I gave one last glance around my room, saying a quiet goodbye, before creeping down the stairs and out to the garage.
I threw my few belongings into my trunk and started the car. It didn’t take long to find Vinemont’s address on my phone. It was an hour from town, out in the more rural area of the parish. Once satisfied I knew my way, I lay my phone on the small table next to the garage door. I couldn’t risk anyone calling me and changing my mind. A plea from my father could break my resolve, and I was determined to see this through. For his sake.
I reversed down the driveway and settled in for the trip, watching the retreating façade of the house instead of the lane behind me. One year, and I would be back. One year, and my father would be safe.
What was one year to someone who should already be dead?
The drive was somber and dark. Though the moon was high, it was only a sliver in the vast expanse of inky black and scattered stars. The farther I drove from town, the more opaque my surroundings became. Night covered the fields of cotton, the groves of trees, and the brambles cloistering the dark waterways.
Soon the road withered down to two narrow lanes with woods encroaching on either side. I continued onward, though no cars passed anymore. It was just me, alone, being drawn ever forward into Vinemont’s trap. I chewed at my lip, the taste of copper the only thing that stopped me from worrying away my flesh.
The road curved around to the left and the GPS told me the turn was up ahead on the right. All I saw were trees and thick underbrush, no sign of a house. I drove a little farther until I saw an opening. There was a drive of no more than a hundred feet that ended at a massive gate. I turned and idled up to it. It was wider than four cars sitting side by side and high. It was black wrought iron with metal vines twining and ensnaring the bars. In the center was a ‘V’, the vines slithering around the letter and creating an impenetrable barrier.
My breath caught in my chest. I looked around each side and saw the same high wrought iron fence flowing away from the gate and disappearing into the shadowy woods. I stopped and tried to calm my heart, to slow the hammering sensation of blood pounding through my veins.
Fear. There was no other word for it. The cold sweat along my temples, the sinking sensation pulling me down into despair. The deepest sort of dread overtook me, and I reached down to the gear shift, ready to put it in reverse and leave. Maybe there was some other way? Something I could do to save my father that didn’t involve Vinemont, didn’t involve whatever lurked beyond the sinister gate?
The metal shifted, swinging silently inward. There was no guard tower, no obvious camera anywhere along the unyielding metal fence. Still, he must have been watching me. I knew it just as sure as I knew I would be here, with him, for the next year.
I pulled my hand away from the shifter and rubbed a damp palm along my jeans. With a deep breath, I hit the gas and passed through the gate, lurching unsteadily forward into an unknown and uncertain future.
The driveway was initially hemmed in by the same forest and thick brush as the roadway. It was claustrophobic, even with the moon still high and clear in the sky. Slowly, the woods began to recede, leaving well-trimmed grass at the sides of the smooth drive. I’d gone what felt like a mile along the road, seeing nothing other than Louisiana landscape. Here and there would be a bridge crossing over dark waters as I flew past.
Ahead, the grass became expansive, a wide river of rippling emerald in the night breeze. Far in the distance, I finally saw lights glowing through the night. It must have been a house. His house.
I let off the accelerator, no longer fearing what dwelled in the dense woods and bayou inlets. Vinemont was a real, tangible danger, not one from my imagination.
Even as the grass expanded, more trees loomed ahead, forming an arch over the drive. These were the classic Southern oaks, moss hanging low from their limbs. Beyond the graceful trees was the home, a structure so tall that I couldn’t see its roof for the blocking boughs. Three, possibly four stories of antebellum splendor—large columns anchored the palatial home, and it gleamed a ghostly white in the moonlight.
The windows were wide and tall, warm light spilling onto the porches. I could imagine rocking chairs and children playing tag, running through the grass, or having a picnic. But not here, not while Vinemont ruled over this estate. Despite the home’s charm, its occupant lacked even basic human warmth. The magnificent façade was just that—charming camouflage for the depraved soul within.