Chapter Text
Rowan knew the car was going to die before it even happened.
The engine had been coughing for an hour, sputtering like a smoker on their fifteenth “I’m quitting this week” attempt, but they kept pushing it anyway because they were an idiot with confidence issues and a dream. A dream called “getting out of this blistering hellscape before the sun cooks my bones through the windshield.”
Of course, the universe said: LMAO, absolutely not.
The engine let out one last pathetic wheeze. A metallic clank, like something important giving up on life.
Then the whole car lurched, rattled, and rolled to its dusty death on the shoulder of a highway that hadn’t seen civilization since 1997.
“Great,” Rowan muttered, deadpan. Their voice was dry, cracked from the heat. “Fantastic. Love this for me.”
They slapped the steering wheel, which was approximately the temperature of Satan’s stovetop, and winced. Arizona heat didn’t play around. The second they opened the door, a wave of blistering air slapped them in the face like the sun had something against Arizona specifically. Dust puffed up around their boots as they stepped out, tugging their cropped black jacket off one shoulder because even loser goths have heat limits.
The car looked pathetic.. a sad little metal carcass baking under a merciless heat waved sky.
“Okay, sweetheart,” they told the car, flicking a wire aside. “Tell mama what broke.”
Rowan crouched down and popped the hood with a practiced flick of their wrist. They knew cars. They lived in their car half the time. They had trauma and socket wrenches. They were unstoppable… theoretically.
Except this wasn’t a normal breakdown.
When they lifted the hood, a hot gust of steam blasted their face. Rowan leaned back, fanning themselves with their hand.
“Oh perfect,” they groaned. “Yes, steam. Because I wasn’t sweaty enough already.”
Under the hood looked like a mechanical murder scene.
They stared at the engine block.. cracked.
The wiring.. fried.
The battery.. leaking like it had sprung a fatal wound.
The car battery was dead.
Like dead dead.
Like “SHOULD’VE been replaced SIX MONTHS AGO but you procrastinated because LIFE is hard” dead.
Rowan squinted, grimaced, and pushed a strand of windblown hair out of their face.
Before straightening up and wiping their hands on their jeans, leaving streaks of grease and contempt. “Okay. Fine. Car battery’s toast. That’s easy. I’ll just call Triple A… with my phone… which is—”
They dug into their pocket.
Dead.
The universe didn’t even grant them the courtesy of 2%.
How convenient
Rowan stared at the blank screen, their eyes twitching so hard it felt like a facial seizure.
“Nice. LOVE that for me. Awesome. Great. Hope the desert coyotes like sexy stud-flavored snacks.” They kicked a rock. The rock didn’t deserve it, but Rowan was hot and pissed and dehydrated and allowed to bully inanimate objects.
Rowan stuck their hands on their hips, surveying the endless barren land around them. Nothing but miles of sun-bleached dirt, jagged rock formations, and heat haze making the horizon wobble like the planet itself was exhausted.
Of course there wasn’t a gas station.
Of course there wasn’t a ranger post.
Of course there wasn’t a single car in sight.
“Well, looks like I’m walking,” they sighed, shoving the dead phone into their pocket like it had personally betrayed them. “Because dying out here with some horny buzzard making out with my corpse is not on my bucket list.”
They slung their jacket over their shoulder, immediately regretted that because the sun was burning their skin to crisp, put it back on, and started walking down the road with the enthusiasm of someone marching directly into hell.
Rowan wasn’t panicked. Not yet. But the dread was creeping in, slow and quiet, like a shadow stretching across the sand. Because as competent as they were, even they knew when a car was beyond help. The asphalt radiated heat through their boots. Sweat trickled down the back of their neck. Each step felt heavier, slower, like the desert was quietly chewing on their ankles.
Rowan muttered under their breath as they trudged forward, “If I find a gas station, great. If I find a person, great. If I find a serial killer, at least I’ll die.” Their boots scuffed on the rough pavement as they kept moving. The silence was thick and unnatural, like the kind that felt like someone was listening.
The desert didn’t just feel empty.
It felt observant.
Watching.
Waiting.
Rowan swallowed, suddenly aware of how loudly their footsteps echoed in a place that shouldn’t echo at all. Something about the air felt wrong, too still, too warm, like breath on the back of their neck. But hey? Thats Arizona for you!
They kept walking, trying to shake it off.
“You’re fine,” they muttered. “You’re just alone in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no car, and no shade. Totally fine. You’ve lived through worse.”
A tumbleweed skidded across the road behind them like some damn cliche western movie.
Rowan stopped when they heard it.
Not immediately.. their brain tried to file it under normal desert nonsense first. Wind did weird things out here. Coyotes screamed like they were auditioning for a horror podcast. Metal expanded and popped in the heat. The desert loved lying.
But this sound?
This sound was wrong.
A long, guttural, warbling cry rolled over the hills, sharp at the start, wet at the end, like something was choking on its own lungs. It wasn’t a coyote yip. It wasn’t a cow low. It wasn’t mechanical.
It was agony.
Rowan froze mid-step, one boot half-lifted, sweat sliding down their spine. The sound echoed again, closer this time, then cut off abruptly, not fading, not driftin, just stopped, like someone had reached over and shut it up.
They stared out at the desert, squinting against the glare.
“…That’s new,” they said flatly.
Deer didn’t live out here. Not like that. Arizona desert wasn’t exactly a Bambi-friendly environment. You got cows, sure. Coyotes. Jackrabbits. Snakes that hated you. But deer? Especially ones screaming like they were being actively unmade?
Rowan rolled their shoulders, forcing their muscles to unlock.
“Okay. Cool. Maybe it’s… a cow? With stage fright?”
They resumed walking, because standing still in the desert listening to mystery death noises felt like a great way to get heatstroke and murdered. A few minutes later, the asphalt thinned, cracked, then gave up entirely, replaced by a narrow dirt path cutting off into the hills like a secret it didn’t want to share.
Rowan slowed.
The path wasn’t official. No sign. No marker. Just two faint tire tracks pressed into the sand, half-swallowed by time and wind. It angled away from the road, disappearing between low, jagged hills that looked like broken teeth.
They glanced back at the highway. Endless. Empty. Useless.
Then back at the path.
“Well,” Rowan sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. “This is either a shortcut to civilization or the opening scene of my Dateline episode.”
They followed it.
The dirt crunched under their boots, softer than asphalt, sucking at their soles like it wanted to keep them. The air felt thicker here, heavier, the heat pressing down instead of radiating up. The hills blocked the wind entirely, trapping sound and smell and something else Rowan didn’t want to think about.
They heard it again.
Closer now.
A ragged, choking cry, unmistakably animal tearing out of something’s throat before breaking into a hoarse gurgle. Rowan flinched despite themselves, jaw tightening.
“Jesus,” they muttered. “Someone’s hunting real aggressively today.” That explanation sat better than the alternatives.
Hunters meant people.
People meant help.
Help meant not dying out here like a cautionary tale. The path curved, dipped, then rose again, and that’s when Rowan smelled it.
Copper.
Thick.
Warm.
They stopped dead.
The blood trail started subtle , dark stains splattered across pale sand, half-dried at the edges. Then more. Drag marks. Long, uneven grooves carved into the dirt, like something heavy had been pulled against its will.
Rowan stared at it, lips pressing into a thin line.
“…Oh, absolutely not,” they murmured.
They should turn around. Every rational thought screamed that this was a do not proceed moment. But the desert had already taken their car, their phone, and their patience. And underneath the dread was something worse..
Hope.
Hope that whoever made this mess was nearby. Hope that they weren’t alone. Hope that the blood wasn’t human. Rowan swallowed and followed the trail. It led over the rise of the hill, and then the world opened up into something straight out of a nightmare scrapbook.
A house sat in the basin below.
Not a nice one. Not even a trying one. It was small, cracked, and slumped inward on itself like it was embarrassed to exist. Sun-bleached wood, windows dark and uninviting, roof sagging like it had given up decades ago. A shed leaned nearby at an angle that defied physics. Rusted fencing stretched crookedly around the property, some sections collapsed entirely. Discarded junk littered the yard, old tires, broken tools, things Rowan couldn’t immediately identify and didn’t want to.
Nothing moved.
Then something did.
Near the front of the house, a figure hauled something large across the dirt, straining, dragging it by the legs. The body left a fresh smear of blood behind it, dark and glossy in the sun.
Rowan’s stomach dropped.
It was a deer.
Or what was left of one. The body looked… wrong. Too limp. Too mangled. The head lolled at an unnatural angle, antlers scraping the ground with a dull, hollow sound. Blood soaked into its fur in uneven patches, some of it still dripping.
The figure paused, adjusted their grip, then dragged the carcass toward the house with disturbing ease.
Rowan crouched instinctively behind a rock, heart hammering.
Okay. Okay. Breathe.
This is fine.
Hunters exist.
People hunt deer.
People do not usually hunt deer out here, but hey, maybe this one didn’t get the memo.
And hunters had cars. Generators. Batteries.
Rowan straightened, brushing dirt off their jeans, forcing their voice to work. “Hello?” they called again, louder now, pitching it casual like that might magically make this situation normal. “Uh.. hi. Sorry to bother you. My car died up the road and I just—”
No answer.
The house didn’t react. It just sat there, sun-bleached and patient, like it had all the time in the world.
Rowan hesitated, then started toward it anyway. Each step felt deliberate, heavy, like the desert itself was taking notes. Up close, the place smelled worse, like old wood covered in dust and copper, something faintly sweet underneath that made the back of their throat tighten.
The front door was cracked open.
Just enough.
Rowan stopped on the porch, peering at the narrow slit of darkness inside. Warm light leaked out in thin bands, flickering like a bad memory. The air coming from within was… cooler. Not cool, but less hostile than the sun. That alone felt like temptation.
“Hello?” they called again, louder now. “Uh.. I don’t mean to trespass or anything. My car broke down up the road and I was wondering if you maybe had—”
They knocked once, half-hearted. The door creaked in response, swinging inward a few inches on its own.
“—a phone,” they finished weakly.
No answer.
Of course.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
“Okay. Cool. Haunted house rules. Love that.”
They pushed the door open..
and stepped inside.