UMBRA

I Get To Know My Date Of Death

My idea was horrible, yes. Yet it was the best shot I had. I knew I was the next target, the next victim. Barabara (or Mr. Freak—or whoever was wreaking havoc in the town) was coming for me. If I had any hope, it was back at the house. It is not easy to go back to a place where your Mom just died.

It was two in the afternoon when I reached the house. I had stolen a pink Santa Cruz bicycle from one of the school kids in front of Jeremy's Bookhouse and cycled to the countryside of Dorick. And no, I didn't exactly 'steal' it. Let's just borrowed it. I would return it too if I lived long enough for that.

What were you expecting from a lazybum like me anyway? To walk all the way on foot? An entire mile?

There were no cops as far as I could see, and the house was as isolated as before. The only change was the yellow police tape of 'DO NOT CROSS' and also the letterbox—it was empty except for one letter, stuck in its slit, which had a blue rose on it. Someone knew very well I would come here. I dropped the bicycle in the driveway and took the letter.

IN LOVING MEMORY

AMELIA McCLENDON

May 28, 2005 — JULY 31, 2019

To be honest, all these funeral cards were getting boring (the date, July 31, was the next day, just so you know).

I rapidly went up to Jace's room and searched for the hideaway compartment beneath the floorboards. I was disappointed. There was no gun in it as I had prayed for.

Across the room, my eye found something. It was a fake painting of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. And behind that secret smile was a secret in-built wall locker I was completely aware of (it's a long story about how I got to know about the locker).

Now I need a six-digit combination. Perfecto!

I sat blankly for ten minutes, guessing the right combination. Hopefully, the locker wasn't wired for any security alarms, which was a real-life savior. Otherwise, I would have been arrested at least fifty times by now. Thanks to the detective game on my phone, I figured out the combination within the next five minutes, and the locker popped open. The password was the last six digits of the landline in reverse—283946. Easy as pie. My wishes came true when I saw the gun peacefully lying in the locker. I had not the slightest idea about its model, shooting range, blah, blah (I hated guns, they are too noisy). All I knew that it was a chunk of metal that was going to save my life—shiny, black, and lethal.

I left the room and went to the basement. It was in the exact same condition as I had seen it last time. The pile of boxes was still fallen on the floor, and under the rubble was the Myths and Mystery box. I pulled it out from the mess and split it open.

The box was filled with papers, most of them old and delicate. The newspaper cuttings in it were more than forty years old and were fragile. They reminded me of a huge flake of dead skin. Under them must have been at least a dozen envelopes, all of them with blue roses. I unfolded all of them. The funeral cards weren't only of the Harringtons, but also of several other people—the Coopers, the Watsons, and also of the Blackburns. I studied the newspapers and memorial cards, the names of the victims overlapping. All of the newspaper cuttings showed death under mysterious circumstances, which were always later alleged as suicide. And voila! Case closed!

The sound of sharp thuds in the aisle made me look up from the papers. I grabbed the gun, which was kept beside me and aimed it at the mouth of the staircase. Steps grew heavier and intense but still felt small. The sound seemed to be tangled with each other. Like the footsteps belonged to two different people. I clutched the gun in my sweaty fingers, tighter and tighter.....