Mia Cara

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Carrie understood that rule when her mother disappeared. Now, five years later, it made no sense. Her father told Carrie they would open the room when her mother returned. Now Carrie knew it was all lies: he never intended to open the door. Her mother was never coming home, and her father was going to marry that nasty woman. She ran upstairs to the locked door when they told her.

Carrie’s hot tears ran down her cheeks and she wiped them away. She’d show them. She’d take her mother’s favorite jewelry and leave tonight to find her. She put her hand to the deadbolt thumb turn, tried to twist it open, but it stuck. Inside the room, the floorboards creaked. She hoped it wasn’t rats, squirrels or raccoons.

She shook her head. She would have to hurry. Using both hands, she pushed on the thumb turn, and the lock clicked. Carrie drew in a breath, turned the door handle and pushed. She stared into the darkness. A chilling voice said, “Mia cara.” Her mother’s pet name for her. A musty odor of locked secrets assailed her, and her mother loomed into view. Not the mother she remembered, but a pale, skinny version with dark, lanky hair. Before she could call out, the woman clutched Carrie’s shoulders in a vise-like grip.

“How grown up you are, mia cara.”

“You’re hurting me,” Carrie squeaked. The woman who used to be her mother opened her mouth and lunged toward Carrie’s neck. “Ow!” Carrie screamed. Her mother came away, fangs covered in blood. Carrie swooned.

“How nice of you to let me out.” The woman let Carrie’s limp body drop to the floor. “And now, for your father.”