Genre: Horror
BLESS YOU
By Randy Romero
Shelly Reynolds was all alone in
that cavernous, high-ceilinged, two-story Victorian-style house. She sat in bed
with several pillows propped up against her back, her legs straight out, laptop
resting on her thighs.
Her cell phone pinged. She leaned
over and grabbed it from the nightstand.
One new text from her boyfriend,
Derek.
Hey babe. Is it true your parents
are out of town?
Shelly had cancelled their nightly
Skype session in order to binge-watch the latest season of Orange is the New
Black. Her friends were all pushing for her to watch 13 Reasons Why. But she
had no desire to watch a sensationalized drama about the suicide of a teenage
girl that doesn’t offer any viable alternatives to suicide, like counseling or
group therapy.
Maybe, she text him back,
playing coy.
Her phone pinged again.
Can I come over?
Shelly could read his
mind. He was hoping her folks were out of town so he could sneak over for a
little Netflix and chill. But Shelly already had her own Netflix and chill
session going, and she didn’t want Derek interrupting her peaceful evening.
She text him back. It’s late. And
my parents will have a fit if they find out.
Her phone chimed. Aha!
So your parents ARE out of town.
She wrote back: I never
said that, and added in a winking emoji just to push his buttons.
Her phone dinged. Another text from
Derek.
Well are they home or not?
Yes they’re home, she
replied to get Derek off her back.
Liar, he text back.
She set her phone back on
the nightstand and pushed her laptop aside, unfurling the covers. She rolled
out of bed and heard her phone ping again. She ignored it and went downstairs
for a glass of orange juice.
The house was warm and cozy inside.
Shelly had cranked the thermostat up to seventy degrees. She passed the living
room on her way to the kitchen. The floors were a glossy, blonde wood. The
place was appointed with modern furniture, which included a glass coffee table
and two glass end tables. A pewter vase–sans flowers–served as the centerpiece
of the coffee table. The burgundy sofa was sleek and angular, and adorned with
tufted buttons that Shelly’s mom found fancy and adorable. Though, Shelly and
her dad didn’t see what the big deal was about them.
Shelly went to the kitchen and
quickly forgot all about the OJ when she checked the freezer and saw an
untouched pint of Ben & Jerry’s. She grabbed a spoon, but no bowl. Shelly
wasn’t planning on saving any for her dad, even though he craved Chubby Hubby
as much as she did.
She returned to her room with her
ice cream and resumed streaming on her laptop. Shelly’s closet was walk-in
sized, and she needed it to house all her clothes and shoes. Her walls were
covered with posters of bands like Atreyu and My Chemical Romance and Taking
Back Sunday. Bands that Shelly proudly still listened to, even though Derek
often teased her and joked that she was stuck back in the year 2004.
Her bed was fit for a king and big enough for three people to
sleep comfortably. Her bedspread and pillow cases were dark green. No girly colors
like pink and purple for Shelly Reynolds. If Shelly had it her way, she
would’ve painted the walls of her room jet-black. But her parents drew the line
there. Though, they did eventually let her pick another color and she settled
on navy blue.
She decided to check her phone again
and read Derek’s last text.
I know you’re parents aren’t home
Shelly groaned. “Some
guys can’t take the hint.”
Give it a break Derek. I’m not in
the mood tonight.
She waited for his reply,
which came in seconds. She nearly dropped her phone as she read it.
This isn’t Derek
Shelly regained her
composure and text him back: Very funny. Quit messing around.
I’m not joking. Your boyfriend is
dead. I took his phone. And I know you’re all alone.
Shelly’s hands trembled
as she typed her reply: This isn’t funny anymore Derek. Knock it off.
Paranoia crept up her
spine and seeped into her brain. Her eyes darted around the room. She looked
over at the windows and saw they were locked. She looked at the floor around
her bed and then looked up towards her closet, the doors shut. She glanced at
the vanity mirror above her dresser and saw the terror in her own eyes.
Relax, she told herself. It’s
Derek. He’s just messing with you. He’s just being a jerk.
Shelly’s nose caught a whiff of
something in the air. A vague scent of cologne or aftershave, like something
her grandfather would use. She envisioned a little ship on the bottle or
something similar.
Her nose twitched at the scent and she raised one hand to her
nose to stifle an approaching sneeze.
She checked her phone. One new text
from “Derek” that chilled her to the marrow of her bones.
Bless you.
