Trap'd
When someone sets a mouse trap, they detach themselves from the heinous act of killing the poor rodent. After all, traps are typically assigned to discreet locations—behind a cabinet door, under a sink, or behind a toaster—with a blob of toxified bait spread unevenly over a perforated plastic surface resembling Swiss. Overkill, if you ask me.
It’s vile—the snapping of a mouse’s neck, caught between the thin metal strap, stuck there as it breathes its last breath, not knowing what hit it. All because the creature scavenged the kitchen for crumbs—leftovers that people throw away anyway—people somehow continue to consider only one solution:
Murder.
I readjusted my legs on the kitchen barstool—they’d plastered themselves there what with the humidity bleeding through dysfunctional air vents. But it wasn’t the stale air that made me uncomfortable.
I’d promised to house-sit for my aunt Jewell, but her compensation wasn’t all that alluring, even if it would buy my ticket back to Orlando. Though she’d already raised her offer for my stay, I knew that no amount of money could make this house worth living in for a weekend.
“Whatcha want for lunch, kid?” Her crackly Southern accent carried across her lush Pampered Chef kitchen, echoing off the white cliffs of cabinets and drawers. Genuine marble stretched across the counters in cool gray and blue tones, shiny and sparkling and expensive. Completely contrary to the surplus of mouse traps wedged in every nook and cranny. My nose wrinkled a little.
It’s only for a weekend. The thought pulsed like ocean waves, lulling the annoyance and discomfort that came with the frightening familiarity of Aunt Ju’s cabin. Ten years since the incident, and nothing had changed.
At least I was able to convince my parents to resort to other means after what happened to my cousin, Dalton. They’d probably still have a box of rodenticide in the cupboard, seasoning anything that shared the same air, if he hadn’t died from the stuff. But I didn’t miss Dalton—or rather, I couldn’t.
A memory flickered in front of me, taking me back to that day when we were just two twelve-year-old kids, naive and competitive. Dalton’s chubby hand and my slender one, hovering inches above a trap globbed with JIF, our dry and struggling eyes locked on each other’s. Whoever blinked first would have to swipe the snack from the lever without getting caught under the bar. I remembered cheating—distracting him with a glance at the family portrait hanging above the fireplace—then catching him blink.
I shook the procession of horrifying images from my head. It had been ten years, but the house was still the same. The memory thrived here. His death hung in the air like it happened yesterday.
Aunt Ju turned and looked at me with her tarmac-black eyes, her plastic lips puffed out and pink like her eyeliner. She would never wear this much makeup before. A wave of stiff hair bent awkwardly over her sharp eyebrows, sliding along her forehead as she tilted her body toward me, waiting for my response.
But I wasn’t hungry. Not when the excessive number of mouse traps conga’d behind every appliance, fresh dabs of creamy brown slathered on them to cover up the terrible truth.
Knowing that she still killed like this twisted my stomach into knots. I wanted nothing more than to throw every trap away, to erase the trauma I’d tried so hard to forget.
And there was the memory of Dalton’s face again—round and plump, squinting his eyes so they were slits. From his open palm, a stiff, gray mouse stared up at me, but it had nowhere else to look—its body was clamped tight under the trap, face squashed into a brown substance, its body moving slightly as it breathed. Aunt Ju’s laughter had echoed off the kitchen walls while tears streamed to my chin.
She snapped her wrinkly fingers in my face, bringing me back to her question. “Tomato soup? Grilled cheese? Those two always go good t’gether, don’t they?” Her impatience had her busying herself with the plastic clip on a bag of bread. There was something dark in her eyes as her fingers battled with the clasp, but it was gone as soon as I’d seen it.
“Know what? Y’ain’t as talkative as you were before.” I knew she was trying to sympathize, but something about her words felt wrong. I was a perfectly capable adult who didn’t need my aunt to make lunch for me. I wasn’t the same little girl who’d brushed away hot tears as we stood over Dalton’s fresh grave, mortified at what had happened, not necessarily that it was he who’d died. I’d hardened since then, figured Aunt Ju wasn’t worth talking to.
She turned and knelt down towards a cabinet, opened its door, and stared inside for a few seconds. Must’ve gotten lost in thought while looking, because when she stood, she was empty-handed. Her eyes, sunken and yet full of glossy ignorance, traveled to the digital clock on the microwave hanging over the oven. Her lip twitched. “Aw, shoot. I don’t have time to make you lunch, kid. Flight’s in thirty. Think you’ll be alright? Have any questions?” Her voice crackled like cheap, peeling wallpaper. Nothing she asked was out of genuine concern.
Before I could answer, she was rushing to the front door, where she grabbed a heavy purple coat, leather gloves, and a white, oversized wool scarf—preparation to visit Uncle Clyde in Alaska. With everything bundled in her tan arms, she shimmied back into the kitchen to hear my reply. Eyebrows pointed like birds taking flight. Garments spilling out of her grasp.
Despite her atrocious appearance—which, under any other circumstance might have forced me to grimace—the wooden traps begged for my attention. They were just too disturbing to ignore. Any question I may have had went out the window as my chest heaved with disgust. Sour and raw and weighty with hatred.
“Apart from the apparent mouse problem?” I stared at one trap’s glistening wire clamp as the words churned through my teeth like metal through a grinder—saying them went against everything I believed in. Even thinking about the possibility that such innocent creatures could pose this inexcusable threat coated my tongue with bitter loathing.
A toothy smile found its way up to my eyes, completely fake and probably more creepy than assuring. “No, I don’t think so.” The words were robotic.
My seething hatred went through her like a ghost. She didn’t show any signs of offense.
“Okay, sweetie. I’ve gotta git.” The fake Southern accent—an attempt to be playful, lighthearted—sloshed through her lips. “Have fun, ’ kay? I’ll be back Sunday evenin’. Don’t burn the place down, now.”
The door clicked behind her, self-locking.
And then it was just me, alone in the outskirts of Midland, taking care of my aunt’s mansion as if it were a child or a dog or something other than this inanimate, billion-dollar home with Hollywood-level security. What made her so desperately need a house-sitter when this house could clearly protect itself?
A sigh puffed out one side of my mouth as my legs swung themselves from the barstool. My bare feet touched the cold tile and a wave of icy electricity jolted up my calves. The cool floor was strangely inconsistent with the stagnant hot air hovering in the kitchen. A part of me thought that maybe there was another reason the floor was so cold, not just to combat the Texas heat. As if Ju had purposefully done this to shock the tiny, soft feet of wandering mice. . .
It’s only for a weekend. There was that thought again, calming the heat that rose to my cheeks, the intensity that balled my hands into fists. Only for a weekend.
Disturbing visions combatted this thought: the slaughtering of hundreds of harmless mice, their fuzzy faces mashed into the bait. Images that wouldn’t go away, couldn’t ever disappear. Ingrained so deep in the memories I could never erase.
But I could at least postpone the inevitable.
Feet slapping the cold ground and resolve setting my jaw, I started my mission with the three traps behind the toaster oven. Heaping globs of JIF stuck to each trap’s lever, an enticing meal for the unsuspecting mouse.
My hasty search for a butter knife began, fingers shaking drawers open with angry disappointment each time they didn’t find silverware. Of course, the absolute last drawer in the kitchen had to contain her tiny collection of luxury utensils, shining like they’d never been used. A tall slender knife slipped into my hand, and I was quick to scrape each and every trap of its bait, deliberately setting them off in the process. Each snap was a success, the metal bar clamping down on the cutlery with full force.
The final trap was in the last place any mouse would ever think to go: the freezer.
Everyone in the family knew Jewell was crazy. The second she divorced Clyde, she kept her end of the prenup and bought her dream home. But no one ever wanted to visit her. Not with how she’d treated our own flesh and blood. Losing her son made her go a little nuts, proven by her dedication to preserving the one thing that was left for her: the house.
But everyone knows a mouse can’t get into a freezer. Nor would it want to.
Sighing, I snatched the trap and closed the door, then added it to the heap of wooden rectangles glistening in the sink under the warm kitchen lights. There were probably thirty traps in the kitchen alone.
It was oddly therapeutic. On the surface, I’d simply cleaned the kitchen of tacky, cruel weapons. But deep down, I knew I’d done something greater.
A growl erupted from my stomach. Eyes flicked to the microwave clock. An hour had already gone by, but all land mines were now defused, eliminating the risk to the mice undoubtedly cowering within Jewell’s walls. It was time well spent.
The labor of cleaning each trap must’ve influenced my palette, because an obscurely alluring peanut butter and jelly sandwich danced its way into my thoughts, offering a solution to this sudden hunger. Imagining the fluffy bread topped with a mixture of preserves and peanut perfection was all it took for me to grab the bread and begin searching cabinets for condiments. The jelly was in the fridge and the peanut butter hid in the cabinet Ju had looked in earlier.
My hands hastily unscrewed the jar, then worked their magic to get every last streak of creamy goodness out of the container and onto a thin slice of bread. I almost laughed at the sight of what I’d created. The jelly on one half was hardly a fraction of the mound of paste on the other. Smiling, I put the slices together and raised the abomination to my accepting lips.
Bon appétit.
My teeth sank into the bread, and it plastered the walls of my mouth like glue, making chewing nearly impossible. A muffled sigh broke through my lips while my teeth worked hard to break down the conglomeration of bitter nuttiness and what should have been sweet grape.
As I pondered the unique flavor, teeth halfway through the bread and its contents continuing to ooze into my cheeks, a flicker of light from the living room stole my attention. Knowing Aunt Jewell and how she cared for her perfect home, there was no way she would forget to change out a bulb. I felt uneasy. Suddenly this high-security home felt transparent, like anyone could peer in and watch me. It already felt like someone was.
My jaw locked in place after swallowing the ball of wet bread. How long had I been sitting here, gnawing on the sticky dough? Too long, my thoughts warned me. I had to check if anything felt out of place. I had to make sure this strange phenomenon was a normal abnormality—something unusual, but not dangerous.
I turned to look at the purposefully placed furniture worshiping a familiar white brick fireplace: the living room. An old stained-glass torchiere—turned on, but dim—leaned against Ju’s shiny leather recliner. The light faltered again, evidently the source of the flickering. When was the last time Ju had replaced the bulb?
Had it been turned on when I arrived?
It had to have been; it was an older lamp with a thick plug that made a thunking noise when shoved into its socket. There was no way I would’ve missed it if someone had plugged it in.
Sure of this, I chucked the sandwich—its remains hit the inside of Jewell’s fancy trash bin, chunky bits of brown trailing down the white plastic as it descended—and made my way into the living room to unplug the lamp.
Thunk. I smirked at this reassurance.
Even with the natural glow of sun melting through the cloth blinds, the room felt cold and dark. Funny how much the musty old lamp filled the space with light.
The plug still heavy in my fingers, I reconnected it. Thunk. But even after reinserting the prongs, there was no flicker. No buzz. Nothing.
Instead, there was a faint sound from somewhere upstairs, like something small and metallic dropping onto the hardwood flooring. A peculiar sound to fill the silence.
It could’ve been the breeze from a box fan pushing plastic blinds into one another. Or maybe Jewell left the TV on. But as I cracked my ears open to listen for anything more, whatever made the sound had already gone.
Gone? Could something be gone if nothing was there to begin with? The paranoia shook my spine. Somehow, I still hadn’t convinced myself that there really wasn’t anyone here except for me, myself, and I.
The stippled hairs on my arms and legs could testify to my bravery as I moved towards the sound to investigate.
I sighed as my heavy legs took me to the second floor, where I’d dropped off mom’s suitcase and plugged in my old Samsung.
As I turned into the open doorway, light pooled in like liquid gold, drenching the green walls in warmth and bringing life to the matching mahogany furniture that crowded the space. I’d listen for the sound here, where my stuff was. Where I felt safe.
After pulling my phone from its charger, I sat on the bed. The old spring mattress whined under my weight, though I wasn’t particularly large.
But the sound I heard before was still gone. Had I imagined it?
Something must have crossed over the sun, because the room immediately darkened, muting everything in a deep, forest green. Accompanying this ambiance was a sudden, threatening feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. It burrowed there and spun its webs like an artisan arachnid. I clutched at my stomach as if that would calm the pulsing pain. When it didn’t, I groaned.
That’s when the blood began to drip from my mouth.
At first, the dark, red-black beads rained over my sweaty hands, across my phone’s cracked screen. But I wasn’t in pain; I was simply confused.
I reached to my lips and the warm, wet liquid clung to my fingers like fresh ink. I didn’t need to look at my hand for confirmation, but I did anyway.
My phone dropped to the floor as I stood, scrambled my way into the bathroom, and checked my reflection in the tiny golden mirror.
Not much out of the ordinary, except the crimson liquid oozing from my gums, spilling out over my lips. Shock shrouded my mind and numbed the blows of pain that were slowly spinning my organs with silk. They felt foreign, large, and were getting larger as I stood.
My hands were now shaking and tinged slightly green. The blood was already dried and black.
When I returned to my reflection, I could see the realization before it actually hit me.
The peanut butter was poisoned. Aunt Ju was truly insane. Why poison a whole jar? Had she known I would eat it?
A cough sputtered through my lips, spraying a streak across the little mirror and distorting my pale complexion.
The pain throbbed in my throat, traveled down and strangled each of my organs.
I remembered the memory clearly—Dalton’s face slowly rippling with agony after swallowing a fingerful of bait—but there was no blood, no physical signs beyond his pinched eyebrows. Neither of us knew it was contaminated.
And then there was Aunt Ju. She’d screamed in anger, in confusion. And she’d blamed me. Still did, ten years later.
A bloody cough gurgled in my throat. I was for sure dying, but this wasn’t how Dalton went. He wasn’t torn from the inside. . . was he? No, he couldn’t have handled a pain like this.
Was this her plan all along? To avenge her son?
How did she know I would crave that sandwich?
My breath hitched in my throat.
The traps—
My legs became dough, folding beneath me as if giving me the chance to pray one last time. To beg for my life.
I didn’t.
As I fell onto my back and felt my breath grow heavy and slow, my thoughts laughably concentrated on one thing: the mice. Why had I cared so much for them? It all seemed so silly now.
The thought that I’d be dying such a vile, heinous death bent my lips into a smile, as though a part of me found humor in this irony.
I had killed Dalton. We had just been kids and it was a stupid dare, but it was still my doing.
That thought echoed as I stared at the ceiling, blood continuing to drip from the side of my mouth. The edges of my vision were slowly invaded by a welcome darkness.
Soon, everything was black, but my eyes stayed open.
Like a mouse caught in Aunt Ju’s trap.
