The house itself sat at the edge of the property, a two-story clapboard that had seen better decades. The porch sagged slightly, but the door was solid oak, and the salt lines were fresh.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of burnt coffee and gun oil. A stack of lore books teetered on the table. A half-disassembled pistol sat on a grease-stained rag. The radio crackled low, some old rock station fighting through the static.