UMBRA

A Killer's Playground

ONE MONTH EARLIER.

It was nine-thirty in the morning when I shuffled down the hall with one half of my brain awake and the other still in the sleepy-dreamy world. My eyelids were heavy and half-closed as I yawned and made my way towards the kitchen, digging into the fridge for a can of milk. It was nearly empty except for the bottom shelf, where lived the great and noble one—cheese. Last night's Papa John's pepperoni pizza had also made a place. Two light blue milk cartons stood in the door beside some other tipped over bottles. I grabbed the container and opened it and slammed the door hard (you do get frustrated when you are hungry—and when you know you're about to have the worst vacation ever—Why? You'll find out later).

A shady, unknown figure stood next to me, ready to strike.

My sleepy eyes widened as I freaked out and threw the cold milk all over the figure.

It turned out to be Jace.

He stood stupefied, drenched in white milk from head to toe.

He finally spoke, wiping the milk off his face, "Seriously? I used good shampoo today."

"Now you get to use it again," I said in defense and grinned.

"Thanks for the advice," said Jace, nodding sarcastically and waddling back to his room like a penguin in his wet clothes.

Jace was four years younger than me (he was eleven basically) and was kind of tall for his age (he did play basketball pretty well). He had a good built and long, curly, brown hair, and his face was in the shape of an inverted triangle.

It was the eleventh of July today, and we had a flight to catch in about four hours, headed to California, and from there, we were destined for my grandfather's lonely house in Dorick.

I filled my bowl ninety-seven percent with maple cheerios and leftover milk (that too, for the show of it only—who likes milk anyway—Ugh!) as I sat down. Mom then came into the kitchen.

"You overslept," she retorted.

"I'm preparing myself for the upcoming sleepless nights in Dorick, you see."

"Uh-huh."

"Do we really need to go to Dorick?"

"We can't leave Grandpa alone. Besides, we see him once every three years. And like every time, I will try to get him to move in here."

"What is his obsession with that place?" I said as I stuffed my mouth with cheerios.

"I don't know, but I think—I think it's Grandma," she paused.

"She -diieed- in that house," I exclaimed at my Mom's vague reply, my mouth agape. "Or the way he likes to say, she was -kiilllled- in that house."

"He in that house is like he is with Grandma."

"So, he's going insane."

"Can't deny it even if I want to," said Mom jokingly.

"If I fake a fracture, or better yet—if I actually get a fracture, will Dad cancel our flight?"

"Go ahead."

A voice intruded from upstairs, "Mom?! Do you know where my black jacket is? The one with the hood?"

"We'll be alright," she said, smiling and left.