Jackson, Wyoming | Abandoned Apartment Building

The wind cut like broken glass.

Jesse cursed under his breath, tugging the collar of his coat higher as he stepped away from the boarded window, his breath fogging in the air like smoke. Outside, the world was going white—snow swallowing the streets, piling fast against the sagging rooftops and collapsed fences of the ghost-town sector just beyond Jackson’s patrol perimeter. The blizzard had rolled in faster than expected. Visibility was shot. Even the rooftops across the street had vanished in the swirl.

He glanced toward the entrance, squinting through the glass shards of the half-frozen door.

No going back out there. Not tonight.

He’d left the horse tethered and sheltered at the drop-off zone a few blocks back—a smart call at the time. The old apartment building had looked quiet from the outside, forgotten and gutted, no signs of movement. Easy sweep. In and out. But now, with the storm howling and the sun already sunk behind the snow-glutted clouds, it was clear: he wasn’t getting out of here until morning.

The building groaned around him as the wind pressed against it. What was left of the wallpaper curled like dead skin. Mold crept across the ceiling. He stepped cautiously through the second floor hallway, his boots crunching over broken tile and shattered picture frames. The air was thick with that damp, rotting smell unique to buildings abandoned for too long.

And beneath it all—a sound.

Not the wind.

A shuffle. A groan. A sick, wet exhale.

He froze, shoulders tensing, hand already shifting to the grip of his pistol.

Basement.

The noise was faint, muffled, but unmistakable. He’d passed the basement door earlier, noted the heavy bar across it, nailed boards haphazardly secured. At the time, it seemed safe enough to ignore. But now? He glanced around the hallway again, eyes scanning the corners, the long shadows. Everything in his gut told him to wait. Sleep a little. Keep warm. Let it be. But his fingers were already moving—tightening his gloves, flicking the safety off.

“Shit,” he muttered, low and sharp.

He couldn’t risk it. Not with that sound echoing in his ears, not knowing what might break through while he was out cold. Jesse turned, retraced his steps to the stairwell, and started down—each creaking step swallowed by the muffled roar of the storm outside and the deepening silence below. His flashlight cut a narrow cone through the dark, dancing across cracked linoleum and peeling paint. As the last of the light from the upper floors vanished, he pulled his pistol free, slow and silent, and let the dark swallow him.