I was almost dark as we approached the two-story colonial house. I gripped my hand axe tighter.
Christopher walked beside me, his own axe held. Behind us, the rest of our group maintained their position.
The front door stood slightly ajar, no deadbolt or chain securing it from the inside. A promising sign, though we'd learned not to trust first impressions. I pushed it open slowly, listening for any sound of movement within.
The interior revealed itself gradually as our eyes adjusted. I raised my torchlight illuminating a living room that told a story. The furniture remained—a burgundy leather couch, matching armchairs, an entertainment center with a flat-screen TV. But the personal touches were missing. No family photos on the mantelpiece, no books on the shelves, no throw pillows or decorative items that made a house a home.
"It seems they packed and left in a hurry," Alisha said. She stood near the kitchen entrance as she looked around.
