The address on my father's blood - smeared note led me to the ass - end of nowhere.
1734 Hollow Creek Road. I mouthed the numbers silently as I stood before the rusted iron gates, my backpack cutting into my shoulders. The crisp night air carried the scent of wet leaves and something else - something older and more bitter that I couldn't place. Beyond the gates, a winding driveway disappeared into a tunnel of ancient oaks, their branches forming a canopy that blocked what little moonlight filtered through the clouds.
At the end of that driveway stood Blackthorn Home for Wayward Youth - a massive Victorian monstrosity that looked like it had been designed by someone with a hard - on for Gothic architecture and too much time on their hands. Three stories of weathered stone and dark windows, crowned with a series of spires that clawed at the night sky like desperate fingers.
I'd spent the last of my money on the cab that dropped me here, the driver mumbling something about "not coming back after dark" before speeding away. Now I stood alone, clutching my father's note in one hand, my entire life packed into a single bag. The other things I owned - the photographs, the memories, the future we'd planned - were still in our apartment, splattered with my father's blood.
Three days ago, I had a father. Three days ago, I had a home.
Now I had an address and a gnawing hole in my chest that felt like it might never fill.
The gate wasn't locked. It swung open with a shriek of metal that made me wince, the sound cutting through the silence like a scream. As I started up the driveway, the darkness between the trees seemed to shift and breathe, watching me with hungry interest. I quickened my pace, telling myself it was just exhaustion playing tricks on my mind.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was following me, its footsteps perfectly matching my own.
The porch lights flickered on as I approached the front door, motion sensors triggering with a soft electric hum. Up close, Blackthorn was even more imposing. Gargoyles perched on corners of the roof, their stone faces worn smooth by decades of rain and neglect. The massive oak door featured an iron knocker shaped like a thorn - wrapped hand.
Before I could reach for it, the door swung open.
"Ash Cross," said the woman who stood in the doorway, her voice as crisp and cold as the night air. Not a question - a confirmation.
She was tall and impossibly elegant, dressed in a charcoal gray suit that looked expensive enough to pay my father's rent for a year. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes were the pale gray of winter skies. She couldn't have been older than fifty, but there was something in those eyes that felt ancient.
"How did you know my name?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Your father called ahead."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "My father is dead."
"Yes," she said simply. "He made arrangements. He knew what was coming."
My hand tightened around the note. "You're saying he knew he was going to die?"
"I'm saying he knew enough to prepare." She stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "I'm Headmistress Winters. Welcome to Blackthorn."
I hesitated at the threshold, staring into the dimly lit foyer beyond. Everything in me screamed to run, to turn around and disappear into the night. But there was nowhere left to go. My father was dead. His blood was still caked under my fingernails despite how many times I'd scrubbed my hands raw.
I stepped inside.
The door closed behind me with the finality of a coffin lid.
The interior of Blackthorn was a strange mix of faded grandeur and practical modernization. The foyer featured a sweeping staircase with an ornate banister, but the steps had been reinforced with metal and the original chandelier replaced with sturdy LED fixtures. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling, interrupted occasionally by doorways leading to shadowed rooms.
"You belong here now," Headmistress Winters said, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood as she began walking. I followed, feeling like I was being led to an execution rather than a tour.
"I don't belong anywhere," I muttered.
She paused, turning to look at me with those strange, pale eyes. "That's precisely why you belong here, Mr. Cross."
We moved through a series of rooms - a dining hall with long tables that could seat thirty, a lounge area with worn couches and a surprisingly modern entertainment system, a kitchen that smelled faintly of last night's dinner.
"Blackthorn has been home to special cases for over a century," Winters explained, her voice echoing slightly in the empty corridors. "Children and young adults who have... fallen through the cracks of society."
"You mean orphans."
"I mean forgotten ones," she replied, and something in her tone made me shiver. "Those who have nowhere else to go, and whom the world has a habit of overlooking."
We climbed to the second floor, the staircase creaking under our weight. The hallway was lined with doors - bedrooms, I assumed - each marked with a small brass number. Most were closed, but from behind one, I heard what sounded like muffled laughter cut short by a harsh whisper.
"How many others are there?" I asked.
"Currently sixteen residents between the ages of sixteen and nineteen." Headmistress Winters's pace never slowed. "We maintain a small staff - myself, our combat instructor, and Mr. Thorne, our watchman."
"Combat instructor?" I repeated.
She ignored the question, stopping instead before a window that overlooked the grounds behind the house. In the darkness, I could make out what looked like training equipment - obstacle courses, climbing walls, and what might have been a shooting range.
"Blackthorn isn't just a home, Mr. Cross. It's a sanctuary and a training ground." She turned to face me. "Your father knew that. It's why he sent you here."
"My father didn't send me anywhere," I said, anger finally cutting through the numb fog that had enveloped me since finding his body. "He was murdered. I found your address in his hand."
"Then he made sure you would find it," she replied calmly. "Detective Cross was investigating certain... phenomena that put him at risk. He knew that if anything happened to him, you would be next."
My stomach twisted. "Next for what? Who killed him?"
Before she could answer, heavy footsteps approached from the far end of the hall. A man rounded the corner, massive and broad - shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by someone who hadn't quite mastered the art. His hair was gray and cropped close to his skull, and a jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. Most notable, however, was the shotgun he carried casually at his side.
"Evening, Headmistress," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. His eyes, dark and watchful, assessed me with cold efficiency. "This the Cross boy?"
Winters nodded. "Mr. Thorne, this is Ash Cross. He'll be joining us, effective immediately."
Thorne grunted, shifting the shotgun to his other hand. "Another one for the collection, then."
I stared at the weapon. "Is that standard equipment for a boarding school?"
The man's laugh was like rocks in a blender. "This ain't no boarding school, kid. And this - " he patted the shotgun, " - is just a precaution."
"Against what?" I demanded.
Thorne exchanged a look with Winters that I couldn't interpret. Then he simply said, "Night's coming. Best get him settled."
Winters nodded and continued down the hall, clearly expecting me to follow. As I passed Thorne, he put a heavy hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
"Word of advice," he said quietly. "In this house, the walls don't just have ears, they have teeth. Watch what you say, and more importantly, watch who you say it to."
He released me and continued his patrol, the shotgun now resting comfortably on his shoulder.
"What the fuck did that mean?" I asked Winters when I caught up.
She didn't so much as blink at the profanity. "It means that Blackthorn has its own rules, Mr. Cross. You'll learn them quickly enough if you wish to survive."
The casual way she said "survive" made my blood run cold.
We stopped at the far end of the hall, before a door marked with the number 17. Winters produced a key from her pocket and handed it to me.
"This will be your room. You'll find basic necessities inside - toiletries, bedding, a few changes of clothes that should fit you reasonably well. Breakfast is at seven thirty. Classes begin at eight - thirty."
"Classes?" I echoed.
"Did you think we would simply warehouse you until adulthood?" She raised an eyebrow. "Blackthorn provides education. Among other things."
I turned the key over in my palm. "Why did my father know about this place? What was he investigating?"
Winters checked her watch, a sleek silver thing that looked expensive enough to feed a family for a month. "Those are excellent questions, Mr. Cross. Perhaps you should start by asking yourself why someone would want to kill a detective investigating missing persons cases where the victims seem to have been erased from public record."
My head snapped up. "How did you know that's what he was working on?"
Her smile was thin and cold. "Get some rest, Mr. Cross. Tomorrow will be... illuminating."
She turned to leave, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
"Wait," I called after her. "You didn't answer my question."
She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "No, I didn't."
And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the dim hallway with a key to a room in a house that already felt like a prison.
The room itself was sparse but clean - a twin bed with dark blue sheets, a wooden desk and chair, a small dresser, and a closet. A door in the corner led to a tiny private bathroom with a shower that looked like it had been installed sometime in the last decade. The window overlooked the back grounds, though all I could see now was darkness and the vague shapes of the training equipment I'd noticed earlier.
On the desk sat a leather - bound book with no title and a ballpoint pen. I flipped it open to find blank pages - a journal, I realized. Beneath it was a printed schedule with my name at the top.
Tomorrow's agenda included basic classes like mathematics and literature, but also things labeled "Combat Training," "Survival Skills," and "Practical Demonology."
I stared at the words until they blurred. What the hell kind of place was this?
I sank onto the bed, the exhaustion of the past three days finally catching up to me. Since finding my father's body, I'd barely slept, barely eaten. The police had asked their questions, taken their photos, and then... somehow seemed to forget about me. The detective who'd interviewed me had promised to follow up, had handed me his card, had told me to call anytime.
But when I'd called the next day, he'd sounded confused, as if he couldn't quite place who I was.
I closed the door and turned the lock, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling through the eaves of the old house and rattling the window frame. I pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the darkness.
On the desk, the blank journal waited. I picked it up, opened to the first page, and wrote:
Dad is dead. I'm at Blackthorn. Nothing makes sense.
They talk about him like they knew him, like he knew this place. Combat training and "practical demonology" on the schedule. A watchman with a shotgun.
And why didn't you tell me any of this was coming?
I closed the journal and placed it back on the desk. Then I stripped down to my t - shirt and boxers and climbed into bed, not bothering to unpack my bag. Every instinct told me to stay ready to run.
As I lay in the unfamiliar darkness, listening to the strange creaks and groans of Blackthorn settling around me, I realized that the hole in my chest had shifted. The raw grief was still there, a wound that might never fully heal, but now it was joined by something else - something hot and sharp and determined.
My father hadn't just been killed. He'd been hunting something, or something had been hunting him. And his last act had been to send me here, to this place of shotguns and combat training and cryptic warnings.
I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, but all I could see was my father's blood, all I could feel was the cold weight of certainty that had settled in my stomach.
Whatever killed him wasn't finished.
And somehow, I was next.