The Footsteps

    "is this real is any of this real oh god what did I ever do to them to deserve this oh god please make it stop oh god oh god oh god save me"

    Eliza Marsch's thoughts roared almost as intensely as the flames consuming her home. The panicking woman's mind almost seemed to gloss over the fact that she had been the one to start the fire. In the moment, though, that didn't matter. Eliza would burn anything to escape the terrible sound of the footsteps.

    Eliza's (for lack of a better word) difficult circumstance had really begun about a year before. The day was bright and the warm sunlight reflected off of the snow-covered streets. It sent a message of hope to the people of New York, a hope for the coming spring, warm weather, and all-around good times. The only message Eliza received that day was a telegram from the coroner. It read:

    "IT IS WITH GREAT REGRET THAT WE INFORM YOU OF THE PASSING OF YOUR PARENTS."

    The weather stayed cheerful and optimistic, but, for Eliza, life became a thunderstorm. A funeral was held. Members and friends of the Marsch family shared sweet stories of bygone days, mostly exaggerations. Efram and Marietta Marsch had always been somewhat separated from the rest of the family. This may have been due to their almost elite status among the wealthiest of New York. The rest of the Marsch family regularly teetered on the brink of poverty. Efram and Marietta frequently attempted to help with money troubles. Despite their good intentions, the others never saw it as quite enough effort. Despite this, the couple was as close-knit as they could be. It was said that the passing of Marietta overwhelmed Efram with such terrible grief that he died upon hearing the news.

    Eliza had an enormous bond with her parents. While the news did not kill her, it changed her, inside and out. The lively girl who once stole the spotlight at every party found herself a recluse. Her luscious brown hair began to thin, gaining new streaks of gray. She became nearly unrecognizable to her remaining friends.

    During the funeral, Eliza alternated between extreme emotion and somber expressionlessness. Everything from then on was a blur - a strange, dreamless sleep. Eliza only remembered tiny flashes of the next weeks. If she concentrated, she could recall something about a will. Fragments came to her.

    " ... instructed in the will, their fortune will be split between the two of you." This was the voice of a stranger.

    "That shall be perfectly acceptable, Mr. Abbott, as long as the total is split most accurately." That was her brother, Orson, acting as prim and proper as always in the manner only a bank teller could.

    "The last matter to be taken care of is the house," said Mr. Abbott.

    "Ah, I am quite afraid I cannot take ownership," Orson replied, "as I am settled down out of state with my wife and children. Eliza, however..."

    Eliza aroused from her waking slumber to the clip-clop of hooves on the street. The air had gone back to its former frigidity, and the warm sunlight was nowhere to be found as the young woman gazed out of the carriage window at her childhood home. With its various turrets and elaborate stonework, it almost resembled a German castle more than an American home on 5th Avenue. Leaving the carriage, Eliza slowly walked to the massive slab of oak that served as the mansion's front door. After reminiscing for a moment, she decided that it was rather foolish to cry over a door and quite embarrassedly pretended to admire it casually. Entering the house, she saw a gaunt, gray figure in the entry hall's mirror. It was somewhat difficult to remember the little girl who daily looked into the same glass years ago.

    For a brief moment Eliza heard the sound of footsteps coming from the labyrinthine depths of the mansion. She at once found this very odd, as she had been the only one to enter the house. The movers transporting the few possessions she brought were only entering at that moment.