It’s Kept in the Closet

My right hand brushed through the soft, cushy carpet that covered the expanse of my parent’s room. I grabbed and pulled a single thread with all my might as if to release my fear and confusion. But really what was in my left hand held all my attention. The jagged cut-out piece of paper was yellow and when I breathed in I was overcome with dust. My hand trembled as I clasped the paper that held so many questions. And of all the answers I could come up with, all of them ended in a horrible conclusion. My gaze dropped from the frightening paper to the aging cardboard box. The box itself wasn’t what unnerved me, it was what it held. Despite how creepy the paper in my hand was, the fact that there were dozens more in the box is what scared me the most. Once again, I read the headline of the newspaper clipping that shattered my reality. 12-Year-Old Boy Missing. The boy was me.
Just then I heard the front door bang shut and I quickly scrambled to my feet. I stuffed the clipping back into the box and stowed it into the safe. “Jeremy? Where are you?” My mother’s voice echoed through the house.
“Coming!” I yelled as I ran from the room that now held my nightmare. I nearly tripped as I raced down the stairs and skidded to a halt in front of the eagle-like features of my mother. If I could even call her that. Her long, hooked nose wrinkled at the sight of my unkempt hair and she did nothing to hide her disgust.
“Now Jeremy,” she chided, “look at yourself, you’re a mess!” I wanted to confront her about what I had just seen, but an overwhelming fear of the truth stopped me. She sighed, “Just go clean yourself up before dinner.” I dragged myself to the table and sat as far away from my mother as possible. I studied the woman across from me, everything about her seemed hostile, her graying hair pulled back into a tight, sleek bun, her sunken cheekbones making her appear older than she was, her perfect posture, and her long, thin body that had always reminded me of a spider. It all just felt wrong, I was nothing like her, looked nothing like her, and never wanted to be anything like her. I then looked to the man on my right. Mr. Smith; such a generic name, and such a generic man. He was of average height, with short-cropped hair, wore square-rimmed glasses, and spoke in a deep monotone voice. He didn’t seem to notice the tension between his son and his wife because he licked his finger and flipped to the next page of his newspaper all without looking up. The rest of dinner was quiet and overall uneventful just as most dinners in the Smith house were. And when I was finally excused I sprang from the table and made a break for my room without another word.
I stopped dead in my tracts as soon as I entered. I had to get out of this house. All through dinner I felt my unease rising and had a little voice in the back of my head constantly repeat, “These aren’t your parents, RUN!” I didn’t know for sure what the newspaper clippings meant but all I knew was that I wasn’t safe and had to get as far away from these people who called themselves my “parents” as soon as possible. I threw clothes into my suitcase at random and crammed in anything that I thought would come in handy. Just as I was zipping the last bit of the large, leather box closed I came to a realization. I needed to get the clippings, if I was going to get the help I needed the evidence first.
I creaked open my door and stared across the hall at the ominous slab of wood that led to my parent’s bedroom. The hallway seemed to stretch and darken like an image from one of those cartoon Halloween shows. I stepped out of the sanctuary of my small room and strained my ears to locate my parents. I heard them talking downstairs, both voices dull and filled with no emotion. I made a move towards the door one foot at a time. I put my sweaty palm on the knob and turned. The door swung swiftly open as if welcoming me. But right as I stepped into the room I felt a sudden chill, even though I was perfectly warm. I then had an unexpected urge to bolt and forget the whole thing but I couldn’t force myself to do it.
I headed straight for my mother’s closet to quickly grab the awful box and escape the nightmare that was now my life. I passed through the threshold, my eyes looking over what someone might have thought of as a typical closet. Articles of clothing hung in a neat fashion, and shoes placed in their specific spaces. My eyes passed over the exact location the box had been but it wasn’t there. I did a double-take and began frantically searching the room. I didn’t care what a mess I made, I tossed clothes down from their hangers, and threw the perfectly polished shoes over my shoulders. But the box simply wasn’t there! Where had it gone? That box had all the answers! I leaned my head back against the wall and sighed. A single tear fell down my freckled cheek and it took everything in myself not to break down right then and there. I had a dilemma, I could sit here and cry or I could suck it up and run away without the evidence. My eyelids opened and I stared down at my sneakers, deciding that I needed to get out of this house, with or without the box. I heard two soft thumps to my right and when I looked up I came face to face with my mother, an evil smirk plastered on her face.
She came into the closet and placed herself right in front of me. I sucked in a breath and waited for what was to come. She bent down and said in a sinister whisper, “Oh Jeremy, you shouldn’t have gone snooping.” She then let out a villainous chuckle before continuing, “Last time you came to know one of our secrets we had two options, kill you or kidnap you.” Just then Mr. Smith stepped in, “But we already kidnapped you… and that means there’s only one option left.”