Chapter 18 – The House on Elm Street
The first gray streaks of dawn crept through the cracks in the boarded windows. The forest outside was silent except for the occasional rustle of wind brushing against pine needles. Dylan hadn't slept. He sat near the door, head bent, listening for any sound that didn't belong.
When Erica finally stirred, she blinked into the dim light, momentarily disoriented. Then memory returned, and her whole body tensed.
"Did they come back?" she asked softly.
"No," Dylan said. "But someone was out there. I heard movement around four. They didn't try to get in."
Erica sat up, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. Her face was pale, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "They're waiting."
"Probably," he said. "Which is why we don't give them time to plan."
He stood, stretching the stiffness from his arms. "We go now, before they expect us to move."
She hesitated. "To the house?"
He nodded once. "To Elm Street."
The words sent a shiver through her. For years, that house had lived in her nightmares — its peeling blue paint, the porch light that never worked, the silence that followed the night her father disappeared.
Now she was going back.
They packed what little they had — a flashlight, a crowbar, Dylan's small backpack with spare batteries and the burner phone he kept powered off. Before leaving, Dylan crouched by the generator and disconnected it completely.
"Why?" she asked.
"So they can't trace the power output. It's a breadcrumb trail," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I don't leave breadcrumbs."
The drive back toward the city was tense. They avoided main roads, keeping to narrow lanes that wound through the hills. Erica kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a car following.
Dylan noticed but didn't comment. He just drove, one hand steady on the wheel.
After two hours, the skyline appeared — faint gray towers blurred by morning haze. Elm Street was on the far side, a quiet neighborhood long forgotten by the city's pulse.
When they finally parked two blocks away, Erica's hands were trembling. "It's still standing," she whispered.
The house looked almost exactly as she remembered: faded blue siding, overgrown lawn, the porch sagging slightly under years of neglect. The broken porch light still hung crooked, a relic of the night her father was taken.
"You ready?" Dylan asked.
"No," she said honestly. "But I'm here."
They moved quickly. Dylan picked the lock at the back door, and the door gave way with a soft groan. Dust motes danced in the thin beams of light cutting through the blinds. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper and mildew.
Erica's breath caught as she stepped inside. The memories came rushing — laughter in the hallway, her father's voice humming while he worked in the study. Then the last memory — the sound of the door slamming, his footsteps, the shouts, the silence.
"Which way?" Dylan asked gently.
She pointed down the hallway. "Basement. Behind the kitchen."
He nodded and took the lead, flashlight sweeping over the cracked tiles and cobwebs. They reached the door to the basement — half-hidden behind a shelf of forgotten dishes.
Erica hesitated. Her fingers brushed the knob. "It's cold," she murmured.
"Old houses hold on to things," Dylan said quietly. "Let's see what it's holding for us."
They descended carefully, the wooden steps creaking underfoot. The air grew colder, denser. Dylan's beam of light cut through the dark until it landed on the bookshelf she'd mentioned — tall, leaning slightly, filled with dust-covered binders.
He ran his hand along the edge. "You said there's a safe under it?"
"Yes. Behind the bottom shelf."
They worked together to clear it. The wood groaned as they shifted it aside, revealing a faint outline in the floorboards — a metal panel, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
Dylan knelt, running his fingers along the edge. "Got it."
He pried it open carefully. Beneath the cover was a small keypad, corroded with age but intact.
"Can you reset it?" he asked.
Erica crouched beside him, heart pounding. "Maybe. He used to say every code has a mirror."
"What does that mean?"
She closed her eyes, trying to remember. Her father's voice echoed faintly in her mind. 'If the lock won't open, look at what you see backward.'
Her fingers trembled as she typed: 4581 — then reversed it — 1854.
The safe clicked.
Dylan exhaled sharply. "You did it."
She opened it slowly. Inside were a few documents, yellowed with time, and a small drive — metallic, sealed in plastic.
"This is it," she breathed.
Dylan took it carefully, examining it under the flashlight. "Looks old, but it might still hold data."
Before she could answer, a sound echoed upstairs — a faint thud.
Both froze.
Dylan's eyes snapped upward. Another sound followed — floorboards creaking.
"Someone's here," he whispered.
Erica's pulse spiked. "How—"
He didn't answer. He grabbed the drive, pocketed it, and motioned for her to move.
They turned off the light and crouched near the bottom of the stairs. Another creak. Then another. Whoever it was, they were moving slowly, searching.
Erica's breath hitched. Dylan leaned close, whispering directly into her ear. "We go through the side exit. Quietly."
They moved in silence, every step calculated. Dylan pushed open the narrow door that led to the cellar hatch. It groaned faintly — too loud in the stillness.
The footsteps above stopped.
Then began again — faster this time.
Dylan cursed under his breath. "Go!"
They slipped through the hatch and into the narrow gap under the house, crawling toward the open air. Dirt smeared Erica's palms, her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Dylan crawled behind her, pushing her forward until they reached the edge and spilled out into the overgrown grass behind the fence.
For a moment, they both lay still, gasping, listening.
Then a shadow appeared at one of the windows — tall, silent, watching.
"Dylan," Erica whispered. "They saw us."
He grabbed her hand, pulling her up. "Then we run."
They darted toward the car, the sound of breaking glass echoing behind them.
This time, neither of them looked back.
Would you like me to continue directly into
The moment Dylan's boots hit the gravel, he yanked open the car door and shoved Erica inside. The shattered sound of a window breaking echoed behind them, followed by a sharp metallic clang — someone was chasing, fast.
"Down!" he barked, slamming the door shut as the engine roared to life.
Erica ducked instinctively, heart pounding so hard she thought her ribs might crack. Dylan threw the car into gear, tires screeching as they tore down the narrow street.
In the rearview mirror, two figures emerged from the house — one tall, wearing black, the other crouched low with a gun drawn.
"Who are they?" Erica gasped.
"Not police," Dylan muttered, accelerating through the bend. "Their formation's too clean. Private team — maybe the same ones who took your father."
The car jolted over a bump, the tires grinding on the cracked asphalt. Dylan took a hard right, then another, weaving through the empty streets until the house disappeared behind them.
Only when the horizon leveled out did he slow down. The city lights flickered faintly in the distance like a dying heartbeat.
Erica leaned back, shaking. "They knew we were coming."
"Someone's tracking movement near that house," he said, scanning the mirrors. "It means the safe wasn't forgotten. Whatever's on that drive is worth killing for."
Erica looked down at his pocket where the drive was hidden. "Then we need to know what's on it."
He gave a sharp nod. "Not here. We'll go dark first."
They didn't stop until they reached the outskirts — an abandoned gas station that had long been swallowed by weeds. Dylan parked behind the rusted tanker, cut the engine, and stepped out. The air smelled like oil and rain.
He went around to her side and opened the door. "Come on."
Inside the small convenience shack, he cleared a space on the counter, then pulled out his tools — a compact laptop, a signal jammer, and a converter cable. The movements were swift, automatic.
Erica watched silently, her fear giving way to curiosity. "You always carry this around?"
"I carry what keeps me alive," he said, connecting the drive.
The screen blinked — a faint hum, then static. Lines of encrypted code filled the monitor.
Dylan frowned. "It's locked."
"Can you break it?"
"Given time, yes." He started typing, fingers flying across the keys. The program ran for a few seconds before the encryption began to crack. Symbols turned into readable fragments — old files, labeled with dates and codenames.
Erica leaned closer. "What is this?"
He scrolled. "Research logs… surveillance reports… test numbers…"
Then he stopped. A new file appeared — "Project ECHO – Subject Record 01."
He clicked it.
The document opened to a familiar face — her father.
Erica's throat closed. The file was detailed — coordinates, experiment timelines, even voice transcriptions. And at the top, a phrase glared in bold red letters:
Initiated under directive: D. Ashford.
Her voice trembled. "That's you."
Dylan froze. The air between them turned heavy.
"It's not what it looks like," he said finally, quiet but firm. "I was part of the division that authorized field operations. Before I knew what they were doing."
"You were one of them?" she whispered, disbelief breaking her voice.
"I was," he said, his eyes locking on hers. "Until I found out they were using civilians — your father — for neurological mapping. They wanted to build something that could predict human behavior. I shut it down and disappeared."
Erica took a step back, shaking her head. "You lied to me."
"I didn't lie. I just didn't tell you everything. If I had, you'd have never come with me."
"Damn right," she snapped. "You should have told me from the start!"
Her voice echoed in the empty building, raw and cracking. Dylan didn't move. He just let her anger hit him, his jaw tight, his gaze steady.
"I left them for a reason," he said softly. "And now they're hunting me too. Your father's file is the proof that what they did was illegal. We can use this."
Erica turned away, gripping the counter, trying to steady her breathing. The drive still glowed faintly beside the laptop, humming with quiet menace.
"What else is in there?" she asked finally.
He scrolled further down, until another file appeared — "Subject 02."
When he opened it, the image made Erica's blood run cold.
It was her.
The file listed her name, her childhood address, and a sequence of brainwave patterns recorded at age seven.
Her voice broke. "They experimented on me too…"
Dylan's hand clenched around the table. "Then this goes deeper than we thought."
Outside, a distant sound broke the silence — the low growl of an engine approaching.
Dylan snapped the laptop shut. "They found us again."
He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the back door. "We move now — before they cut off the exits."
Erica's tears blurred her vision as they ran, the sound of tires crunching gravel closing in behind them.
The last thing she saw before they disappeared into the woods was the glow of headlights slicing through the mist — and the figure stepping out of the car wearing the same insignia her father once wore.
?
To be continued....