No. 62 Claremond Street

5 // Gathering...

"Realmente estúpida {really stupid}," Chloe mutters under her breath, glancing through the narrow opening of the opaque glass window at the vibrant ice cream truck. The gigantic strawberry ice cream cone on its top sends a unwanted chill down her spine.

Chloe has been crouching in her designated hiding spot - the gap between the vintage bookcase and the wall of her dad's office - for ages now. She tries to reposition her sore legs, her gaze still fixated on the opening, making sure nothing moves or creaks.

She grits her teeth when her back hits the bookcase, causing a soft thud. She stops, scanning her dark surroundings. Hoping her parents didn't hear this.

It would've been Strike 2, an extra month without her powers, if they did hear. This sudden strictness, to everyone living in Sectors 6 and 7 of Claremond Street and not just her, is all because of the damned ice cream truck. The once frolicsome neighborhood is now desolate and gloomy. Unspoken fear surges among them like a plague.

And mostly, the buried bodies discovered in the last couple of months, of those who went missing right after the truck's departure, have left the affected broken beyond repair.

But not Chloe.

The young teenager finds herself kneeling, glaring at the ice cream truck. It's been a month since its last visit to Claremond Street. She peers over this menacing truck - that killed her friends, her bubbly aunt Estella, her naive cousin Jose - spotting the house it's parked in front of.

"So... it's them who called?" she whispers, her ebony eyes wavering as they detect the barely standing roof of No. 62.

"Who them?"

Chloe flinches, her shoulder slamming against the wall beside her. Her mouth's covered by a hand protruding out of the bookcase. A hand too familiar.

A young boy of about 15 emerges out of the bookcase, as if it were permeable silk. He manages to crouch in the limited space beside Chloe, his hand still covering her mouth.

Chloe hits his hand away, exhaling sharply. "Milo," she hisses. "Por qué estás aquí? Vuelve a tu lugar ahora."

She takes in a deep breath. Her brother doesn't know Spanish, or he pretends not to with his puzzled expressions. "Why are you here, Milo? Get back to your spot now."

"You sound just like Mrs. Serrano," Milo whispers, pressing down his curly hair. "But here you are, spying on the truck you're supposed to be hiding from."

Chloe crosses her arms, muttering, "Okay. First of all, Mrs. Serrano is your mother. So call her Mom, Mama or whatever. Second, this is my spot." She points to the opening, "The window just happened to be slightly open."

"Yeah right," Milo softly scoffs. He looks through the opening, squinting his caramel eyes when he notices a girl in purple walk out of the ice cream truck. "She's new."

"Huh?" Chloe pushes his shoulder to get him out of her view. She ducks down to identify the girl, only to see her extremely long coat sweeping the driveway. She sighs, turning carefully to the bookcase behind her. She whispers, "Can you scoot, Milo?"

"I wish I can," he whispers back, his body pushed to the desk on his side. His forehead creases when he sees his sister roll her eyes. "What? You asked if I can."

"En se- Seriously?" Chloe mutters.

Milo casts a small smile. "Hang on."

He rubs his hands before lunging back, this time sinking into the dark wooden desk. He pulls his limbs back, which are unusually short for a 15-year-old, until his face's the only part visible on the surface. "Make it quick," he says.