Matthew had taken a wrong turn in the forested back roads of Virginia. Angela couldn’t blame him, he was unfamiliar to the area, as was she. Though, in her shattered mind, her Native American royalty blood kicked in and now every nook and cranny of this state she understood and knew. That was the last thing Angela remembered of their trip.
Angela awoke to Matthew blanketing her with his jacket. She saw the van was twirled around the tree, a macabre bow wrapped amongst the trunk and a chill of fear ran down Angela’s body. “We have to find shelter from the cold, baby girl,” he cooed to her. “We were in an accident, are you okay?”
She sat up. “Why did we crash?”
“There was a wolf,” said Matthew, his brown eyes were swirling with unknown terror, taking Angela into his arms. “A really, really big wolf.” He glanced down at Angela. “That’s a horrible head gash, baby girl.” Matthew stared into the snow. “This road seems to go on forever.”
“Look a house!” cried Angela. She pointed to a roof top that peeked above the tree line. “Shelter! Help!”
He looked down at her. “Shelter, yes. Help, if it’s not an abandoned home,” Matthew chuckled. “We passed enough of them on the way up.” He neared the house, showing it in full view and Angela gasped at the beauty of the building. An old, purple, Victorian. “It looks like it hasn’t seen a human in years!”
“We can shelter up there and go on foot for help,” she said, nuzzling up to his chest for warmth. “Maybe there’s maps or something?”
Angela’s idea was far fetched since more abandoned buildings, as she even told him, were cleaned out and replaced with garbage. But she was right on the fact it had to be somewhat warmer than it was outside, at least there’d be shelter from the wind that billowed. He made his way up to the front door, which surprised them, both, to see it still had a door and that it was closed.
She reached out and knocked, the only sound they heard was a booming echo coming from inside. Angela reached down and tried the doorknob, it twisted easily and was able to open the door. Matthew stepped inside and a chill descended his spine. “It’s abandoned,” he said, the sensitive nerves along his spine prickled. “And sorta spooky.”
Matthew looked down at Angela in his arms. “You don’t think the lights work do you?”
She got out of his arms and went through a door; Matthew followed after fear-panic-had sprung up in his belly like a cold spike. It was the kitchen, covered in a layer of neglect and mold. The food was rotting and decomposing, maggots wriggling in and out. Those sights did not disturb the couple more than the table. The red and white checker patterned tablecloth laid OCD triggering askew on the top, splattered with blood.
“I want to straighten that,” said Angela. “But the blood drives me away.” Angela had OCD. Angela also had hypochondria.
“Someone shaved in the kitchen?” questioned Matthew, pointing out the clumps of hair that stuck in or around the blood splatters. “Who does that?”
His question was not answered as the couple went deeper into the mansion. Angela bumped into the wall, the entire place was dark and shadowy and musty-smelling. “It is dark as fuck!” she cried, gingerly making sure she did not have another head wound. They went through another door and were met with a staircase and up they went.
At the top, there was a door and underneath the door was a white light. On the other side of the door was a loud whooshing sound, almost as if howling wind through tall trees and TV static had a love child. “What is that sound?” asked Matthew.
“Oh, thank G-d! You can hear that too!” laughed Angela. Angela had laughed in silence, which sort of scared her because only truly crazy people laugh in silence. “Thought I was having an episode!” She twisted the knob and they were looking at a hallway lined with windows. Ceiling, walls and floor. “That’s sorta trippy.”
Matthew could still taste his blood in his mouth from the crash. “But cool.”
On the other end of the hallway was another door. Angela ran across the glass to the door. She twisted the knob but the door was stuck. “It won’t open!” cried Angela. “Maybe if I had my pitchfork!”