft but controlled. “Though I must admit, the lack of a welcome committee is a bit jarring.”

“Perhaps they’re simply prepping our suites,” a silver-haired woman says.

She’s got that posture you only get from years of being listened to—back straight, chin up, shoulders relaxed like she believes the room belongs to her. Her coat is tailored within an inch of its life.

“Evelyn Shaw,” she says. “Mayor of Oakhaven. Though I suppose out here I’m just another lucky ticket in the draw.” Her gaze flicks around the room, sharp and assessing. “I expect the staff will appear shortly to explain the itinerary.”

Sure. Staff. Somewhere behind the silence and the weirdly empty corners.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath, Mayor,” someone grumbles.

A broad-shouldered guy in a flannel shirt steps out of the shadows by the bar. He moves like he’s ready to square up at any second. There’s a deputy’s badge clipped to his belt, catching the firelight.

“Noah Cutter,” he says. “County Sheriff’s Department.” He squints at the space like he’s checking it for exits. “I’m just glad to be off the clock for the weekend, but I gotta say, the hospitality around here is a little lacking. Place is a damn ghost town.”

“Fascinating,” a quiet voice says from one of the leather wingbacks near the fire.

I hadn’t even noticed her at first. Dark hair pulled back, dark eyes, a book open in her lap. She doesn’t look up all the way, just enough to make brief eye contact with me. It lands like a pinprick.

“Dr. Mira Collins,” she says. “It seems we are entirely alone.”

A little chill runs down my spine—it has nothing to do with the weather.

“Hey, don’t count me out just yet.”

The voice comes from the center of the room, lazy, amused.

I turn. A guy stands up from a plush sofa and keeps standing up. He’s huge. Easily six-four, shoulders like he could walk onto any football field in the country and some coach would sell his soul on the spot. His sweater is this soft gray that stretches across his chest in a very nice way. His smile, though, takes all the edge off; it’s easy, bright, like he’s used to charming strangers at a distance.

“Luke,” he says, crossing the space toward me. His hand is massive and warm when he offers it. “Just Luke. Though I know most of you probably recognize me from the Sunday afternoon rotation. But this weekend, I’m just a guy who won a free vacation and really needs a break from the paparazzi.”

I shake his hand. He’s careful, like he knows exactly how strong he is and is determined not to snap my fingers off.

“Cathy Bennett,” I say. “And yeah, I know who you are. You’re the star linebacker for the state.”

Luke chuckles, a low, almost embarrassed sound. “Star, backup, whatever the coaches call me this week. I’m just happy to be out of the cold.”

I’m also happy he’s in this room and not out there on the highway with Mom’s weather anxiety.

“Well, since we’re all officially introduced,” Sloane says, sighing dramatically as she checks her watch, “can someone please find the manager? I want to get out of these clothes and get a massage.”

Yeah, same. My jeans are stuck to my legs, and my socks feel borderline illegal.

“I’ll go look,” I say, before anyone else can volunteer. Honestly, I need a second away from the firelight and the Mayor’s energy. “Front desk has to be somewhere.”

“I’ll come with you,” Noah says. His tone makes it sound less like a favor and more like an inspection. “Not gonna lie, something feels off.”

Luke shifts like he’s about to offer too, then glances at the storm beating on the windows and stays put. I catch his eye and he gives me a little, helpless shrug. Just a guy on vacation. Just a guy, my ass.

Noah and I head away from the great room, following a polished hallway lined with black-and-white photos of mountains and lakes and smiling rich people in ski gear. My boots squeak on the hardwood. Our footsteps echo way louder than they should.

“There should be noise,” Noah mutters. “Kitchen. Staff. Music. Something.”

He’s right. It’s weirdly quiet. No clinking plates, no muffled voices, no elevator dings. Just the soft hum of…something hidden in the walls. Smart-house guts.

We find the front desk at the end of the hall.

It’s sleek and minimalist: white stone counter, one high-end computer monitor, a chrome bell that begs to be tapped, and absolutely no human behind it. There’s a faint lemon-cleaner smell, but no coffee, no clutter, no personal crap—no cardigan thrown over a chair, no Post-it notes stuck to the screen.

“Hello?” I call, leaning on the desk. “Uh, Blackthorn staff? Hi. Your winners are here and we’re very excited about our promised massages and cocktails.”

Nothing.

Noah leans over the monitor and taps the space bar. The screen wakes up to a guest list page. My stomach flips when I see it.

Our names are already there. All eight of us. Full names. Arrival times.

“Could be automated,” Noah says, but there’s tension in his jaw.

“Sure,” I say. “Totally normal for a place to know we checked in without any actual person checking us in.”

A wall of security monitors sits behind the desk, angled toward where a receptionist would stand. Each one shows a different part of the lodge: a hallway, a staircase, a big industrial kitchen, a snowy patio.

Every single frame is empty.

As I’m staring, one of the hallway feeds glitches—just a quick static burst, then back. I lean closer, trying to see if there’s a shape in the snow, a shadow, anything.

It’s just…nothing.

Noah’s hand brushes the bell, but he doesn’t ring it. “All right,” he says quietly. “We’ll go back, keep everyone in the main room, and then I’ll do a full walk once the weather lets up.”

“You’re the one with the badge,” I say, trying to keep it light. “Lead the way, Deputy.”

We turn back down the hall. For a second, I’m hyper-aware of every sound: the shove of the storm outside, the hum from vents overhead, the squeak of my boots. My brain keeps whispering you’re alone you’re alone you’re alone, even though I’m literally walking next to a cop.

By the time we step back into the great room, the storm looks worse. Snow slams against the windows in thick sheets.

“Front desk is empty,” I announce. “Like, creepily empty. No staff, no ‘be right back’ sign, nothing.”

Evelyn’s eyes narrow. “That is unacceptable,” she snaps. “I paid for my flight, my time, and my presence. Someone is being paid to greet us, and I intend to—”

A heavy metallic *CLACK* cuts her off.

The sound echoes through the room like a gunshot in a cavern.

We all flinch. Instinctively, every head turns toward the doors.

The massive oak entrance we just walked through is shut tight. Thick electronic deadbolts slide into place along the frame with another mechanical thunk, like teeth biting down.

“Did someone close the door?” Sloane asks. Her voice jumps an octave. She’s suddenly clutching her wine glass like it’s a flotation device.

“I didn’t,” Noah says.

He strides over, grabs the brass handle, and pulls. Nothing. He plants his boot against the frame, uses his whole body, and yanks with both hands.

“It’s locked,” he grits out. “Deadbolted from the outside.”

“Excuse me,” Evelyn snaps, coming up behind him. “Where is the staff? I want these doors opened right now. This is highly unprofessional.”

“Ma’am, step back,” Noah says, and his tone shifts—cop voice, no nonsense, the one he probably uses on drunk guys outside bars. “I need to check the perimeter. Everyone stay in the great room.”

“There is no perimeter to check, Noah,” Adrian says from near the fire, voice dipped in calm like he’s hosting a podcast episode. “We’re in a locked room. Let’s not escalate. Panic is just fear without a plan.”

“Don’t shrink-shrink me, Parker,” Noah shoots back. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp. “I’m the only one here with a badge. I’m checking the doors.”

“My phone,” Sloane whispers.

She’s staring down at her screen, and whatever she sees there sucks the color right out of her face.

“I don’t have service,” she says. Her hand shakes. “I don’t even have Wi-Fi.”

I yank my phone from my pocket, thumb the screen. The little signal bars up top are just…gone. Nothing. No service, no emergency calls, just a big blank.

“Mine’s dead too,” Delia says. Her voice is still polite, but her composure cracks just a hair as she taps and taps and gets nothing.

“Landlines,” Evelyn barks. She sounds like she’s in the middle of a council meeting and everyone just voted wrong. “Find a landline. I have a city council emergency session at eight a.m. I am not missing it because some eccentric billionaire is playing games with his smart-house.”

Before Noah can answer, the lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Then they cut out completely.

The room drops into near-total darkness, the kind that makes your stomach lurch. The only light left is the orange glow from the fireplace and the cold, storm-gray smear coming through the huge front windows. The temperature seems to drop instantly; goosebumps race up my arms.

I see my breath fog in front of my face.

“Okay, nobody move,” Noah says from somewhere in the dark. His voice sounds bigger without the lights. “I’m going to find the breaker box.”

“Sit down, Deputy,” Evelyn snaps back. Her voice slices clean through the shadows. “I am the Mayor of this district, and I am ordering you to find a staff member.”

“There is no staff, Evelyn!” Noah yells.

The fire throws his silhouette against the wall—broad, rigid, pissed.

“Stop it!” Adrian’s voice booms, perfect projection cutting through the chaos. “Both of you. We are experiencing a minor technical glitch. We need to regulate our nervous systems. Sloane, you’re shaking. Sit down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Sloane shrieks. The sound ricochets off the windows and hits my nerves like broken glass.

My brain decides everyone is too loud at the exact same time my heart starts beating like it’s trying to punch a hole through my ribs.

“Everyone, just shut up for one second!” I yell.

The silence lands so fast it’s almost physical.

I didn’t mean to shout that loud. My own voice echoes in my head, and my heart hammers harder, wings against cage, frantic.

“Thank you, Cathy,” Adrian says, smoother now, like I’ve just helped him redirect the group in a group therapy session. “Now, let’s just—”

*Click.*

The sound comes from the far wall.

We all turn toward it at once, bodies moving like we’re on the same string.

Up near the ceiling, a massive motorized projector screen starts to unroll, white fabric spilling down in clean lines. It hits the wall with a soft, final thud.

Then the projector flares to life, a blinding white rectangle blasting across the room, washing our faces in ghost-light.

No title card.

No welcome message.

Just a video.