The estate lay ahead of us, a dark shape looming against the gray morning sky.

The grand Victorian house was rotting.

The white paint had peeled away, leaving the wood underneath black with mold.

Several of the upper windows were shattered, looking like empty eye sockets.

I kept to the tree line, watching the perimeter for any signs of movement or security cameras.

My father had always warned me about the northeast corner of the lawn.

“That’s where the cameras can see you, Natalie,” he had said, laughing as if it were a hide-and-seek tip.

I skirted the western edge, staying in the deep shadows of the overgrown boxwood hedges.

I reached the back porch.

The wooden steps groaned under my weight.

I tried the doorknob of the kitchen entrance, but it was locked tight.

I took the butt of my flashlight and struck the small glass pane near the latch.

The glass shattered with a sharp crack that sounded like a gunshot in the silent woods.

I waited, frozen, listening for any response.

Nothing but the wind in the trees.