The sun was already climbing toward its noon position when Gwen pulled her motorcycle to a stop in front of 1247 Elm Street.
The house looked ordinary enough—a two-story colonial with faded blue shutters and a garden that had seen better days. But something about the place felt wrong, like it was holding its breath.
She'd spent the better part of the morning tracking down Robert Miller's address, cross-referencing public records and old phone directories until she found a match.
The phone number had been disconnected for over a year, which wasn't a good sign. But sometimes the old-fashioned approach worked better than technology.
Gwen checked her gear one more time. Nightfall hung heavy on her back. You could never be too careful when hunting supernatural creatures.
Or when visiting strangers who might have information about them.
