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You make it to the edge of the park and cross another road turned parking lot. You scan the area in all directions in case zombies or other hostiles are around. You find a street sign and luckily see you are on the corner of 12th and Holland, so you quicken your pace the last two blocks to Heather's House.

You find 1027 Holland, a two-story brick and stone row home in the middle of the city street. You stand at the bottom of its stone porch, and the large bay windows are covered in thick curtains with no light shining through. The upstairs windows, framed in a white siding, give the house the look of an angry face peering down on the sidewalk. A narrow alley runs parallel to the south side of the home, and a solitary light casts a dim glow some thirty feet away from the sidewalk where you stand. Two trees loom from the edge of the curb, towering above the second floor.

You walk up the porch, careful to make no sound. You press the lever of the metal screen door and swing it open. A long creak breaks the silence. You stop and listen. Nothing moves inside. You brace the screen door against your shoulder and turn the door knob. It is locked. Several options come to mind: