Mania

Boots. My mother always bought me boots whenever she fucked up. The cost of the boots depended on the size and severity of the aforementioned fuck up. Sometimes, she would buy me two boots if things were really shitty. But now, three pairs were standing on my bed, like skyscrapers, jutting up from the blankets. I had just gotten home from school. It was six o’clock, exactly. She shouldn’t even be home for couple hours. So what had happened to make my workaholic mother stop working, buy these boots to just come home to drop them off?

I moved to inspect to boots, hoping they might tell me how badly Mom screwed the pooch. I recognized the brands: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada. The Gucci was black, the Louis Vuitton was a stark white and the Prada was a brilliant red, and, of all things, damp. The fuck? All of the boots looked familiar like I’d seen them before. Probably in the front display of a shop, I imagined. The total cost of the boots must have been around ten thousand dollars, several times more than any of the other pairs my mother had gotten me over the years.

“Jesus Christ,” I said to myself “What have you done now?”

I looked some more, trying to deduct more from the three boots. I turned the red Prada upside down looking for the note I knew wouldn’t be there. To my great surprise, a note fell out of the left boot.

I fear I haven’t done everything in my power. I’m sorry Tracy.

What the fuck? What kind of power does a business magnate really have? And why in fresh hell would one need to use that power? More troubling though, was the use of my full name. She didn’t write Tee nor Trey, she wrote Tracy, a name she knew I hated. The last time she had used my full name was when she caught me screwing that British boy, frightened by the possibility of an STI. But that didn’t worry as much as the words I’m sorry did. Because if I know one thing, it's that the great Madeline Leninshowz never, ever, apologizes. So what caused her to now?

My cell phone started to buzz in my pocket. I pulled the phone out to check the number. The number was unlisted.

“Hello?” I said. No answer.

“Hellooooo?” I said again. Still, no answer. Probably just a prank call. I shrugged, putting my phone back in my pocket, determined to figure out what had happened to my mother.

I walked to the door and opened it to a pitch black hallway.

Who turned out the lights? My subconscious thought. I chose to ignore this troubling idea.

“Goddamnit,” I cursed. Spending most of my teenage years in my room, the kitchen or the games room had severely distorted my scope of the house. The house always felt like a modest little thing, in truth it was more of a mansion than a house. The subconscious feeling of all the empty rooms merely spooked me when I was a child, yet the sight of that long dark hallway sparked some long forgotten need, the need to survive. I curled my shaking hands into fists attempting to calm them, but they just started to shake more. Footsteps sounded in the distance, Pit-pat pit-pat pit-..., I waited for the second footfall; it never came.

“Mo-” I caught myself before the second syllable

Pit- pat pit-pat. The footsteps sounded closer

“Stupid, stupid girl,” The forgotten spark scolded “They don’t know you’re here. Do you really want to let them know?”

“Depends on who Them, is,” I babbled.

“They are bad, they will kill you on sight but most importantly, they are coming. Now RUN!” ordered the spark. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. The steps resumed, louder, faster, coming down the darkened hallway. I ran down the stairs. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. I could hear it following close behind. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. I sensed it on the back of my neck. I felt the faintest of touches against my back.

“Trrrrraaaaaacyyyy” something whispered right in my ear. It was like the bowels of hell itself had touched me, it’s cold hand trailing down my back.

“FASTER, FASTER, FASTER,” screamed the spark. I shot through the kitchen, living room, and ran into a study, slamming the door behind me. I shoved my entire weight against the door. A bellowing screech sounded throughout the house. Then a monumental force plowed into the door. I flew back into the opposite wall, my head whiplashed back, spiking it into the wall. With the scream, I launched myself at the door and held it shut. Screams and growls, each more terrifying than the last. The spark was now a raging inferno, reaching from my head to muscles to every nook and cranny in my body. The door rattled like a tornado, still, I kept it firmly shut. It had one more go at the door, almost smashing it. The door cracked, but held fast. I waited for another sound, something that to tip me off to the flurry of attacks that was sure to come. Nothing came. No attack, no sound. I strained my ears, attempting to hear the faintest of footsteps or screams. Still no sound. Not even that ringing white noise, present only, in the quietest of places. Yesterday, I would’ve found it relaxing, now, it was the calm between the onslaught, the silence before the scare. I didn’t dare move. In fact, I braced myself harder against the door. I heard faint footsteps. Not the pit-pat pit-pat but more of a click-clack, the sound of heels against the hard floor.

“Tee?” my Mom shouted, “Can you come down here?”

“Mom?” I shouted back.

“Tee come down here,” She repeated “Please?”

Haven’t heard that word in awhile. I thought. A realization hit me. My mom would never use, please. It’s trying to lure me out.

“It’ll have to try harder than that,” I whispered to myself.

“Tee?” The monster asked, still far away, “Where are you?”

“In your study,” I replied. A plan started to formulate in my head. I rummaged through a desk, took out a ballpoint pen and ran back to the door ready to attack. Right when the monster reached the study. I was going to ambush it. The sound of heels grew louder. I could faintly hear the pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat between the click-clacks of the heels. A poor disguise. I thought. A few knocks emanated from the door.

“Tracy? Why are you in here?” The monster said. Another queue, my real mother would never call me by that name. The door opened, the monster stepped into the room.

“Are you okay?” it asked. I leaped at it, stabbing repeatedly at its eyes.

“Tracy what are you doing?!” It screamed. “Stop it!” But I didn’t care, the monster could try any trick, I would stay firm. I kept stabbing it, screaming, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“FUCK YOU!” I bellowed. “DIE MOTHER FUCKER!” The pen went in and out of its body, blood poured out of the wounds. I didn’t stop, I was covered in its blood, I didn’t give a shit. It had to die. Eventually, I felt its heartbeat stop. The body gave one last terrible shudder, a black gas exited its mouth and rose through the ceiling into the sky. I collapsed, lying in its blood, exhausted. It was over.

The police were called to the Leninshowz residence on reports of screams coming from the house. There, responders found Miss. Tracy Leninshowz lying next to the body of Mrs. Madeline Leninshowz, clutching a bloody pen. Tracy is currently living in Creedmoor Psychiatric Center. No boots nor note were found in the house.