Kris Shepard is a damned good thief, and he doesn’t believe in ghosts. So when he goes to the Century Hill Asylum for his latest drop, Kris figures he’s got nothing to worry about. No matter what the locals say about haunted and cursed.

I flattened myself against the wall, praying the shadows kept me hidden. I saw several of my pursuers run past the alley entrance, shouting that they’d kill me when they found me. I’d be long gone before they could make good on their threat.

Half an hour passed and I hadn’t moved a muscle except to breathe—steady, in and out, in and out. If I kept up the rhythm, I’d be okay. I’d been through worse.

Only when I was sure that they’d given up did I leave the safety of the dark. This was stupid. I was smarter than this. How had they seen me at all?

Inching out cautiously, I peered up and down the street. It was deserted, dark and quiet. The only sound was the relentless pounding of my heart, and that was loud enough that, for a moment, I wondered if anyone else could hear it.

The idol in my backpack was getting heavy. I just wanted to deliver the damn thing, collect my fee, and be done with it. Coming back to this dank, roach-and-rat-infested sewer of a city again was, without a doubt, the lowest point of my career. From then on, I swore to stick to high-price jobs: no more acquiring relics that were older than dirt, especially for mysterious, no-name fuckers who didn’t even have the decency to pay the full half-fee up-front.

I took off at a steady run toward the alley a couple blocks down. Digging my keys out of a zippered pocket, I skidded around the corner and nearly ran right into a stinking, overfilled dumpster. I hopped onto the bike hidden behind it and cranked my baby up. The Ducati rumbled to life beneath me, the purr sweet as fuck. I sped away from the shadows and out onto the street with nearly eighty horses vibrating between my legs.

Brock City flew by in a blur and, before long, I was crossing the city limits and entering Carter County. The road wound uphill, a straight shot from Brock City to the rotting carcass that was once Century Hill Asylum. And who the fuck buys a ruined, century-old mental hospital, anyway?

Century Hill Lane cut a zigzag up the side of Century Hill and I slowed down as I started the ascent. Too many deaths out here had given the road the uninventive but wholly fitting name of “Highway to Hell”. Little white, weathered crosses dotted either side of the road, though most were on the slope side. The trees were thick down the hill, perfect for wrapping a car around. My friends and I used to come up here when we were teenagers, daring each other to touch the faded, ruined wall that surrounded the hospital. As with most places like this, Century Hill Asylum was reputed to be haunted. Not that I believed the rumors, and the recent purchase of the place convinced me the rumors were just a load of bullshit.

When I reached the top, I rolled to a stop at the cast iron gate. Turning off the bike, I sat there, staring up at the building looming just beyond the outer wall. Three stories towered over the overgrown courtyard. Windows stared down, some broken, some dirty, some a little of both. What appeared to have been a gazebo off to the right was now nothing but a crumbling mess of weeds, vines, and decayed wood.

Climbing off the bike, I took off my helmet and went to the rusted box to the left of the gate. It took several tries, but I finally got the call button pressed enough to hear a crackle.

“Someone order a pizza?”