Digital Footsteps

By Brandy Woldstad

Adriana's tech-savvy parents frequently test her with computer puzzles and physical drills with no explanation.
 

The night Adriana wakes to the home security system going off, she believes her parents created another test for her.

Adriana's strange life grows stranger when she follows the rules instilled in her from childhood and uncovers a tech world hidden in plain sight.

If you like young adult, science fiction adventure stories, read Digital Footsteps today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandy Woldstad
• Release date: Dec 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393905851

Book preview

1

The screams of the security alarm penetrated my pleasant dreams. I bolted upright with a gasp of surprise. I kicked the blankets tangled around my ankles free and dropped my feet to the floor. I rubbed my temples as I stood, feeling disoriented.

My sleeveless nightgown untwisted as I grabbed my eyeglasses and scurried to my bedroom door. The silky hem brushed against the tops of my ankles.

A soft glow from the hallway nightlight peeked under the gap of my door. No shadows indicated anyone stood on the other side of my door, but that didn’t mean I was safe.

My finger hovered over the button to open my door. The alarm continued its obnoxious beep. How odd mom or dad hadn’t silenced the alarm. They were night owls and, considering the darkness, they should be in their offices writing programs.

Unless this was another test. I let my hand drop away from the button and cast a yearning look toward my bed. I’d rather sleep than solve some odd, arbitrary computer puzzles or run through a series of physical drills without an explanation of why I needed to do them.

The throbbing deep in my ears indicated that I needed to do something or remain deaf for the rest of my life.

With a sigh and quiet mutters about stupid tests late at night, I pressed the door button. I stepped out of view as the door slid open with a quiet hiss. I peered around the doorframe to confirm no nefarious person stood in the hall. A skill my parents taught me when I was six, which I learned isn’t a normal skill taught among my friends.

I stepped into the empty hallway, no longer feeling tired. I examined my door for a note or an envelope with my name, Adriana, scrawled across the front. Finding nothing, I tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as I could, more out of habit than out of necessity because I couldn’t imagine anyone in the house hearing my footsteps above the sound of the alarm.

A tiny blue light on the security camera in the corner of the hallway above the stairs indicated my movements were getting recorded. My gut twisted. The camera, according to my dad, only came on when the security system detected someone had entered the house or tampered with a security device.

The plush carpet rubbed against my bare feet as I ran down the stairs, no longer worried about being heard. I was pretty certain I was the only one in our four-bedroom house. The piercing alarm made it hard to focus on any other sounds.

No lights peered out from under the door of my parents’ office at the base of the steps. I shook my head in disbelief. This was definitely a test, much stranger than all the others combined. Often, the tests required me to complete a task in a short period of time, such as figuring out an account password or getting my bag packed and meeting someone in the car.

I typed a code to open the control closet, a space large enough to walk into and move around. It reminded me of the walk-in closet in my parents’ bedroom that could function as an extra bedroom if needed.

Tiny green, white, and red lights of different tech gadgets blinked on shelves around me. I blinked rapidly to help my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the auto lights.

A pale yellow sticky note with calla lilies around the edges hung on the security alarm control panel. The paper curled around my fingers as I pulled the note from the white control box.

The shrill alarm shouted at me to do something. The note, written in my dad’s distinctive, swirly scrawl, told me to leave the security alarm on. I tucked my long hair behind my ears. My forehead wrinkled in confusion.

The note told me to follow the instructions exactly as he had written them. I needed to grab my prepacked bags, grab my mom’s computer, and walked to Aunt Tilda’s without calling the police.

I covered my ears, hearing the paper crinkle under my hand as I bolted into my parents’ office next to the control room. What kind of test was this?

I surveyed my parents’ office, feeling a growing unease. The office was clean. Gone were the stacks of papers covering the desks and parts of the floors. Bare spots in the dust where my dad’s three monitors and two laptops once stood looked just as out of place.

A red light on my mom’s laptop blinked, indicating it was in sleep mode. I snatched it and the cord from the desk and sprinted up to my room.

My parents never explained why I needed to participate in their tests. They only told me they were important. The tests were definitely something I wouldn’t miss when I moved away from home in three years.

My prepacked suitcase struck my shin as I pulled it from the recesses of my closet. I tossed my mom’s laptop and my laptop into my dark gray backpack. I swept my stack of sketchbooks and drawing pencils, enough to hold me over for a few days, from my desk into my backpack.

My head pounded as I changed into gym clothes: an over-sized light-blue t-shirt with a robot on the front, and yoga pants. I pulled my hair back into a hairband, pulled a cap over my head, and put my windbreaker on.

My suitcase jolted my arm as I dragged it down the steps. The wheels of the suitcase glided along the kitchen floor to the back door. I slipped my feet into my well-worn running shoes without untying them.

The note in my hand crumpled as I pushed the back kitchen door button. It felt strange to push the lock, which made the door stay open when I knew I was leaving the house unattended. But it was what the note asked me to do, and I didn’t dare do anything different than my parents instructed. This wasn’t the first time I honored their strange requests.

Raindrops pelted my head and clung to the lenses of my glasses when I stepped outside. The Minnesota air smelled like hot, wet pavement when I stepped into the darkness of night. My parents’ car was not in the driveway.

The security alarm grew fainter the further I got from the house. Soon I heard the wheels of my suitcase grind against the gritty pavement of our long driveway. The sounds of the rain pelting my hood, the brim of my cap, and the leaves on the trees around me were a nice change, though I would have preferred to walk in no rain.

On Eagle Street, the weight of the suitcase combined with the divots in the road caused the suitcase to shift off balance numerous times. I wished my parents had gotten me a hover suitcase to make it easier to move quickly along the road. The suitcase was too heavy to carry the full distance to Aunt Tilda’s house.

The warm, humid wind whipped the rain around me. I adjusted my hood, but water still dribbled down my neck, wetting the front of my t-shirt. It felt like I walked on sponges when my shoes and socks got soaked.

I dragged the suitcase on the edge of the cement curbs and the paved road for the two miles to Aunt Tilda’s two-bedroom rambler on Maplewood Drive, taking the most indirect route I could find, as the note instructed.

The straps of my backpack dug into my shoulders when I knocked on Aunt Tilda’s door. Strands of my hair had worked loose from my ponytail and clung to my forehead. Water dripped from the top of my hood.

Aunt Tilda, who wasn’t really my aunt, answered the door dressed in a flowing purple shirt and tight jeans. She didn’t appear surprised to see a completely soaked fifteen-year-old girl standing on her front step at 2am.

She motioned for me to come inside quickly. I stepped inside, feeling a sudden cold from the moist heat outside to the cool air-conditioned air inside. Looking through my glasses was like trying to peek through the fog as I waited for the condensation to disappear.

Aunt Tilda wrapped her dark, slender arm around my shoulder, giving me a sideways hug. She smelled like cinnamon. The strands of Aunt Tilda’s hot pink hair brushed my cheek when she leaned close to my ear, murmuring assurances in her soft Indian accent. The words were meant to bring me comfort, but told me something else.

This was not one of my parents’ crazy tests. The instructions in the note were real. My parents left me on purpose and were not coming back.

Anger roiled inside me like torrents of rushing water. How could they leave? Why did they leave without me?

The betrayal pierced my insides with such a deep pain it took all of my focus not to double over. At that moment, I hated my parents for their cruel game of misleading me. I didn’t understand what the purpose was or what this was all about.

Aunt Tilda made a tutting sound. She let me go and walked from the entryway, waving for me to follow her.

Aunt Tilda ushered me through the familiar living room that looked like a tourist gift shop with bright knickknacks lining every flat surface in the room. The overstuffed gray furniture called out to me. I wanted to curl up and sleep right there in the living room to escape the confusion of my parents’ sudden disappearance. But Aunt Tilda had other plans.

She tugged on my arm.

Come, we need to hurry, she said.

For what?

Aunt Tilda let go of my arm. She put her hands on her hips and faced me. A look of annoyance briefly crossed Aunt Tilda’s kind face before it shifted to sympathy.

Please. Do everything I ask, Aunt Tilda said. Your questions will be answered soon enough.

My wet shoes squeaked on the ceramic-tiled floor as I followed Aunt Tilda into the kitchen. Aunt Tilda stopped by the kitchen island and turned to me.

Do you have your cellphone with you? Aunt Tilda asked.

I nodded.

Please hand it to me, Aunt Tilda said. She held out her hand, her light palm facing up. I slid the backpack from my shoulders and dug the phone out from the front pocket.

Aunt Tilda slid the back panel off the phone and removed the battery. She slid the drawer next to her right hip open and pulled out a hammer. Before I realized what she intended to do, Aunt Tilda smashed my cellphone into pieces. My body flinched with each strike.

A knot tightened in my gut as I realized all of my connections to Glenville were severed by the blunt end of Aunt Tilda’s hammer.

This is to ensure no one can find you, Aunt Tilda said.

My parents made sure the phone was secure, and I didn’t back up any of my data to clouds, I said, feeling even more queasy.

Aunt Tilda narrowed her eyes briefly. Before she pulled a bag from another drawer and swept the pieces into the bag.

You do not understand the full extent of security, Aunt Tilda said.

The pieces of my phone jingled softly as Aunt Tilda sealed the bag and handed it to me.

Put this back in your backpack. We will dispose of it when we get to our destination.

Where are we going? I asked.

Aunt Tilda put a finger to her lips. She scanned the kitchen as if expecting someone to leap out at her.

I put the phone in the front pocket of my backpack. Deep down, I hoped this was some sort of terrible joke or a sick game my parents devised to test my knowledge. Though I doubted it. Something terrible had happened.

Aunt Tilda pulled a card from the back pocket of her jeans and swiped it against the bright orange wall above the light switch. The kitchen lights flickered a moment before a grinding sound like glass scraping against glass filled the room. Lightning flickered outside.

My eyes grew wide as I watched the refrigerator automatically roll forward. The ceramic tile, where the refrigerator had once been, shifted down with a clunk and moved over to reveal a stairwell.

My feet froze to the floor as I stared at the dimly lit hole in the floor. My anger dissipated as panic set in. I hated dark spaces. The thought of hiding in a secret basement for any length of time caused my breath to grow short.

Aunt Tilda