I was fortunate that this story flowed. I’ve had some bumps in the road during this series, some taking over two hours to complete, so it’s always nice when something just comes out almost effortlessly. Horror is one of my favorite genres, but I don’t write in it often. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the pressures of genre popularity, or maybe it’s me liking too many things and never knowing where to go. Whatever it is, I’m glad I give myself the opportunities to write in genres I don’t normally write in for my longer-form works.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by David Bocquillon Carrasco
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/48QnW4
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Dear Sister. Do you remember the prairie that you called a pasture? The one with the scraggly grass that was more like inverted roots, thick and twisted? I didn’t know what the difference between a prairie and pasture was until later, when we were tucked in bed, moonlight streaming in through the open window by which I could read, even under my blanket.
I told you it was a prairie, an expanse of flat land with little to no trees, while a pasture was land for cows to graze.
“Why can’t cows graze in a prairie?” you asked.
You were always smarter than me, no matter how much I read, and you didn’t read at all.
All I could do was read the definitions again, hoping to find an answer. My finger became black with ink from stroking the definitions too many times.
“Go to sleep,” you said. “You look like a ghost with the sheet over your head.”
I wished I could have seen myself, as a ghost. My love of all things dark and mysterious was the one thing I had over you. So, instead of going to sleep, I made moaning sounds, whimpering sounds. I found words that made me cry. They made you cry, too, and you threatened to tell Mom, so I stopped.
Dear Sister. Do you remember when we snuck out at night to the prairie that you still called a pasture? Looking for hoofprints, cow patties, even inspecting blades of grass for bite marks, as if you could tell. Tears could be bites. You tore your dress that day, rolling on the grass down the only slope in the entire prairie. I knew that might happens, so I’d brought my sewing kit, the size of a matchbox.
“Just because you carry around a sewing kit doesn’t mean you can sew,” you said.
That made me sad, and I told you so. I also told you that I’d been sewing for some time, and if you cared enough about my interests you’d have seen the quilt I was working on. Sure, I kept it hidden under my bed, because it was for you. I was making it for you. Always spoiling surprises. Always ruining everything. How I wished you wouldn’t do that.
“I’m sorry,” you said. But I could tell you really weren’t. You were combing your hair with your fingers. You didn’t even need a real comb. Your fingers were enough, sculpting the bouncy ringlets that hung down to breasts. My chest was as flat as the prairie, the ribcage to my belly the only slope. Even though I was only a year older than you, and you’d had breasts for a year.
Dear Sister. Do you remember when I really scared you? When you woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, because you always had to every night? I was standing there, just behind the wardrobe door that was left open, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary, because we did it all the time. I wore my sheet over my head, the one you hated me wearing so much, with the sheep jumping over fences you said made scary faces when the lights were out. I didn’t need to cut eyeholes because I’d fallen asleep so many times with the sheet over my eyes that I had gotten used to seeing between the threads.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t jump. No “boos” or moans like you see on TV or hear from kids on Halloween. No, I said something in a voice I didn’t think possible. And what I said was I would kill you then eat your soul. I’d decided that’s what ghosts did in that moment. Pretty creative, huh? I don’t even read scary stories, so I know it was my own creation.
You stopped, so still I thought time had frozen. I couldn’t even hear you breathe. After a long silence came the sound of your pee hitting the floorboards. It sounded like a waterfall on rocks. It sounded like hail on the tin roof of the shed we don’t use anymore.
I felt terrible. “I’m sorry,” I said. But I really wasn’t. I was happy to have something over you. I still cleaned up the mess. With my favorite sheet, even. Your least favorite. I led you back to your bed, brushed aside the hair that should have been mussed but wasn’t, kissed your ceramic forehead without a single blemish, when I had plenty. I almost cried then, thinking of what it must be like to kiss my forehead. I sang to you until you fell asleep.
Dear Sister. Do you remember when you said you were tired of going to the prairie you still called a pasture? That you were too old for childish games now and had started hanging out with everyone but me?
I do.
“One more time,” I said. “For your sister.”
That worked, to my surprise. You even agreed to go out at night, my favorite time, when the ground was cool and the crickets sang, and we’d roll in the grass long enough to make our backs itchy and then scratch each other’s.
Those were the best times, weren’t they? Before you grew up and turned into something I for once didn’t envy.
Dear Sister. Do you remember the razorblade I kept in my sewing kit? The one I killed you with? I’m not sure if you saw it when I offered to mend yet another tear in your night gown. I did mend it, though. You probably don’t remember that. Maybe one day I’ll know if ghosts can remember. I do know they can fly, because you do, but can’t talk, because you never talk to me when I visit you, out in the night. It’s colder now, and the crickets don’t sing. So I sing to you, like I did when I scared you as a ghost. But you don’t scare me, dear Sister.
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