Caramel Macchiato Murder Short Story

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Chapter One


It was after dusk. The teasing shadows had already tiptoed across the room and disappeared. In its place, there was darkness. It was in this darkness, in the still and quiet, that Belle could think about her life and whether she should stay in her aunt’s home or not.
Whether she even wanted to stay in Everly.
She could always leave town. It had only been a few weeks since she’d arrived. She hadn’t unpacked, her clothes still stuffed into trash bags. She hadn’t moved into the master bedroom yet, but spent her nights on the lumpy couch. Just reminding herself of this made her feel better about already caring about people. How did that happen so fast?
Any day she could leave if she wanted. It would just be a matter of grabbing her trash bags of clothes, cramming them into the back of her car, and driving away.
Where would she go? Now that was a different question.
Well, she would do what she always did. Find a place willing to hire her on the spot. A business that needed someone. It wasn’t usually the best place to work, but Belle didn’t mind doing dishes or cleaning. She worked hard, smiled, made polite conversation, and often they hired her full time. Then, she moved into other positions once she proved herself. It had worked that way ever since she left her aunt and uncle’s home.
But there was Bixby. And Lucas and Lexie.
She’d forget them soon enough. That was what she liked to tell herself. Really, she barely knew them. She’d write a nice letter to all of them and—
Thump.
She jolted in surprise at the sudden sound that echoed from the top floors of the house. Immediately, she convinced herself it was nothing, just a house doing what older houses do. That was what happened when you lived in a slanting, run-down house. There might be thumps and bumps as the house settled or the wind blew.
That was completely normal. Definitely. Surely, Aunt Eliza would have told her about the noises if she hadn’t been…. Honestly, she didn’t even like to say or think the word.
Murdered.
With a shudder, she pulled the ugly crocheted afghan up to her chin.
Thump. THUMP!
That was definitely not the noise of a house settling. It was immediate, the way the fear raced up her spine, the tingles, the sweat. When was this house ever so hot?
Flashbacks of Aunt Eliza's lifeless body replayed in her mind, scissors protruding from her chest and eyes vacant and glassy. She shuddered again.
Someone wanted this land. Not the house. Who would want the house? Someone wanted to bulldoze this house and sell the real estate for a handsome profit.
Thump.
Fear ratcheted up another level. It raced up her spine and danced on her shoulders.
If someone wanted her gone, they wouldn’t kill her to start, right? They would try to scare her away. By making noises in the house.
Did that mean someone was upstairs?
She swore there was a broken window in the attic and with the strange thump coming from above; it was hard to ignore the possibility of an intruder. She just hadn’t thought about it. One could lean a ladder against the house and sneak in through the window. It wasn’t impossible.
Thump.
It didn’t take long to find the broom and make her way up the stairs. She climbed up stair after stair, feeling uneasy with each step closer to the source of the noise. She crept through the bedroom until finally she stood face-to-face with the door leading to the attic. Of course, her mind went to the worst-case scenario. It didn’t have to be a person here to finish her off so they could buy the house. It could be a raccoon.
Her aunt and uncle loved those kinds of shows. The ones with unexplainable, mysterious things. Scary things. Gross things. They’d sit and cackle on the couch while Belle finished her nightly chores. There was that one show where a family had close to twenty raccoons living in their attic. They couldn’t get rid of them.
Could raccoons be rabid? Did they bite?
She hesitated, frightened by the possibilities. Raccoons weren’t her only worry. Her heart pounded in her chest and fear spiked in her veins as she conjured up images of an enormous spider poised to drop onto her shoulder. A big, fat hairy spider.
Thump!
With a shriek, she dropped the broom and rushed back down the stairs. She dive-bombed the couch and used the ugly afghan as a shield. She curled up in the corner as if she made herself small enough no one would see her.
She tried to sleep, but every time she dozed off there would be another thump from upstairs. Every time there was another thump, her aunt’s recent murder loomed in her mind.
What if the people that wanted this land so badly were willing to kill for it?