If I wasn’t looking for any outward signs that something happened at the Bigelows house last night, I would have noticed the yellow tape that covers the jamb of their front door, barring anyone from going inside.
There are a few cars parked on the street, but that’s normal. The only thing out of place is the cop car parked by their garage. If we didn’t practically share a driveway, I wouldn’t have even seen it.
“See?” Mom bobs her head to the side as if the police being present next door is proof we’re safe to go into our house, but it sure doesn’t feel that way to me. As I exit the car, I look up at my bedroom window, and the curtain shifts the tiniest bit. My brain rationalizes it by telling me it could be a breeze or the fan blowing the fabric, yet that doesn’t feel true either.
Mom holds the back door open for me and ushers me in ahead of her. “Brad,” she calls after flipping the deadbolt.
“Yup,” he responds quickly then comes around the corner and into the kitchen.
There’s an awkward pause where all three of us just look at each other, trading glances but no words. “Mickey and Dave went to the lake house,” Mom finally blurts out.
Dad makes a grunting sound, but I have no idea what it means.
“I checked all the doors and windows. Everything is locked up, and the police said they would have a large presence in the neighborhood,” Dad supplies.
“What about trick or treating? Was it canceled?” Mom places her bag on the counter.
“Not that I know of,” he tells her.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks when I walk out of the kitchen. I can’t be here and pretend everything is okay, not for another second.
“My room.” I don’t slow my steps as I leave them.
“You need to clean it up in there,” Dad says to my back. I roll my eyes. My room is clean for the most part, unless he’s worried about a few items of clothing on my bed.
All the bravery I felt downstairs evaporates when I push my door inward and peer inside. “Holy shit,” I mutter to myself.
No wonder he said I needed to clean up. It’s a mess. My blanket has been ripped off my bed and tossed on the floor, along with what looks like half of my closet. Something crunches under my foot as I step inside to get a better look. As I twist my foot, I see shards of white glass and chipped fake gold metal. I know what it is before I even see the little heart-shaped foam cushion. It’s the jewelry box the necklace Mark gave me came in, though I don’t see the thin gold chain anywhere. I haven’t worn the thing in months, and it feels strange seeing it now after just hearing about him dying.
I pick up my blanket and toss it back on my bed, eyeing the clothes and crap on the floor. The drawer to my bedside table is open, and the contents inside have clearly been picked through—some are on the floor while others are a crumpled mess. I crouch to grab some of the papers and stuff and see several of my undies balled up just under the bed and out of view of the rest of the room.
I go to reach for them but hesitate. It’s dark under my bed. What if there’s someone hiding under there? I flatten myself to the ground, far enough away that I have room to maneuver.
Even squinting, I can’t see much beyond the wads of fabric, so I scoot a little closer and reach for the bundle. The second my hand closes over the material, I feel fingers clamp around my wrist. A scream wells up in my throat, but I can’t take in a breath to let it out. I struggle as a gurgling sound and a weak hum leaves my lips.
The grip loosens, and I slide back across the floor with my arm cradled against my chest as I stare under the bed, expecting someone to emerge. I’m breathing so hard and my heart is beating so fast I think I’m going to pass out.
Seconds pass, and nothing happens, so I start to wonder if I imagined the feel of the cool fingers wrapped around my wrist. I look down and see a thin pink line on my skin. Maybe I caught it on the bed frame. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
After another solid minute, I pull my phone from my pocket—like I should have done the first time I tried to look under the bed—and turn on the flashlight. My breath catches when the only things I can see are my underwear and some dust. What the hell is going on?
Nothing feels real as I tap my phone screen to pull up Mark’s name on my social media. Post after post offer prayers and stories of what an amazing person and friend he was, confirming something happened to him, but I still don’t know what.
I type his name into my internet browser, and a headline pops up.
Local High School Senior Dead in Yet Another Strange Occurrence
Mark Root was founddead this morning under suspicious circumstances.
The promising youngathlete was discovered unresponsive in his garage after having been crushed against the back wall by his car.
Police are not releasingall details at this time and are asking that the public call the tip line if they have any information about his death or any other recent casualties.
This is yetanother strange incident in a line of unfortunate events in our small town that we can only hope we have seen the last of.
Residents are encouragedto lock their doors and remain vigilant, and if they see anything unusual, to call the police.
I tip my head back,and it hits the wall behind me. He really is dead. Tears brim my lower lashes, but I still feel removed from reality. I’m not even sure if I’m crying because he’s dead or because it could mean I’m one step closer to my own fate.
