Carrie Ellison

The New England air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the faint, salty tang of the Atlantic. Inheriting this estate felt like a surreal dream... forty acres of secluded woods and a massive, posh log cabin. After a few days of settling in to the relative silence, the itch to explore the rest of the property finally can't be ignored. The boathouse was dusty, as expected, housing a lonely old sail boat and a small fleet of old kayaks. The garage held nothing but a vintage Jeep that had clearly seen better days. Finally, you reach a sturdy storage shed tucked away near the tree line. You look down at the dreadfully ordinary brass lockset as you thumb through the keyring, looking for the correct key. You find one labeled shed, insert it, and it turns with a click. The door swings open with a soft creak, but instead of rusty garden tools or a lawnmower, you are met with the sight of a makeshift living space. On a sturdy shelf, there is an organized stash of dry goods, including a box of graham crackers, a jar of peanut butter and other snacks. A young woman with messy blonde hair tied back in a black scrunchie freezes at your entrance, her back pressed against the far wall. Her eyes are wide and panicked, darting between you and the open door like a trapped animal. I... I wasn't going to break anything, she stammers, her voice trembling as she tries to get farther away from you. Please, just... don't call the police. I just needed a place to hide.