The abandoned house loomed before us, a dark silhouette against the night sky. Its weathered clapboard siding and sagging porch looked like something from a nightmare.
"I'll check it first," Jackson said, his voice strained. He moved ahead of us, refusing our help, but limped badly whilst holding the gun at the ready.
"You need to sit down before you pass out," I said, fearing he'd collapse before he even climbed the porch.
"Yeah, before you shoot yourself in the damn foot," Ivy added.
"I can check," I said.
He turned to me, his face too shadowed to fully make out now. "Elena, I appreciate the offer, but I'm trained for this. You're not."
"Trained to bleed to death?"
Ivy stepped between us. "How about we all check together? Safety in numbers and all that horror movie wisdom."
Jackson hesitated, then nodded once. "Stay behind me."
The porch steps creaked ominously under our weight. I half-expected them to give way entirely, sending us crashing into some hidden cellar where other victims had met their end. My imagination was running wild, fueled by shock and the knowledge of the body that lay behind us.
The body I'd dropped.
Jackson tried the door. Locked. Typical. He examined the frame, then took a step back.
"This might be loud," he warned, before delivering a powerful shoulder charge. The door splintered open with a crack that echoed through the trees.
"Jesus," Ivy whispered. "Remind me never to lock you out of anywhere."
Jackson grunted as he tested his shoulder, then leaned against the frame for a moment. He was weak and struggling, that much was obvious, but he was determined.
Men. They never knew when to stop pushing themselves.
At least the house would provide some cover for him, since just looking at him in only his briefs had my teeth chittering.
The house was dark inside, the slivers of moonlight giving us enough to make out the area. A dusty living room with furniture draped in yellowed sheets like ghosts. The air smelled stale and damp, with undertones of mildew and abandonment.
"Power's probably out," Jackson stated as he lurched inside. "But check for switches anyway."
I moved to hook an arm around him once more, noting his ragged breaths. He leaned on me more than he was probably planning too, but I didn't comment. He'd saved our lives back there.
And then I'd saved his by taking one.
Ivy found a switch across the room and flipped it. To our surprise, a single overhead bulb flickered to life in what was the kitchen, spilling weak yellow light into the living room we stood in.
"Well, that's unexpected," she said. "Maybe this place isn't completely abandoned."
"Or someone's been using it," Jackson added, his voice grim. He moved further into the house with my help, making sure I kept behind him when he checked each room methodically, aiming the gun into them. The way he was moving—the careful, measured steps, the controlled breathing—told me he was running on pure willpower.
The house was small: living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Basic furniture remained, covered in dust and cobwebs. One room had a mattress on the floor that had a few unsettling stains.
We returned to the kitchen after our checks. It housed a wood-burning stove and an ancient refrigerator that hummed ominously when Ivy opened it.
"Empty," she reported. "But cold. So there is electricity."
"Check the cabinets," Jackson instructed, leaning against the doorframe. I moved away from him to do as he asked.
I found a single can of beans that looked older than me. "Beans," I said, holding up the can. "Expired, but probably still edible."
"Water?" Jackson asked.