Page 20 of Stalker's Toy

The banister blisters under my grip.

Upstairs?

Down?

Orientation disintegrates—every wall weeps amber tears.

“Follow… baby, follow… voices!” Mom’s command comes out in heavy coughs.

I pivot toward the sound, skirt snagging on splintered flooring.

My lungs scream for air denied them.

Three steps.

Five.

A photograph curls at my feet—our last family portrait, Mom’s face bubbling under the glass.

A timber crashes behind me.

Heat kisses my exposed shoulders.

Some detached part notes how the flames dance—devouring my childhood home.

Artistry in destruction.

I might laugh if not for the vise around my windpipe.

Dad’s voice booms suddenly and clear: “Left! Now!”

I swerve instinctively.

Floorboards collapse where I’d stood, vomiting sparks.

Fire illuminates the stairwell’s skeletal remains.

Below, through gaps in the inferno, I glimpse the front door—warped, glowing around its hinges.

Salvation only a few feet away.

Mom’s scream slices upward from the void. “Jump, Mia! Jump!”

My body locks.

Flames crown every surface now, painting my scars luminous.

Silver lines writhe across my arms—a grotesque mockery of the vines I draw in margins.

The smoke parts briefly, revealing the staircase’s corpse.

Nine splintered ribs leading nowhere.

The house groans—a dying beast settling bones.

Boot heels grind against crumbling edge.

Somewhere beneath the smoke stench blooms the coppery tang of fear-sweat.

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