The Stomper

The Stomper 

Dylan was slumped on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him like a taco. Through the black hair on his forehead, he watched his comfort show, restarting Bojack Horseman for the eighth time. He was halfway into an episode when he got an ad. A slender woman stood holding a microphone with trembling hands, a large white van with a satellite on top next to her. He reached for the controller, but before he could press down to skip, he noticed the date on the edge of the screen. Current news on an ad? His finger hovered over the button. 

“Serial killer known as Stomper continues to run rampant in Atlanta, Georgia. He is currently wanted for 12 charges of homicide. If anyone knows anything about him, or his whereabouts, please contact the city's police department. You could be saving multiple lives.” 

“Hey Annie! Have you seen this?” Dylan shouted down the hallway to his younger sister. They had moved to Atlanta together, tired of Iowa's rural life. 

Her slippers dragged as she lumbered in, large textbook in hand. 

“What is it? I'm studying for that big Bio exam I have next week.” 

“Come, come, they're talking about that serial killer.” 

“Okayy,” she sighed, “I'm going.” 

As she sat, Dylan turned up the volume. 

The county sheriff was speaking. 

“This crazed man, otherwise known as Stomper, executes all of his homicides with the same method. He steps on some part of the victim, usually their joints or hands, but it always ends with a stomp on those small bones that make up the spine, the vertebrae.” “Eww!” Annie yelped. 

“You think he has some sort of foot fetish?” Dylan murmured. 

“What? Ew, that doesn't even make sense?!” She got up, laughing. “You know what, I don't even wanna know what you're thinking.” 

“Sorry, I mean, it's just a little weird, most serial killers stab or choke people. This just seems a little like … kinky … weird, I don't know.” 

A picture flashed on the screen, bringing their attention back to the sheriff. One minute left on the ad. 

“From saliva samples we found on one of the victims' ankles, we believe the killer to be a caucasian male, and from footprints we know he wears black leather boots with a flat bottom. 30 seconds left. 

A voice out of frame shouted, “How do you know he's a man? It could be a woman, couldn't it?” 

“It could, but the killer has size 14 feet, men's size. That would have to be a very large lady. It's unlikely.” 

“Is there any way the public can identify him?” 

“Well, we believe he has a limp, as all the crime scenes show that while he flees, a blood trail drags across the floor behind his right foot. If anyone knows anything, please call 911. And everybody, please, be careful. Nowhere is safe.” 

The hairs along their arms began to rise. 

“That was eerie,” Annie said. 

“Yeah, it was. I didn't like that. Like what do they expect us to do if nowhere is safe?” Dylan responded. 

“I don't even know. Set up a freaking bunker?” 

“Yeah. Maybe we should, how about a blanket fort?” 

“I don’t know, Dylan–look, I have to study. I'm going to my room.” 

Textbook still in hand, she made her way back down the hallway, the TV slowly being filtered out by her footsteps; tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. As she opened the door to her bedroom, Dylan shouted once more. 

“Hey, isn't it weird that they don't know his cause? I mean, his motive for killing?” “Yeah, I guess so, I don't know if all people have motivations though.” 

“What do you mean? Don't all killers have some sort of reason?” 

“I don't know, just let me go study, please.” 

“I'm telling you,” he hummed, “it could be a kinky thing.” 

“Yeah, maybe you're right. Alright, I’m going back to my torture.” 

She shut the door, knees buckling and dropping the textbook as she collapsed on the wooden floor, choking back a sob. She was so, so tired of school. It was the fourth day in a row of studying, but still, she didn't get it. Tomorrow, at noon, she was going to fail her exam. Mom wouldn't be happy with her if she dropped out. Mom hadn’t raised quitters, she raised stubborn butts. 

Annie grabbed the textbook and crawled into her chair, thin arms shaking and knees bruised from the hardwood floor. She opened the textbook, trying to study, but her eyes drifted up to the yellow picture frame with red and blue balloons on the side. Inside was a black and white photo of Annie hugging her mother by the leg. Annie had painted the frame when she was eight and given it to her mother for her birthday. Now that she was 19, she didn't think her mom would be proud of her. Teardrops blemished the pages in her textbook for a moment; until she took a deep breath, shut the textbook, turned off the lights, and let herself drop face-first onto her 

bed. Forgetting to close the blinds, let alone notice the face on the other side, the shallow breaths fogging the glass as the gloved fingers tried to pry her window open. 

A squirrel sat on a tree behind the figure, watching. Acorn in hand, he munched furiously, interested in this beast that wore all black, down to the black cape. It, the beast, had its back hunched over against the window, leg shaking, pushing against the dirt on the floor. The squirrel jumped off the tree in search of another snack, and when it came back, the monster was gone. All that remained was a single shoe indent, deep within the dirt. 

. . . 

It was noon when Dylan entered Annie's room. She laid face-down on the bed. “Hey Annie,” he whispered, “wake up, wake up.” 

No response. 

He raised his voice. “Hey wake up … hey butthead, didn’t you have an exam today?” He got closer to her, finally understanding how they were related–she slept like a bear. Only difference was, she was hairier. He giggled and tapped her shoulder. Nothing. He shook her. Suddenly she woke up in a loud gasp, like someone who had just woken up from an all-consuming nightmare. Dylan flinched back. 

“WHAT TIME IS IT?!” Annie shouted. 

“Um, um, it's around noon something, maybe twelve o’ two?” he said. 

“Shoot, fuck, freak, ahhhhh, I’m late!” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“Let me change, let me change, and, and um, get the car started for me, yeah?” “Okay.” 

She undressed and jumped into baggy sweatpants, skipping the shirt and throwing on a hoodie. 

“Fuck fuck fuck. I'm so dumb,” she wailed. 

She slipped on her shoes, struggling to tie them. As she fumbled with the strings, she noticed the picture frame of her mother on the floor. How did it get down there? On top of it, covering her mothers face, was a small, blue sticky note. She finished poorly tying her shoes, and grabbed the picture, reading the note. 

She's dead isn't she? Does it make you hurt? 

The writing wasn’t Dylan’s. It was nothing like she had ever seen–the words were small, sharp, as if the person writing them did it with the force it would take to stab someone. TRRRRR TRRRRR TRRRRR, the alarm on her nightstand rang. Annie startled, jumping to her feet and leaving the picture frame on her desk. She turned off the alarm, hating that she always snoozed it while half-asleep. Without another second wasted, she grabbed her laptop, shoved it into her backpack, and ran outside. 

“Drive safe butthead,” Dylan said, getting out of the car. 

“Yeah, I will, I know I'm a bit sleepy so I'll drive as safe as I can, but as quick too. I think they started the test already,” she frowned. She drove cursing at each yellow light, but reluctantly made sure to not take any reds. 

. . . 

When Annie got home, Dylan was still on the couch, taking his day off to restart Bojack for the ninth time. She sighed and slumped into the couch next to him. 

“How'd it go sis?” 

“Like shit. I got there with 30 minutes left, and the exam had 60 questions. I got through the first 40, multiple choice, but the last 20 were free responses, and I just left them blank. I-I just, I don't even know anymore–” She grabbed one of the blankets next to Dylan and plopped it over her head. 

“I'm sorry that happened. I wish I could help, but you already know I'm not as smart as you–hell, I'm not even college.” 

Her voice was muffled from under the blanket. “That doesn't mean anything. You're still very smart. College doesn't mean anything except regurgitating junk. Being smart is more like being able to manage stress and life … I’m stupid. Not even book smart. Useless smart.” “C’mon, don't say that.” 

“It's true.” 

They sat in silence. 

“Here, go to your room and take a nap. I'll go cook something for us, c'mon. I'll wake you up when it's ready.” 

“Sure,” Annie said, and slowly got up. Blanket still over her head, she stumbled into a wall, and another, until she finally found the path to the hallway and made her way into her room. It was cold; she wondered when she had opened the window. She took off the blanket and gazed outside, taking in the cold, refreshing air. She noticed a squirrel on a tree branch, directly in her line of sight, and cracked a smile. She wanted to pet it, but it seemed busy, eating away at an acorn, so she closed the window. Better not risk getting rabies, she guessed. 

Shrugging her shoulders, she went to bed, got on her phone, and began to watch Youtube. Halfway though the first video, she got up to use the bathroom. She went down the hall and entered the small room decorated with different burgundy and purple towels hanging on the  racks. The door creaked open as she went in. She sat on the toilet, half-dressed, looking at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the ventilation. She glanced down towards the front of the shower, then looked back when the yellow picture frame on the floor caught her eye. She hunched over, reaching for it. The sticky note from earlier … only now, it had different writing on it. 

I understand. Life is sorrowful, brutal, depressing. Why even live? 

Goosebumps covered her thighs. She carefully looked around the restroom, analyzing the small window near the top. No one would ever be able to watch from outside. She placed the frame on the sink, finished her business, and went to wash her hands. As she stood, she thought she heard something behind the indigo shower curtains. Tap–Tap, Tap–Tap. She ran out the restroom and went down the hall towards the kitchen. 

“Dylan! I think there’s something–someone in the restroom!” she shouted. Dylan took off an earbud, scratching his hair. 

“What?!” he responded. 

“Just come please! I-I'm scared.” 

He grabbed the sharp knife he’d been using to cut carrots and followed her. Their footsteps echoed as they trudged down the hall. 

“Where is it coming from?” 

“Behind the shower curtain.” 

“Okay, if I see anything, we'll shut the door and call the police.” The sheriff's line from yesterday ran through his head. Nowhere is safe. 

She stayed outside of the restroom door, giving him space. She didn't want to get too close to him and his carrot cutter. 

“Do you hear anything?” she whispered. 

Dylan stayed silent, hands shaking with deep breaths, trying to stay level-headed. He pulled the curtain. Inside, he saw his dirty footprint from when he had taken a shower earlier. That was it. Nothing else. No one else. 

“There's nothing,” he sighed, feeling the tension release. 

“Are you sure?” she asked. 

“Absolutely. You okay sis?” 

“Yeah … But look at the sink, why was the picture of mom in here? Look, it even has a freaking note on it!” 

Dylan studied the sticky note, and recognized his sister's writing. Well, it looked like she had written it when she was ten–it was messy, but it was her. He recognized how she wrote her g’s, the bottoms were astronomically large, and he could tell the person wrote each letter from top to down, something his sister did. He thought it was either her or … forget it. He shook his head, rereading the words. 

I understand. Life is hard, brutal, sad, depressing. Why even live? 

He didn't realize his sister's depression dated from this far back into her life. “Annie, you wrote this,” he said, pitying. 

“No I didn't.” 

“Maybe not, but it looks like your older writing, you know, when you were younger, eight years old? Maybe twelve. You did always hold your pencil wrong, like a baby who just doesn't wanna let go of anything.” 

She said nothing. Upset, a new pain writhing in the back of her skull. 

“Maybe you should take that nap, I'm almost done with the chicken noodle soup,” he continued. 

“Sure.” 

As she entered her bedroom, picture frame in hand, she noticed it was still cold, and that the window was slightly open. She shut it. Closed the curtains as much as they could, but they pushed away and left a small gap to the outside world. She left the picture frame on her nightstand. And went to sleep. 

. . . 

When she woke up, the room was pitch-black. She felt good, rested, but her heart was thumping unreasonably fast. Her breath was shallow, and her arms were cold. She stayed in bed for what seemed like a long minute, her eyes darting across the room to make sure there wasn't anything in there with her. She studied the door, the nightstand, the fan, and when her eyes went to the desk, two cold eyes stared back at her. The pupils were dark, but the white of the eyes burned through her. 

“Dylan?” she whispered and hoped. 

No response. 

“Dylan this isn't funny,” she quietly cried out. “Dylan, please?” 

And in a moment, she knew her brother would never take a prank this far. The hairs on her arms pricked, and the pressure in her heart caved sharp and deep. 

She lay there for a minute. Unsure what to do. 

Turn on the lights, I need to turn on the lights, but then what? What if it really is a big demon, or some sort of rapist, or serial killer?! THEN WHAT?! 

“I'm not here to hurt you,” his voice carried through the dark. It was quiet, yet loud, like a whisper in her ear. 

The voice continued, “Quite the opposite. You've been hurt enough, I'm here to save you.” 

Her eyes widened. There was no fatigue, no fuzzy feeling–she was utterly awake. This wasn't a dream. 

“C-c-can I turn on the lights?” her breathing irregular. 

“No, you wouldn't want that. If you see me, we can't talk, we can't fix our problems.” She stayed mute. Watching the eyes in the dark, watching them as they shifted from left to right. They were small, cunning eyes. She had to get Dylan. 

“Now, do you miss her?” 

The pressure in her chest doubled. 

“Who?” 

“Your mother, dear.” 

“How do you know about that–” 

“I asked if you missed her,” his voice sharpened. 

“Y-yes,” she managed. 

“And why do you miss her? When did you lose her?” 

“She's my m-mom. I'm 19, so I lost her … 11 years ago.” 

“19 is a good age, a ripe age, you should be happy. It's criminal that you're not.” He started laughing, a deep, bellowing laugh that rasped in his throat. 

She didn't laugh. She noticed a sudden breeze on one of her legs and pulled the blanket over her entire body. Tears were making their way down her face. She needed Dylan. He would save her. How could she get his attention? He had to be in the living room. “How did she pass away?” the eyes asked. 

“C-car c-crash.” 

“And who was at fault?” 

“Her. She made a left turn and forgot to yield.” 

“So tell me, why do you feel so bad, dear?” 

“I-I don't.” 

“Are you sure? Don't lie to me, I've been watching you.” 

She stiffened, but her hands trembled. 

“I-I-I distracted her.” Tears were flooding now, cascading down. 

“Tell me more,” his voice lowered a pitch, demanding. 

“S-s-she uh, uhm, uhm,” Annie started hyperventilating. Trying to catch her breath as the tears smeared her face. The eyes inched closer. 

It was only until she could smell the pungent breath that she flinched back. But before she could move away, there was a large hand on the top of her back. She was being held against his chest. 

“It's okay, it's okay, it'll be over soon, so let it all out,” he whispered. 

She felt a chill. This wasn't right. She had to get out of here, get Dylan. She felt the man let go. He backed away. There was the sound of something dragging, scraping the floor. She recognized who this was. She had to leave. She had to leave. SHE HAD TO LEAVE. “C-can I go to the bathroom?” she said. 

“No dear.” 

“Please. I really can't hold it.” 

“Will you shut the hell up?!” He got in her face. “You impudent girl, I'm trying to help you. So let me help you.” He muttered, teeth grinding. His eyes were bloodshot, the veins in the white bulging. 

She stood silent. Scared, understanding that he was a ticking time bomb. Any second he would snap. It was just a matter of when. 

“Talk,” he slowly said. 

“Uhm, uhm, okay, uhm, I just can't help, but feel like I killed her. She died, because I was kicking the back of her chair. I thought it was funny, Dad used to laugh when I did it too. But that day, it was only us in the car, and she was waiting to make a left turn. I kicked her chair, and she shot me a warning glance in the rear view mirror, and right after I did it again, she made the left turn. I-I don't know if she saw the car or not, b-but her airbag didn't turn on.” “Good. Goood.” 

Annie sniffled, trying not to let the mucus fall. She cleaned her nose with a blanket, and instinctively reached for a tissue on her nightstand. 

The large beast slapped her across the face with unimaginable accuracy, and she fell out of the bed, hitting her head on the counter of the nightstand. The picture frame of her mother tipped over, hitting the ground and shattering. Her forehead was bleeding profusely. She groaned, and her hands raced to her head. 

“How did it make you feel talking about your mom?” It wasn't a question, but an order. Annie reached her head up and knowing the fiend was close to exploding, she screamed. “DYLANNN!” 

He stomped on her ankle. There was a crunch, her bones, a sharp pain. Annie grimaced, groaned, and began crawling towards the door. 

“D-DYLAN PLEASEEE!!!!” 

“I asked you a question.” 

“D-Dyl–” Another stomp, a crack, and her other ankle was bent sideways. She shrieked in pain. Louder than she had been yelling. 

She dragged her lower half to the door handle, tried to reach, tried to open the door, tried to at least warn him, save him. Please, please, please. 

He got down next to her ear, whispering, “I'm saving you, you poor, depressed girl. Let me give you release, tell me about your mother, your failed exam, your miserable life.” She turned towards him, and with her nails, swiped at his disgusting eyes. She felt her nails dig into his skin, and into his soft, gooey eye. 

“YOU–UGHH!” he groaned. 

Annie reached for the doorknob, finally touching it, gripping it. She tried to pull right, tried, and couldn’t. Her arms fell, and she tried again, and, there was a crunch of the bones in her wrist against the door, pushing the door open. Her eyes closed in pain, and she felt the world getting spiny, dizzy, dark. 

“D-D-DYLAN HEL–” 

There was a final crunch as her spine bent forward, and snapped in half. Blood gushed out of her mouth. 

“My poor dear, if only you knew. I sedated him a long time ago, he couldn't help … but don't worry. I did. I saved your poor little soul. At least you went out thinking you saved your big brother's life. Truly admirable.” 

Hours later, Dylan woke, yawning. Wrapped like a taco, he turned on the TV. “Hey Annie, are you hungry?” he shouted. 

No response. 

“Hey Annie!? You there?!” He got up, turned on the lights, and went down the hallway. Tap, Tap, Tap. 

He saw her, her head laying sideways, blood spilling from her mouth like a broken cup. “OH MY GOD, ANNIE ANNIE ANNIE, SIS, SIS, OH MY GOD.” He threw himself down to the floor, shaking her shoulder, hands covered in blood, until he saw the rest of her. Her back was bent in two directions. 

“A-A-Annieee…” 

Tears streamed down his face, mournful, rageful, revengeful tears. He grabbed a kitchen knife, searched the room, but found nothing–nothing except a shattered, yellow picture frame on the floor and an open window. He called the police. 

. . . 

News headcast: “College Student Annie Miller Murdered in Cold-Blood by Stomper, Older Brother Swears He Will Get Revenge.