The House on Ambrose Street

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Chapter 4- The First Encounter

The day that I moved into my new house was a bit insane. “Moved” is probably the wrong word to use, now that I think about it. But this place was my only option. I needed to find some place to hide, but…really? Here? It was so inconspicuous that it was totally conspicuous.

There was a glow of orange across the sky, and it was just dark enough to hide in the shadows cast down from the brick walls of the neighborhood. But the headlights were still following me—I just knew it—and I’d never outrun them when the sun went completely down. So I squeezed through the closest gate, the bent and twisted aging iron leaving flakes of rust on my jacket.

I skidded to a halt when I tripped over the raised platform of the deck. I looked left, down its length and out of the stone arches. For an instant, I froze at the sound of approaching tires. The flash of light behind me, streaking and illuminating the doorway ahead of me, made up my mind real quick, though. I shoved the door open, ran inside and slammed it shut.

If I hadn’t been cruising down the side of the road as fast as my legs could carry me, this house would’ve knocked the wind out of me. But I had no air left to knock out. So I just wheezed in shock instead.

I had expected a large sitting room. I’d crashed in empty houses before—I don’t like to call it squatting—and that’s where the front door usually led. All the houses on Ambrose Street looked the same. Except this one.

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