Page 115 of Forged in Rain

She shrugs, which does nothing for my peace of mind, but I couldn’t let her come here alone, even though we’re walking into a possible shit show.

She looks at me with her deep, dark eyes, and the corner of her mouth tilts up. Still, the pain I see behind the shiny orbs makes my chest ache because Iris has seen and done too much ever to come back.

What I was fighting for all along was nothing but a dream because the girl I knew is gone. But the one sitting before me has a fire inside her that I admire.

Maybe she didn’t do a damn thing the way I would’ve liked, but it was driven by the desire to live, and I can hardly blame her for that.

Her experience is so different from mine. I grew up with two parents who loved me. She had creepy John and her psycho mother. Shudder.

After an hour’s drive through land that’s covered in rolling hills and large farms, she turns into a driveway. At the end is an old farmhouse surrounded by fallow fields overgrown and wild.

A huge barn sits behind the house, which I see is breaking down from the foundation to the roof. The shutters hang loosely from their bolts, exposing grimy windows.

The porch is sagging in the middle and the pillars are brown from dust and decay.

A shiver racks me as we come to a stop and stare at the facade. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Iris didn’t bother to hide our approach, and I glance at her worriedly, but she’s staring at the vista.

“Have you been here before?” I whisper.

She frowns, cocking her head to the side. “If I have, it was a long time ago. John’s parents owned a farm. I guess maybe this is it.”

Shit. I turn back to the house and search the windows, but I see no movement. It’s eerily quiet.

After a moment, Iris exits, and I follow on shaky legs. If John is here, am I prepared to defend myself? Yes.

To the death?

Yes. Yes, I am. With a deep breath, I follow her up onto the porch, standing back as she opens the screen door.

I cringe when it makes a loud screeching sound, and we freeze, but other than a lonely flag hanging upside down from a post and flapping in the wind, nothing stirs.

Glancing back at the car, I scrunch my eyes closed and mentally scream. What the fuck are we doing here?

But it’s too late. Iris turns the knob and pushes the door open. Wood floors that saw a mop maybe twenty years ago greet us and when Iris steps inside, I suck in a breath before following.

The walls hold the remnants of a history I don’t want to know, and I bypass the pictures with a shudder. Furniture covered in dust cloths fills the rooms, now lifeless and cold.

Iris stalks down the hall, and I peer into the rooms as we pass. A barren parlor with an empty fireplace sits to the right, a beautiful old wooden staircase to the left, and beyond, the kitchen. From here, I can see the barn out back.

The kitchen is equally empty, and we search through the cupboards for evidence of food before ascending the stairs to the second floor. But much like the lower level, there’s nothing but dust and old furniture to greet us.

My legs are noodly by the time we reach the bottom of the stairs and although I know what she’s going to say before I ask, I still turn to her and whisper, “What next?”

“The barn,” she murmurs, staring through me. Her pupils are blown and I turn away from the sight of her pinched mouth and pale face.

Her fear must be ten times that of mine. Shit.

The barn is a hundred yards distant, the fading red facade charming in the early morning light. The doors are closed, and when we stop, I see a padlock attached to the beams.

I’m about to sag with relief when Iris pulls a key ring from her pocket and starts running through the keys one by one.

“Where did you get that?” I ask, shivering when a gust of wind blows through.

“John’s dresser.”

“Of course,” I mutter. Why wouldn’t the fucker leave them lying around?

Eyeing her suspiciously, I stiffen when the lock opens, and she pulls it from the ring.

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