Shattering

Creaking

"If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking, damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost." - Lloyd C. Douglas

I laced my fingers together and crossed my legs, picking at the tops of the black and white striped knee socks that rose from my black high-top Converse. The steps I was sitting on were cracked and gray, and the crumbling shutter creaked and fell off eerily as if on cue. I whipped around.

“Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me?” I muttered, standing up and turning to look at the shutter with my hands on my hips. The loose white crop-top hung loose against my frame and blew lightly in the wind. I suddenly felt a shiver run through my body. This place certainly had charm. But the wrong kind. I kicked a pebble absently and it rolled across the dirt and hit the tire of the car, which was parked against the edge of the rose across from the house. We had no driveway. We didn’t have much of a house either. To me, it was as if a child had taped together pieces of cardboard and made herself a dollhouse. This could not be where I was expected to live for the next four years of my life. Or less, if I can escape.

After my father, my only living family, unless you count my grandparents, who live in France, decided the city reminded him too much of my mother(s), who had all died there. He forced me into the car one morning, and here we are, the seventh day at own new home (if you could even call it that), and I still wasn't “adjusted yet”. I was about to climb onto the roof, which I was sure would probably break, and signal a helicopter or something to come and rescue me. There was something about this open plain, then a dark forest and high mountains. And the house. It wasn’t just a pile of junk. The whole place was creepy. Really creepy.

I ran my fingers through my long brown hair and twirled a ringlet of it around me finger. My hair was naturally curly, like my first mother. My real mother. Since she died mysteriously in the abandoned part of our apartment when I was five, I’ve had three other mothers. My Dad won’t talk about any of them, especially my birth mother. He thinks if we don’t talk about it, I’ll forget. But I’ll never forget.

Each one of them since then has slowly slipped away. It’s never something like a car crash. It’s something you’d never expect. One of them was poisoned by someone who was never found. The second burned to death in a fire that never happened. Her body was just lying on the floor, blackened and burned. And the third was just like Mom. She kind of just…died. That was it.

I was always angry at my dad for trying to find love time and time again. After each one of them died, he searched for a replacement. I’m sixteen, and each one only lasts three or four years at the most. I thought my then he would be used to it. I didn’t know what was happening to them, and I didn’t want to pick up the pieces and fit them together for each one. Obviously someone was telling my Dad no. He should listen to whatever it was.

Now he’s never around. He’s out with his friends. I don’t know what they do, but when he comes back, he’s eithercrazy or tired, and I stay out of his way even when he’s not. All the death has twisted him up into a pretzel emotionally, and this time I don’t think there’s hope he’ll come out of it. As I little kid, I looked the same evil right in the eye and have seen nothing else since. It hasn’t fazed me. Every time they die, I know that it will happen anyway. I don’t let myself get too close. Or else it’s going to hurt. My Dad has lost my trust and I can’t talk to him anymore. He’s more interested in locking himself up like an insane person or drinking away the pain.

I know there’s something he’s not telling me. I know the deaths of all the women he claimed to “love” had to have something in common. Right? How would four people die in the same strange, unnatural ways and it all be nothing? I wasn’t going to ask him, though. I didn’t let my curiosity get me involved. I’ve kept myself out of the way of my past for a long time simply by sealing my heart and throwing out the key. This wasn’t a matter I was supposed to tamper with. But I had no other choice but to think about it again, sitting alone in front of my new house. It was dark inside and it smelled like old dead leaves, the furniture wasn’t right. And most importantly, I didn’t have the purple letters that spelled “Cassie” over my bed like I had when we lived back in New York.

My Dad made a feeble effort to settle me in then left me to my own defenses. It was cold out, and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket. I didn’t want to go into the house, though. I didn’t like how it made me feel. As if I was unwelcome. It was like people all around were watching me. I shivered again and rubbed my arms, peering in through the windows. My Dad wasn’t there. I didn’t think he would be. There was a candle sitting on the table. Seriously? How much more traditional horror-movie stuff was I going to see today? How about a light switch?

There was a note on the table, too. It was crinkled a little and it almost looked rushed. I took a step into the house and the old floor boards creaked under my feet. Sliding into a chair, I made sure I kept my eyes open and alert at all times.

Dear Cassie,

I hope you’re adjusting. I’m not going to be here for a few days. They’re all so mad at me. Looking at me. I loved all of them. You know, that’s why they all died. It was because of your mother. She ruined them all. After she wouldn’t talk to them anymore, it left her and took over each one of my loves until they were all gone. You have the same gift, Cassie. Open your eyes at 3:00 a.m. sharp. And wait. You have to be careful. I’m not going to lose another person I love though. If your mother wanted you to speak with them, she will have passed it onto you. Do what they say. Or they’ll kill you too. Have a wonderful day.

Love, Dad

I placed the letter on the table again, reading over it three times before I actually processed what my father was saying. Was he leaving me alone for days and saying some killer was going to come find me at 3:00 a.m.? I looked around warily. If there had to be a creepy place a killer strikes, this was definitely it. I had no idea what I had just read. My first thought was, “Did Dad print this off of Creepypasta then add my name? Because this is insane.”

That’s when I knew this wasn’t some ordinary letter. My Dad actually telling me about my mother. And something was going to happen to me. Was I going to die like all the others had? Great way to start a new life, right? I wasn’t expecting all this action either. I expected that I’d have sit outside all day and call some pizza guy on my cellphone to make sure I wouldn’t starve. Though I doubt there’s a pizza place nearby. I don’t have bars out here anyway. I thought I was going to die of hungry or thirst or something. I had no idea that within a few hours I would actually be in danger of dying for real.

There was a clank across the room, and I stood up instantly and drew my pocketknife. I’d bought it a long time ago at a fair as a kid and told my Dad is was a gag knife. I had really just wanted to look cool. I had no idea I would ever need to use it. Wow. So far I was learning to expect the unexpected. Suddenly, I heard the sound again.

“Whoever you are, get out now! I’m armed!” I shrieked, holding the knife in front of me. My hands were shaking so much I could barely grasp onto the handle. A gust of cold air hit me in the face and I nearly cried out.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” a voice murmured. That voice. That voice was something I so vaguely had locked in the back of my mind. I looked my phone. 12:00 p.m.

“M-Mom!” I squeaked, stepping back and nearly tripping over a chair. A white, mist like an apparition, seemed to appear in front of my eyes. I felt a pain like bullet hit me in the chest. Suddenly I heard a familiar hissing, a howl and two pairs of eyes. A warm set and a cold, dead set. The pain increased, and I grabbed my stomach.

Before I dropped, I screamed "Get out!"

As I fell to the ground, the letter in one hand and the knife in the other, I saw myself laying with my mother on the floor, eleven years ago. Then the candle flickering on the table went out.