cw: mention of s*icide and r*pe

Saturday morning came sooner than Sarah had wanted. Not knowing what had woken her--the alarm hadn't been set and there wasn't anything making a ruckus--she pulled the comforter snugly around her and rolled onto her side. The room was abso-freaking-lutely frigid and there was no way she'd be getting out of bed yet. The early birds could have those damned worms for all she cared.

But the universe wasn't cooperating. As hard as she tried, she couldn't fall back asleep.

Now wasn't that just perfect? One of the few days in the week that she could actually take her time and just be a lazy ass teenager, yet her mind refused.

The smell of coffee in the air was the dealbreaker.

After her feet--snuggled in her favorite wool socks that had lost all elasticity to stay up past her ankles--hit the floor, she shuffled out the door and down the stairs. The faint murmur of voices got louder as she neared the kitchen and by the time Sarah crossed the threshold, Jane and Alex Quinn were in full-blown hysterics from laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked Sarah as she tried to hide her own amusement at finding her aunt with a special guest so early in the morning. She couldn't wait for the explanation of what brought one of New Bedford's "finest," ahem officers, on a personal house-call.

With tears of joy running down her face, Jane waved her off. "Oh, nothing," she said from her spot leaning against the counter before glancing at the dashing officer seated at a small table in the corner. "You kind of had to be there."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, it's a stupid in-joke," they said, also obviously unwilling to share any more before diving into their mug of coffee.

Sarah shrugged, caring less about the topic of conversation than about who'd been having it. "Whatever," she mumbled, reaching for a plastic pod labelled 'Hazelnut Blend Dark Roast' to pop into the machine.

"I made fresh spiced-apple pancakes," Jane offered from behind her with the clank of dishes as the coffee began to brew.

Sarah watched the dark liquid pour into the waiting mug decorated with a cartoon chicken surrounded by the words 'Nobody knows what the cluck they're doing.' "No thanks," she said, declining the food as the coffee slowed to a drip. "I told you I'm not big on breakfast."

But Jane was already making a stack on the fresh plate. "Nonsense. You have to eat something if you want to have any energy for the rest of the day," she said before freezing on the spot. After slightly shaking her head, she widened her eyes and began to laugh. "Oh my goodness! Did I just really say that? Why, I sound just like my mother. You remember Grandma Kate, don't you, Sarah? You were pretty small when she passed, but you two were quite the pair."

Quinn snickered behind a raised hand, no doubt an innocent reaction at the clichéd thought of kids eventually aging into their parents, but Sarah hid her own grimace behind the chicken mug. Because even though her memories of the woman--who supposedly let her two-year-old self try to bake from scratch resulting in sugar cookies tasting completely of salt or agreeing to have Sarah dress herself, which had her going to pre-school in just a t-shirt and tights in the middle of December--were quickly fading, Sarah would always vividly recall certain things that she desperately wished she could forget.

Those were stories her mother had told her, whether she thought Sarah wanted (or needed) to know or if only to relieve her own conscience about not being the only one to bear the burden. How else could anyone justify revealing to a then ten-year-old child that her grandmother had selflessly given up her dreams of stardom as a Broadway actress to raise a family after unexpectedly becoming pregnant, or that same woman's husband--her grandfather--committed suicide after a chronic diagnosis in order to save the family from medical bankruptcy?

A lot of good that did since Kate's alcoholism eventually took her girls' inheritance, anyway. And if saintly Aunt Jane could turn into her own imperfect mother, then what was stopping the already damaged Sarah from morphing into her even worse one? Actually, since Jane's fiance hung himself six months before their wedding, she was probably well on her way. Crap. Sarah had no chance.

"So, how was Bedlam Woods last night?" asked Quinn, breaking the ominous silence that had fallen on the conversation.

Sarah nearly choked on her Hazelnut Blend. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, blinking heavily.

Jane pursed her lips and shook her head. "You stink of smoke, honey."

"We all went to the football night bonfires in high school, so don't worry about judgment here," Quinn added, expertly sliding in before Jane could switch to teacher-mode. "Just tell your friends not to set the pyre so close to the underbrush, okay? The boys working the night shift will be giving the rest of us grief for that for weeks."

"They're not my friends," Sarah mumbled, eyeing the two possible exits from the kitchen for her quickest option. Before she could decide, Quinn's radio snapped to life.

Unit two-six-eight-five, copy. Over.

They reached to the set secured on their shoulder and pressed the side buttons to respond. "Unit two-six-eight-five here. Go ahead. Over."

Unit two-six-eight-five, I'm going to need you to head to the old Black House earlier than anticipated. Seems as if the crew found something unusual they need you to check out before proceeding. Over.

Quinn nodded. "Copy that. On my way. Over," they said, finally lowering their hand again and getting to their feet. "Duty calls. Thanks for the coffee, Jane."

"Is everything okay?" she asked, looking more disappointed at losing company than concerned about the reason.

Quinn straightened their uniform shirt, tucking a loose fold into the waistband. The attention to detail made Sarah wonder if they'd served in the military.

Resting their hand on their holstered service weapon, Quinn smiled. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure it's nothing. It's just protocol to have law enforcement secure the perimeter of a tear down to make sure no one is where they aren't supposed to be. They probably got a bigger crowd than anticipated given the weekend timing," they said.

"A teardown?" asked Sarah, recalling the sign Bess struggled to read in the dark the night before. "Are you talking about the house at the end of the road here?"

"That's the one," Quinn said. "You can come along if you'd like. It's not like anything more exciting is going to happen in this town today."

* * *

After dressing with lightning speed, Sarah rode shotgun in the police cruiser barreling down the tree-lined road.

"Can we turn on the siren?" she asked with childlike glee.

But Quinn just snickered. "No, that's unnecessary. We're almost--"

"Just the lights, then?" Sarah pleaded.

"Fine," Quinn said with a sigh, reaching down to flip a switch.

When the building came into view behind a veil of now almost leaf-free elms, Sarah got chills. The place looked both foreboding and inviting in the early morning, autumnal fog. "So this house was owned by the Black family?" she asked, studying the lone raven that had just landed on the tallest gable.

"What? Why would you think that?"

She wrinkled her brows. "The dispatcher who'd called you referred to it as 'the Black House.'"

"Oh, that? No, we just call it that because of the color. Honestly, I have no idea who lived here last. I think the permitting paperwork has the deed currently belonging to a Trust or bank or something. Not my business," they said as the car pulled up at the curb at the end of the road, bathed in a mix of flashing red and blue.

"Oh," Sarah muttered, strangely disappointed at the revelation. It almost felt nice to know a little bit more about the history of the creepy place, but now she was pretty much back where she'd started when she first laid eyes on it the day she arrived in New Bedford.

After getting out of the car, they walked up the paved path leading to the entry. From the outside, the place looked deserted. Apparently the town wasn't interested in the demo, after all. The weathered door, however, creaked open at their arrival.

"Uhm, thanks for coming so quick, officer," said the burly man in typical construction gear of dirty jeans and flannel. He held out an extra hard hat he'd been carrying. "You're gonna need this before coming in. Is she with you?"

Sarah almost looked behind her to see who the guy was talking about before realizing that it was her. "Yeah. Got one of those for me, too?" she asked with a smile as Quinn pushed past the worker.

"As you probably know, we've been salvaging anything of value for the last couple of weeks," said the guy as he escorted them deeper into the house. Dust floated thick in the air, lit by the rays of sunshine coming through the empty holes where windows once stood. Unlike last night, all of the shutters had been opened, revealing the almost bare-bones of what was once likely a nice house. "Doors, trim, hardware, everything had been removed in preparation for the demolition today. Everything except for this."

He stopped in a great room off the entryway and pointed to the far wall where the gaping hole of a soot-stained fireplace stood. Two other workmen flanked either end of a massive, carved mantelpiece.

Quinn stopped in the middle of the room directly in front of the fireplace, putting one hand on their gun and another on their hip. "And you called for me, why exactly?" they asked, sounding just as confused as Sarah also felt as she stood a half pace back.

The worker who'd greeted them at the door cleared his throat and motioned with his hand to the others. As they carefully lifted and moved the heavy fireplace surround, the man in charge urged Quinn closer to the hole in the wall revealed behind the left side. Sarah tiptoed after them, staying close enough to see, but far enough to not be in the way. When Quinn clicked a flashlight on and shined it into the fifteen or so inch wide gap that stood at least three feet high, Sarah was in the perfect spot to see the light bounce off the vacant eye holes of a yellowed skull.