Simon Says

October 27th, 2010, 3:55pm

‘Mum, dad, I’m home!’ I called, dropping my bag in a heap at the doorway and heading to my room. I stopped, looking at my door, which had a piece of paper attached to it.

Simon says, open the drawer to your desk, the piece of paper read.

A sense of excitement filled my gut. My parents were sending me on a scavenger hunt!

I looked at my dusty cream colored desk drawer. Something was off about it, something that I just couldn't quite place my finger on. After a bit of intense staring, I opened the drawer. Inside was another sheet. It read, open your wardrobe. I opened my wardrobe, which was quite obviously off its hinges. This was wrong. Very wrong. Look under your bed, the one inside my dirty white wardrobe said. The notes took me all over the house, and even into the backyard! Door, desk, wardrobe, bed, bathroom, shed, behind the T.V, the kitchen, the dining table, before one finally said, 'Simon says, go to your parents’ bedroom.'

I stopped outside my parent’s bedroom. I was never allowed inside my parents’ room! It must be a big surprise. I heard a scratching noise behind me. I spun around. Nothing. I’d been hearing the chilling noises all afternoon. I put my frets to the side. After all it was probably just a mouse or something.

I tensed myself before opening the door. For a second my blood ran cold as my eyes adjusted to the sight. And then I breathed a sigh of relief. What looked like body bags was surely just bin-liners stuffed with cushions, even if it did look very defined. And what looked like blood was probably just fake blood, though it did have a weird tangy smell that was probably just vinegar. Maybe the bin-liners were filled with presents!

‘Very funny Mum and Dad!’ I said, laughing to myself. And then I noticed one final piece of paper attached to the bin-liner, written in the same red paint the pieces had been written in all afternoon.

Turn around, it said.

I turned around, a smile on my face. That smile quickly diminished as I realized what I was seeing. The thing I was looking at had no eyelids, though eyes as big as doorknobs, and pupils as small as pen points. It had holes for ears, it was wearing a mop looking wig and had a pale face. It had a neck the length of 4 giraffe necks stretched into one thin trunk like neck, coiled like a slinky. One of its arms was long as a rope and thin as a whip, a whip coated in blood from a recent massacre, with a deadly spike on the end. The other arm was a beachball sized flesh sac dripping acid. Its waist and legs were so slim they were almost non-existent, and the things’ feet ended in knives. The creatures’ lips, split down the middle, were stretched into a hollow, misleading smile.

’Simon says, ‘you lose’!’ it screeched before driving its whip through my chest, drawing the spike around my still beating heart. The last thing I saw was the creatures deathly face and my own blood splattered across the room before I was dragged onto a body bag and zipped up, never to see the light of day again.