Crimson Notes

"Happy birthday to you," my family sings in rangy un-tuned voices and sloppy rhythms. Claps and cheers follow.

"Okay, blow out the candles," whispers my mother's hushed voice as she holds up her camera. So I do. All thirteen wicks flicker before burning out, wax drips. Mother says it's a big deal, but I feel no different; I still hear him in the walls. Sometimes he scratches at them or slams his fists against them. I don't think mother notices, though. Usually she has her phone in her pocket, but it dings while she's talking to auntie Clara, so I sprint to the present-covered dining room table to get it for her. Peeking at the message, it reads: Tell the boy I'm here or my face covered in your blood will be the last thing you ever see.

"Mother, your phone."

"Oh, thank you." She pauses. Her phone lights up, illuminating her petrified profile. "You didn't read it, did you, Ainsley?"

"No," I say, turning away from her. "Can I open my presents now?" Mother doesn't reply, just points towards the dining room. All my gifts are neatly placed along the table like Jenga blocks. I struggle to pull one from the bottom, because I know that soon I'll be sucked into my mother's arms and forced to take a picture with my family... near the walls. Near him.

I scrape my fingernails against the wrapping paper, curiously tearing it to shreds. All I find is a note; a note in deep red, awful "adult" cursive.

"What is it?" Excitement bursts from my mother's mouth all the way through her fingertips as she launches towards the box and grabs the note. Horror flushes her face, turning it white. Her fingers begin to shake; her body starts to tremble. Her eyes dart left and right rapidly, then she shouts for everyone to leave. I watch them scatter towards the door, my mother slams the door behind them and bolts upstairs with tears streaming down her face.

From the dining room, I hear her mumbled words and broken cries. I've never seen my mother sad. Though, I long to help her and stop her sadness, I'm afraid if I make a single move, he'll come out. I still grab the note.

Squinting my eyes, I try to make out the words written across the crumpled, off-white paper. The writing is smudged, blurry. "Happy thirteenth birthday, Ainsley. You may not know me, you may have not noticed me yet, but I'm here. I'm always here. Your present will be a bit late, and I'm deeply sorry for that. I promise it'll be here in the morning." The end is torn off, so I'm unable to read the end.

It's about nine o'clock when my mother finally stops crying. "Ainsley, come up here." Carefully I tiptoe up the steps, ignoring their creaking and the raggedy stair-runners.