Everything is dark as I tiptoe down into the kitchen to grab some water, shuffling softly across the floorboards so that I don't make them creak. Hastily gulping down some water from the tap, I hardly notice as the hair tie holding my braid in place loosens and falls to the ground. Setting the cup down, I sink to my knees and peer under the tables and counters until I spy it resting benignly by the door that leads to the basement.
I'm not allowed in the basement.
Gulping, I scurry and pick it up, heart racing, ready to go back upstairs and to use my flashlight to signal in Morse code next door until I fell asleep and woke up, ready to play and build sand castles. I keep looking at the door, hearing the tinniest strains of swing music coming from within. Mommy and daddy used to dance to that kind of music, the kind that made you want to hop and shake.
If she's listening to music she won't mind me joining her, I decide, and I turn the knob to go down.
One stair, the music grows louder, the tutting of the instruments washing over me.
Two stairs, three: the light begins creeping up, touching my toes, ruining the glow in the dark effect.
Four, five, six steps. My nose crinkles, something down here smells wrong. It tastes like when you take cough medicine and the metal on your tongue won't go away.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
And I am screaming, screaming, and mommy is screaming, and there are ropes, and everything is shiny, and redredredredredredredredredredredredred.
Black.
YOU ARE READING
Retexo
Mystery / Thrillerretexo (verb.) to unravel a story of a very unusual young woman who has quite a lot of stories to keep straight, and more than her fair share of skeletons to stay buried.
