Chapter 1 Goldie
If horror movies have taught me anything, it’s that breaking down in the middle of the Appalachian wilderness in the middle of the night usually ends with somebody getting eaten. Or stabbed. Or chased through the woods by a guy in a mask who definitely wasn’t invited to the orgy.
And yet here I am.
My 2012 Honda Civic, which is lovingly nicknamed “The Beast”, smokes more than a chimney and has more miles on her than a porn star. And now, she has finally given up on a winding mountain road that probably isn’t even on most maps. One minute she was chugging along, making sounds like a dying whale with asthma, and the next silence. Complete, terrifying silence except for the rain pounding on my windshield.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper, patting the steering wheel like it’s a feverish forehead. “Don’t do this to me now.”
She can’t die on me yet. I need to get further away from what I know is following me. Something that a series of bad life decisions led me to, and now I’m desperately trying to get away from.
I turn the key again. Nothing. The dashboard lights flicker weakly, then die completely, leaving me in darkness. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I bang my head against the steering wheel a few times for good measure, then grab my phone. No signal. Of course not. I’m probably being watched by Bigfoot right now, and he’s laughing his furry ass off.
“Okay, Goldilocks,” I mutter, using the nickname my grandmother always called me because of my waist-length blonde curls. “Think.”
Option one: Stay in the car and hope someone finds me before I freeze to death or get eaten by whatever lurks in these woods.
Option two: Walk back to the gas station that has to be at least ten miles back the way I came.
Or option three: Try to find help.
I check my gas tank. Practically empty, of course, because I live my life on the edge of bankruptcy. My emergency kit consists of a half-empty bottle of water, three expired granola bars and a condom that’s been in my glove compartment so long it’s probably fossilized.
Not exactly survivalist material.
With a sigh that sounds more like a sob, I grab my worn leather backpack from the passenger seat. It contains my entire life right now: clothes that don’t fit right anymore, a makeup bag with mostly dried-up products, and about thirty-seven dollars in cash. My phone, which is currently as useful as a brick, and my grandmother’s locket.
I should have stayed in Georgia. Should have kept working at that diner where the manager kept accidentally grabbing my ass. At least there, I knew what kind of monster I was dealing with.
But no, I had to run. Again. Leading me down darker roads with more terrifying monsters.
I stuff my phone in my pocket, zip up my too-thin jacket, and brace myself for the downpour waiting outside. The moment I open the door, the rain hits me like a cold slap in the face. Within seconds, my jeans are soaked through, and my curls are plastered to my head like a wet mop.
The road stretches in both directions, disappearing into darkness. Left or right? I flip a mental coin and start walking right because why the hell not? Maybe my bad luck will cancel out if I go against my instincts.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the dense forest surrounding me. Tall pines stand like silent sentinels, their branches swaying in the wind. For a second, I could swear I see movement between the trees. Probably just a deer. Or a serial killer.
My mind is really stuck on there being a serial killer.
My sneakers squelch with each step, water seeping through the mesh fabric. I’m shivering violently now, teeth chattering so hard I’m worried they’ll chip.
Another flash of lightning. This time, I definitely see something. A light. Far off through the trees.
Hope surges through me, warm and desperate. I leave the road, pushing through the underbrush toward the light. Branches snag at my clothes and hair, but I don’t care. Civilization. Shelter. Maybe even a working phone.
The rain intensifies, turning the ground to mud beneath my feet. I slip and slide, eventually losing my footing and landing hard on my ass. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I sit there for a moment, the absurdity of my situation hitting me full force.
I’m twenty-four years old, homeless, jobless, and now I’m literally crawling through the mud in the middle of nowhere because my car died and I’m too stupid to stay put. Grandma would be so proud.
Finally, I break through the trees into a clearing, and there it is. A cabin. Not just any cabin, but a massive log structure that looks like it was built by Paul Bunyan on steroids. Golden light spills from the windows, promising warmth and safety.
I stumble toward it, nearly crying with relief. My legs are numb from cold and exhaustion as I climb the steps to the porch. I hesitate for just a second before knocking. What if whoever lives here is worse than the storm? What if I’m trading one danger for another?
Another bolt of lightning makes the decision for me. I pound on the door, then lean against the frame, soaked and shivering.
“Please be home,” I whisper. “Please be nice. Please don’t be a serial killer with a cabin in the woods fetish.”
I knock again, harder this time. The sound of the rain nearly drowns it out. I’m about to give up and try the handle when I notice something. The door is slightly ajar.
Not locked. Not closed properly.
I push it gently, and it swings open with a soft creak. Warm air rushes out, smelling like woodsmoke and something deliciously savory.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding small in the large space. “Anyone home? My car broke down, and I’m soaked and freezing and probably about to get hypothermia, so if you’re here, please don’t be mad that I came in.”
Silence.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. The interior is just as impressive as the exterior. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, with a fire burning low but still casting a welcoming glow. The furniture is rustic but well-made. A large leather couch, a couple of armchairs, and a huge wooden table that could seat ten people all sit in this one open room. There’s a set of stairs and three other doors. I assume they lead to bedrooms.
I drip water onto the hardwood floor, creating a puddle around my feet. My teeth won’t stop chattering, and my fingers are so cold they’re turning blue.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, shrugging off my jacket and letting it fall to the floor. If someone comes home and finds me, I’ll explain. If they’re reasonable. If they’re not, well, I’ve been in worse situations. Probably.
I move closer to the fireplace, holding out my hands to the warmth. My clothes are soaked, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I need to get out of them before I freeze to death.
Another door catches my attention. Partially open, revealing what looks like a bathroom. I push it open wider and it’s in fact the bathroom.
In the mirror above the sink, I catch my reflection. I look like a drowned rat. My mascara has run down my cheeks, creating dark streaks. My usually bouncy curls hang limp and wet. My lips are blue.
I don’t have a change of clothes, but I can’t stay in these wet ones. I peel off my jeans first, hissing at the cold air hitting my bare legs. My underwear follows, and I grab a fluffy towel from the rack, wrapping it around myself.
The bathroom is clean but lived-in. Three toothbrushes in a holder. Three sets of grooming products. So three men live here. Or one man with a very specific oral hygiene routine.
My gaze lands on a pile of folded clothes on a chair. They’re too big for me, obviously belonging to whoever lives here, but they’re dry, which is more than I can say for anything I’m wearing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the absent owners as I grab a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “I’ll wash them before I leave.”
The flannel shirt swallows me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. I have to roll them up several times and still they’re too long. The sweatpants are even worse, bunching around my ankles despite my best efforts to tie the drawstring tight enough.
I look ridiculous, but I’m dry and starting to warm up. That’s what matters.
My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since that gas station burrito that may or may not have given me food poisoning yesterday. I follow the delicious smell to the kitchen area, where three bowls of soup sit on a counter, as if someone was about to eat when they were interrupted.
That’s weird. Who leaves three bowls of soup just sitting out?
I dip my finger in the closest one and taste it. Delicious. Rich and hearty. My stomach growls again, louder this time.
“No, Goldie,” I tell myself. “That’s stealing.”
But my stomach doesn’t care about ethics. It wants food. Now.
I look around the empty cabin. “If you were here, you’d offer me something to eat, right?” I say to the invisible occupants. “I mean, basic hospitality and all that.”
I grab the smallest bowl and a spoon from the drawer. “I’ll leave money,” I promise, digging in my backpack for my wallet. I pull out a twenty and leave it on the counter. “That should cover it, right? Soup, towel usage, clothing rental for like an hour?”
The soup is divine. I eat standing at the counter, too hungry to care about manners. It’s exactly what I needed, warming me from the inside out. I finish the entire bowl, then lick the spoon clean.
My eyelids are getting heavy now that I’m warm and fed. The drive through the mountains has exhausted me, and the adrenaline from my ordeal is wearing off.
“I just need to rest for a minute,” I tell the empty room, moving toward the couch. “Just close my eyes. Then I’ll figure out what to do next.”
I curl up on the leather couch, pulling a throw blanket over myself. It smells like pine and something masculine and musky. It’s weirdly comforting. Within minutes, I’m drifting off to sleep, the crackle of the fire lulling me into unconsciousness.
The last thought that crosses my mind before sleep claims me is that I should probably be more worried about the owners of this cabin returning, but I’m too tired to care. After all, how bad could three guys with good taste in soup and comfortable furniture really be?
