It was Sunday morning, or so she thought, and the rain trickled through the leaves of the trees in the forest like drips from a faucet. In sudden, big drips they would slap on the hood of her raincoat with a plop and then silence until the next drop fell.
She walked through the woods, her rainboots squishing the soggy leaves, carrying the camera in her hands, careful to keep it dry.
She walked for at least an hour, until she came upon her prize, suddenly emerging out of the thick fog. There it stood, surrounded by dark green leaves, struggling under the weight of the rain, the house, at least fifty years old, moldy and brown with its years, rain plonking down on its rusting roof.
She stood, admiring its beauty. The broken glass from the window, sticking like knives into the ground. The metal door, hanging awry, awaiting the next visitor’s entrance. But most importantly, the rocking chair, waiting, tipping ever so slightly in the wind. She almost stopped, to take a picture, but then she remembered her father, waiting for her to return with the box. She took a picture anyway, because that’s what she always did.
She stepped inside, and pulled the hood off her head with her left hand, the camera still resting comfortably in her right. As the hood dripped quietly onto the floor, she breathed in the musty smells of the old home. The house was dark, but the attic was darker.
She remembered him waiting again. She knew he would be cold, wet, and furious when she returned if she didn’t hurry. She turned to the rotten stairs in the corner of the home. She began the treacherous climb, her fingers slipping on the moldy, decomposing railing.
When she reached the attic, she was breathing heavily and she could see her breath in front of her face, a perfect cloud that quickly disappeared. But then she stepped out of the light and she could see her breath no more, only a faint outline of what the room held. She knew what it held. She walked over to the wall, hearing the floor creak under her feet, and picked up the glass box on the floor, and turned around. There was a figure there, one that she didn’t recognize, a figure that had not been there before. She could see the shadow of his broad shoulders, a figure that she didn’t recognize.
He hadn’t been there before.
She felt panic rise in her, and tried to remain as still as possible, so that he wouldn’t be able to see her as easily. She could hear him breathing heavily and fumbling with something in his hand and then she saw him lift something up towards her face and just as she heard the click she saw a glint of light on it she knew it was a gun.
She could remember her father telling her to be careful, that there were bad people in the world who would be out to get them, and she remembered laughing him off and reassuring him that no one would find her.
She dropped the camera and fell backwards, hitting her head on the ground at the same time the box shattered into millions of pieces. That was the only sound that could be heard as the man quickly grabbed the camera, walked out of the house, into the rain, and started to run.
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