Forlot: The Thanksgiving Horror - Book Fourteen

Chapter Twelve

What is worse than doing something? Doing nothing. I would rather write a list of what I am thankful for than be bored, but I did not feel like writing some dumb list. I did not feel like writing. I felt like doing nothing. But I did not want to do nothing. I needed to do something productive. Something that would make time fly by.

"Come on, Steven. You can think of something," I said under my breath as I put my feet on the couch. "There has to be something in this stupid house that you enjoy doing."

I was resting on the couch with an arm over the edge. I was watching the television across from me. At least, I was trying to. Nothing good was on. Reality shows and crub. I decided to keep the television on so this blasted house would not be in silence. I was about to put down the remote control when I heard a noise. I was startled at first, but then realized that a person was at the door. Somebody had knocked.

I do not know why, but I brought along the remote. My fingers fiddled with it as I strolled to the front door. As I got closer, I saw that nobody was on the other side. I could not see anybody through the glass. Maybe it was a delivery driver or a ding-dong ditcher. It could not be the mailman because he comes only in the mornings. I had to be careful. For all that I knew, it was a robber. A thief was trying to break into the house.

I held my breath as I grabbed the knob and twisted it. I was going to be safe as long as I did not open the other door. There is this glass door separating the porch and the front door. Even if the front door was unlocked, no way would somebody get in. Unless that the glass door was smashed. But that is difficult to do when you want to trick the owners. Thankfully - I mean, luckily - yours truly can never be tricked. Not even Emily can play any pranks on me. I am not an idiot.

But whoever left the letter was.

I opened the front door and pressed my hands and my face against the glass door. My mom absolutely loathes when I touch the glass because I get it dirty. She is only paranoid. Things cannot be dirty. If I cannot see all the germs, then the objects are clean. Why else would I not wash my hands?

No, I do not wash my hands. Deal with it.

I scanned both the porch and the lawn for any signs of life. Nobody. I pushed myself away from the glass door and noticed an object on the ground. It was chilling on the mat. It was white and rectangular. I realized that it was an envelope. Must be a letter. Why was some letter on the mat? Maybe it was a missing piece of mail.

I checked the lawn again before unlocking and opening the glass door. I snatched up the envelope and brought it inside. I shut and locked both doors and walked back to the living room. I sat back on the soft couch and put my feet on the table. My mother hates that too. Putting my shoes on the table. She says that it is for eating, not for resting. I could care less what she says. I adore her, but she can sometimes be a pain in the butt.

"I guess that is one good thing," I said as I ripped open the envelope. "Mom is not here to lecture me. She does not know what I am doing. I can do whatever I want. I will not be punished. I am the luckiest child ever."

Inside the envelope was a folded piece of paper. By the way, the white envelope had nothing on it. No address or stamp. But I did not care. It was mine now. Maybe it was some check for a billion dollars. But my heart sank when I unfolded it.

Who the heck wrote this?