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“Ok, stay behind me.” I push my little sister behind my back with a swing of my arm. Even if my father’s writhing in agony on the floor, I don’t need Isabella near the man. Who knows what might anger him this time?
Somewhere off in the distance, I hear footsteps echoing from upstairs, like my mother might be padding around the kitchen. I hold my breath and open the door farther, not really sure what I’ll find inside.
It wasn’t what I expected.
“Dylan,” my sister says, slowly, unsure of her own voice, it quavering with every word.
It takes me a full second before I jolt into action. “Go upstairs. Call 9-1-1.”
My sister shakes her head, her breathing ragged as her dark curls bounce around her face. “No, I’m too scared.”
I grab my sister’s shoulders and lean down to look into her eyes. “You have to call someone.”
It isn’t my father lying on the floor soaked in blood.
It takes three full breaths to grasp what I’m seeing. There’s plastic lining the floors and walls. Bright crimson blood pools in a corner, seeping from a naked woman crouched on the floor. The smell of putrid, dank mothballs fills my nose and I twist my face up in disgust. I step closer. “Are you ok?” I ask her.
Her gaze is blank. It's like staring into a broken doll’s eyes.
She’s dead.
At least that’s what I’m thinking. When Law and Order shows a dead body on their show they always look like this. Like a puppet. Like a plastic shell with no emotion. Tingles race up my spine and my heart jumps around in my chest.
I look away. “Isabella, run,” I yell, turning on my heels to follow behind her.
I take one last glance at the woman dead in our basement, my eyes trying to adjust to what the actual situation is. Metal tools hang from the wall, like tools a doctor would use on a patient.
With one last ditch-effort, I help my sister out of the room and back to the staircase to head upstairs. I need the phone, and the only one I can think of is hanging above the kitchen counter.
We race upstairs, entering the kitchen at warp speed and my mother stands there, clear shock on her face. She’s pale, like she knows what we just witnessed.
“What are you two doing awake?” Her voice shows her mortification.
“Mom, basement, woman.” I can’t even make a complete sentence as I try to catch my breath. I point down the stairs and my mother’s cold eyes gaze down into the darkness.
“Stay right here,” she says as she moves closer to the door, leading down to the basement.
“No, Mom.” I don’t want her to see what I saw. I want to shield her from the memory of the dead woman with the blank stare that’s now permanently etched in my mind.
I grab her arm, and she stops.
“Dylan, take Isabella to your room and lock the door.”
We do as we’re told, and run as fast as we can. I slam my bedroom door. The darkness turns to madness in an instant. I’ve opened my window a little to let the cool air in from the rain.
My sister crawls beneath the covers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m scared.”
I hand her my favorite stuffed bunny, the one I always give her when my parents fight. “Here’s Mr. Whiskers. He’ll keep you safe.”
She hugs the bunny close to her chest. “Do you think that woman will be ok?”
A cold breeze filters through the room, giving me a slight chill to my bones. It doesn’t usually get too cold here in San Dimas, California, but this year around Christmas, it’s supposed to be the coldest year yet.
I don’t answer her right away because I know the woman is dead. There’s nothing anyone can do.
My mind fills with questions on how she died. What were all the tools? Was my father trying to help her?
My bones chill again, knowing that’s not a possibility. My father’s not a doctor. He works at the local college as a janitor. He started work there after he failed at a racing career.
“What was that?” Isabella’s eyes are wide at the sound of the front door slamming.
My father’s back.
He shouts. My mother shouts back.
Then, there’s a loud crash, and both Isabella and I stare at each other, both of us afraid to even move. “I’m going to check it out,” I say.
“No, don’t leave me,” Isabella whines.
“Shh, stay under the covers. I’ll be right back.”
The hard weathered floorboards creak as I take each step, reminding me that I should head back to my room. It’s safe there.
My mother told me to stay there.
But I keep moving, curious as to what the crash was. They’re no longer shouting as I continue my trek across the cold wood floor. I reach the end of the hallway, my heart beating frantically inside my chest. I have to keep moving, but fear has planted my feet into the ground.
