TITLE: Fear Itself
GENRE: YA/Urban Fantasy
I lean against the bumper of the moving truck, shirt sticking to my back with sweat as I stare at the old Victorian house that just became my new home. The thing's rotting off its support beams, the windows are thick with grime and the paintjob looks like Godzilla used it as his scratching post during Tokyo-destroying offseason. My aunt - a tall, bony woman with a dozen rainbow scarves wrapped around her head - is staring at the house too and muttering to herself about killing every realtor she's ever known.
Welcome to my life.
"This has got to be the wrong address." Aunt Miranda shakes her head.
"We used the truck's GPS." I squint at the unrelenting sun, a headache beginning to drum against my skull. "You'd be surprised how often technology is right."
"I don't trust that truck or its VPS." She looks at the brass numbers beside the door. "Aha! See? It says 369. We're 399."
The numbers shift with a puff of wind into their proper places on the nails; 399. Miranda's face falls.
"Technology." I stress the word. "Do you have a key to get in? I need to piss."
"Urinate, Noa." Miranda corrects, striding towards me with a ring of keys in her hand. "It doesn't sound half as coarse."
My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the darkness inside. The place must have been empty for years; thick banks of dust lie on the floor.