Wind ripped through the house. Windows and doors had been smashed and broken years ago leaving the building open to the elements. Hank didn’t mind, it was still the best shelter he’d had in a long while. What was left of the roof provided dry spots to sleep in and, for some reason, the council hadn’t shut of the gas so he could cook on an old stove and sit by it in the winter for warmth.
He’d combed the place for anything useful and now had a blanket, some pots and a whole stack of books he was working through. The only place he hadn’t explored was the cellar. It’s entrance was marked by the only door still standing. It was locked.
Hank looked up from his meal toward the door. It stood ajar. A hand reached out and beckoned him in. He couldn’t resist.