"If you're thinking about driving right now," the deejay intoned in an uncharacteristically serious tone. "Don't. Just don't."
Sebastian Franco disregarded the advice as he drove his Range Rover up the steep, winding hill. The snow was coming down hard, but he wasn't concerned. He knew this road like his dog-eared copy of The Actor's Thesaurus. Up for a bit, then go right, then up for another bit, then go left. The sturdy SUV handled the twists and turns easily, and with every mile he felt more relaxed.
"But if you have no other choice," the deejay continued, "and I mean absolutely no other choice, like if you're a vampire and you have to pick up your blood substitute before the snow piles up, that kind of stuff. Well, if you're in that situation, Stuckeyville Parkway is now clear."
Sebastian snorted. He'd spent a full hour stuck in the parkway's epic traffic jam, which was apparently caused by a minivan that swerved to avoid a raccoon and ran into a ditch instead. The Banshee Creek Fire and Rescue team closed the road, turning the rush hour traffic into a nightmare. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but that was Northern Virginia for you. A couple of snow flurries and everyone went batshit crazy.
"And even if you're a vamp," the deejay continued, "you're probably better off sleeping through this thing. This storm is going to be huge."
Sebastian smiled widely. He was happy to be back, snowstorm and all. Hell, even the eccentric WPRV traffic report couldn't dim his good mood.
After a grueling promotion tour for his latest movie, he was finally home.
He'd bought the cabin years ago, with his first paycheck from the Actors Guild. Well, make that his first paycheck and a whole lot of tips. He'd been young and stupid, and had sunk everything he had into a pile of moldy logs with unreliable cellphone reception.
And it had been worth every cent.
He owed his sanity to this cabin. No matter how crazy his life got—draining junkets, demanding directors, crazy fans—everything faded away when he drove up this road. Sure, the cabin was a dump, with peeling logs, broken down appliances, and an eclectic, some might call it disgusting, mix of second-hand furniture. But those were features, not bugs. When he was holed up in the cabin with his books, it was easy to pretend that Hollywood did not exist.
And right now, he really needed to pretend that the Big One had hit and Hollywood, and everything it represented, had sunk into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.
"So get ready for a nice long snow-in, folks. And stay tuned to WPRV, where we are celebrating Christmas in true Banshee Creek fashion. And now, back to our Talk Radio segment, where our audience was discussing a perennial favorite, our own Virginia Devil Monkey." The deejay flipped a switch and an eerie tune rang out. "Okay, caller one, we're listening."
Sebastian ignored the radio and considered the upcoming snowpocalypse. His cabin had no amenities, except for indoor plumbing and a single power line that, judging by the shrieking winds outside, had probably given up the ghost some time ago. Good thing Banshee Creek Hardware had a wide assortment of ghost hunting equipment, including top-of-the line flashlights and night-vision goggles on its shelves. The store's storm supplies section had been cleaned out, but no one had sprung for the expensive paranormal gear, and he was now the proud owner of five of the most expensive flashlights in existence, a box of pricey séance candles made of pure Hungarian beeswax, and a battery-operated jack o' lantern he'd found in the clearance section. The Halloween leftover was a steal at $2.99.
That, and a couple of supermarket shopping bags stashed in his trunk, meant he was ready for the storm. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He needed a couple of days of total solitude, a few precious days to lick his wounds, recover and decide what he would do with the rest of his life
Oh, and he also had to get ready to face his family during the traditional Franco Christmas dinner.
He had some explaining to do.
He knew his family was concerned about him, about the whole Ariel Henderson fiasco, and he would have to reassure them somehow. If he didn't, the whole clan would rally around him, try to cheer him up, and come up with myriad crazy ideas to fix his life.
He shuddered at the thought.
But the storm gave him a welcome reprieve. He could feel his muscles relax as the Range Rover's tires clawed up the last hill. In just a few more minutes he would reach his destination, and then, perfect solitude, absolute relaxation and total peace.
A piercing shriek came through the radio, making him wince.
"Catch one? Catch one?" The deejay scoffed. "No one's ever caught one. How would you catch one?"
He sighed and turned off the radio. WPRV had been an amusing distraction during the endless traffic jam, but, as was often the case with his hometown's paranormal obsessions, a little went a long way.
Finally, the cabin came into view. The familiar shingled roof was covered with snow and the burnished log walls glowed in the light of the SUV's headlamps. He glanced at the small shingled house fondly. Home sweet home.
Although, not quite. He stared in disbelief at the snow-covered car parked in the driveway behind the house. No one dared invade his sanctuary, not his family, not his friends, no one.
He parked the Range Rover and got out, regarding the vehicle warily. Did he have a stalker? The thought was repugnant to him, but he had to consider it. He was no longer an unknown character actor. He now had a blockbuster under his belt and the fan base that came with it.
But why would a fan leave the headlights on and the car door open?
He walked to the car, brushing white powder out of his hair. The snow was coming down pretty hard now, and a large lump of snow sat on the front of the car, as if a branch had dislodged its frozen cargo onto the hood.
He relaxed once he saw the Virginia Vintage Motors license plate holder. Not a fan, then. This was a local. In fact, the car seemed very familiar. He walked to the driver's side, sat on the seat and turned off the ignition. The lights went out and the forest's quiet stillness returned. He grabbed the keys and put them in his pocket, noting the keyring's distinctive "Find Your Forever Home with Banshee Creek Realty" logo.
Definitely a local, probably a friend, maybe even a family member. He considered a couple of names and discarded them. Not that many people frequented the lake in winter. Caine sometimes rode up with his paranormal investigator friends, searching for ghosts and whatnot, but the local ghost hunters favored motorcycles and SUVs, the bigger the better. Caine wouldn't be caught dead driving a Jeep Cherokee. That left only one likely suspect.
His brother Zach.
But this wasn't Zach's truck. Why would Zach borrow an automobile? Realization dawned and he cursed under his breath.
Zach must have driven up in his girlfriend's car. That accounted for the flowery makeup bag he spied between the front seats and the hot pink iPod plugged into the archaic cassette player. It also explained why the lights had been on. His randy brother had been in too much of a hurry to get to the bed. He cursed again, this time in his native Spanish. Zack knew that he wasn't supposed to use the cabin for his romantic trysts. That wouldn't stop Zach, though. Sebastian could build a moat and surround the cabin with electrified fences and that still wouldn't stop Zach.
He wished a thousand painful curses on his baby brother. His perfect mountain vacation was ruined. He wouldn't be able to get rid of Zach and his girl. With this storm, they'd have to stay in the cabin for a couple of days. He slammed the car door and stalked back to his SUV. He felt like a sulky child, deprived of a favorite treat.
He glanced back at the dark cabin. His brother was probably holed up in the bedroom right now with his girl. And he probably had no idea Sebastian was back.
A smile filled with mischief crossed Sebastian's face. He grabbed a flashlight and followed the trail of footsteps leading to the house.
He wouldn't be the only Franco brother whose mountain vacation was ruined.
He reached the porch and peered through one of the windows. The cabin was dark, but the fireplace was lit and he could see a bundle of blankets on the floor.
His brother had made himself at home.
Sebastian put his key in the old lock and jiggled it to get it to open. Finally, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, ready to give Zach a scalding talking-to.
But his foot caught on something and he tripped. The flashlight flew out of his hand and he felt a blanket fall on his head. He lurched forward, tripped onto a piece of furniture and crashed into the floor.
He rolled, trying to minimize the impact, but the maneuver was only partly successful. Pain flashed through his shoulder, and he groaned loudly.
"So yeah, that kind of booby trap may work," he heard the deejay say, his voice dripping with skepticism. "But the problem isn't trapping a devil monkey. The problem is what do you do with it afterwards?"