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A Short Story: Part One

The sky wasn’t just gray today—it looked bruised, heavy with something more than rain. I liked the rain, but this felt different, like the world was holding its breath. 2:00. Nothing good on TV, just more daytime talk shows and infomercials. Maybe I’d scroll through my phone for a bit. Then again, if I saw Diane post one more picture of that slop she calls food, I might lose it.

I wonder what it’s like to be like her—completely unbothered by the flaws she shows to the world. It must be peaceful not to care.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care. I could just lie in my big, king-size bed, eat my snacks, and not worry about the emptiness Richard left behind. Too bad life doesn’t work that way. Someone has to feed the cats.

“Hey baby girl, Mama’s gonna feed you right after I grab the mail.” I love my cats. Kate’s my favorite, but don’t tell Rawls that. He’s sweet, but when he scratches at my ankles, especially when I’m wearing my fuzzy slippers, it’s like he’s aiming for my last nerve.

As I stepped outside, I glanced up. Guess I was wrong about the rain. The heavy clouds were shifting, moving away faster than I expected. Oh well.

Let’s see what bills Mr. James left for us today. Wait, that’s not Mr. James.
Ta… Tal-al-wish?
“Nice to meet you, I’m Tolalwish,” the man said, his voice a little too cheerful for my taste. Whoa, that’s a name.

I squinted, shading my eyes against the sun that wasn’t even shining. “Yeah, uh—you too. I’m Grace.”

“Hi Grace, you’re looking lovely today.”

No, I’m not. But I gave him a polite smile anyway. “Oh, you’re so sweet! You just made my day!” He blushed and walked away, clearly buying my lie. I hoped Mr. James would be back tomorrow.

Finally, I turned back to the mailbox, fumbling with my ridiculous keychain. Why do we even have communal mailboxes? No one wants to drag their butt out of the house just to make small talk with neighbors we don’t care about. Maybe if I walk fast enough, I won’t have to talk to—

“Hey there, Grace. How we doing today?”

Shoot. “Hey, Gerald. I’m good. You?”

“That’s good, that’s good. The other day, I saw that boy you were with, I waved but—”

Oh, come on. Pick up the pace, Gerald. Why does he walk so slow?
“Oh, yeah. He’s a jerk. I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Well, I—”

“I just remembered I left something on the stove, gotta run!” Nice. Smooth enough. Now walk and don’t look back.

I hurried inside, and of course, Rawls was there, waiting to sink his claws into my ankles. “Feeding you guys now, then we’ll get to this mail stack.”

I opened the cans of gravy and steak-flavored cat food and poured it out. That’s when I heard it—a low rumble in the distance. Thunder? Or maybe a dumpster being dropped off nearby. Either way, the clouds were coming back.

Bill, bill, junk, spam… and then—a red letter.

I froze. The envelope was bright red, but there was no address. No return address either. What the hell? “Look at this, Katie girl,” I mumbled, holding it up to my cat. “Well, let’s see what it says.”

I slid the letter out carefully.

Hello GRACE,
I hope this letter finds you well. You are special. So very special.

What the…? Creepy, but I kept reading.

I’ve left a special clue for you, because you’re not like the others. Go to your bedroom and open your closet door. You’ll thank me later.

My skin prickled. It was weird, but curiosity gnawed at me. Who sent this? Richard? No way. He wouldn’t go through this kind of effort. Still, I couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine. I went upstairs and opened the closet.

There it was—a single red rose, laying on the floor. Next to it, a small red box. I picked up the note taped to the box and read:

Roses are red, violets are blue,
I moved Gerald to number one, so you could be number two.

What? What does that even mean?

I flipped the note over. KEEP THIS CARD. OPEN THE BOX NOW.

I shook the box lightly. No sound. I opened it. Inside was a key. I stared at it, turning the box over again. There was a number inside the lid: 7750.

My house was 7748. That was Gerald’s address.

A chill ran down my spine. What kind of sick joke was this? Just then, I heard it—a muffled sound from outside. Like someone speaking into a microphone, overlaid with ice cream truck music.

I rushed to the window. Everyone was standing outside, looking confused. In the distance, a bright red ice cream truck rolled down the street, the tinny jingle grating on my ears.

“I’m going to repeat this message until everyone has found their place of being,” a voice announced over the loudspeaker.

Place of being? What the hell is going on?

“By now, you should all have your key in hand. Use the key to go to the address on your box. You do not need to open the door with it. Just stand in front of the front door and turn your back to it. Face the street.”

I gripped the key tighter. Is this some kind of sick game?

“I’m going to count down from three. Move fast.”

No one’s going to move. Why should we listen to him?

“One. Two—”

“Hey, Grace, do you know what’s going on?” Lacey’s voice startled me. I hadn’t seen her in months, not since she went to rehab. She looked… better. Healthier.

“No clue,” I muttered.

“THREE.”

A sharp scream split the air. I whipped around just in time to see a figure in black walking towards Lacey. His face was covered, and in his hand, a gun.

“Please, no—!” Lacey screamed.

The figure raised the gun.

POW! POW!

Blood sprayed the pavement, and Lacey crumpled to the ground.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. Run, Grace, RUN!

But before I could move, the voice over the loudspeaker spoke again, chilling and calm.

“Now you understand. Stand in front of the address. You have three seconds.”

My legs shook as I hurried toward Gerald’s house. I stood at 7750, my back to the door, facing the street.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Screw you, red ice cream truck. R.I.P Lacey.