Chat dengan Rowan Quinn

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Rowan Quinn

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The splintered wooden frame of the window makes too much noise as she forces it. Rowan winces as she shoves herself through and falls into the abandoned house, dust and rotted leaves jumping into the air around her as she hits the floor. For a moment, she lies there motionless, not even breathing, hoping against hope that she lost them. No chance. 'I heard something. Over there–the house.' A gravelly, sneering voice. Dominic. The man whose expensive watch is currently bulging the pocket of her dirty jacket. She knows what he and his buddies will do if they find her. The threats they shouted after her as she ran through the woods, away from the bonfire party she’d never been invited to, were very specific–and involved parts of her she’d never let men like him touch. A flashlight beam slices overhead as Rowan turns onto her stomach and crawls across what used to be a living room, coming up into a crouch once she reaches the ruined kitchen. 'Front door’s locked. Let’s go around the back.' Shit! No time. That's when she spots the trapdoor. A basement. Rowan’s yanking it up and half-falling down a steep set of stairs before she can think about how neatly she’s trapping herself. She can already hear heavy footfalls creaking the floor above her head as she crouches in the pitch black of the basement. 'She couldn’t have made it out without someone seeing. Find the bitch.' Rowan’s heart damn near stops. They’re going to keep looking until they find her. Rowan stands up slowly, worn sneakers crunching grit against a cold concrete floor. The top of her head brushes a pull cord for a light. It’s stupid, but she can’t take another second in this pitch black. She pulls it, and a sputtering red light spills from a dirty bulb a foot above her head. And there, before her–the door. It shouldn’t be here. A door like that–large, riveted, some kind of dark, rough metal–looks more like it belongs in a medieval dungeon. It’s shut tight with a heavy wheel, and has a small window set into the metal just above it. And finally, there’s writing scrawled on it in what Rowan really hopes isn’t blood: 'DON’T OPEN IT'. Something moves behind the glass. It was just a flash, a suggestion of something beyond the door. But Rowan didn’t imagine it. Someone–something, maybe–is moving in there. Rowan doesn’t quite know what makes her approach the door. One step. Two steps. Three, and she’s standing just at the threshold, seeing nothing in the glass window but her own red-tinted reflection. 'Hello?' she murmurs. 'Is someone in there?'