The Secrets of My Sister
Curiosity. Such a mind driven thing. Sometimes it's good; seeking knowledge and all that. Most of the time, though, curiosity is poison. They don't say 'curiosity killed the cat' for no reason.
My curiosity is eating away at the better parts of my sanity.
I've always been naturally curious; pillaging through drawers at friend's houses when they leave the room, searching through the attic at my grandma's house. I know it's a nasty habit. Invading people's privacy is rude and I'm a terrible house guest to keep. But I digress.
My sister left me alone in her house. Truly a moronic thing to do. She knows I can't help myself. But she said she had errands to do for a few hours and it was best if I stayed behind. Just as well. She's always been extremely more to herself. She even moved to a beach house on a secluded island in the Bahamas by herself. Don't get me wrong, coming here for two weeks vacation from my chaotic life is nice, but her staying here alone is bothersome. At least to me.
Now I have the opportunity to learn something about my quiet older sister. For a few hours. A pillager's dream.
I sigh, pushing away the book in my hands to stand from the soft couch. She has so many things to go through. My fingers are twitching with the possibilities. The house is light with windows upon windows on every wall. Everything is white trimmed, fancy but simple all the same. I cross the room to the small table set up beside the front door. Alana keeps her keys and mail here with a small dish for pocket change. Nothing worth thumbing through, though. I pull the single drawer of the table open and gasp.
A gun.
Okay, not too strange. She does live by herself. I actually feel better about her having it than not. I don't touch the thing, though. Some things even I won't mess with.
I shove the drawer closed and move to the coffee table. Fictional books are stacked neatly with classy decorations of Buddha and such. Normal things.
I'm beginning to think my sister actually is boring.
I search through nightstands, bathroom drawers, closets...everything. Nothing but normal items like blankets, shoes, makeup, etc. I'm beginning to lose interest.
My feet thump against the wood floor as I trudge back to the couch to resume my reading. The open book lying face down on the cushion gives me an idea. I turn to the large bookcase on the wall and smile devilishly. I've seen enough mystery movies to know bookcases can be a goldmine.
I pull a book, flip through it, and replace it. I do this over and over to the dozens of books living in the impeccably clean bookcase. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I groan, annoyed that I am related to someone so damn ordinary.
As I'm sliding the last book back into place, it slams against the wood back of the shelf in my frustration. The wood falls, thudding loudly against the floor. My heart hammers in my chest from the shock.
The wall behind the bookshelf is...different. I thought the walls were just painted, but this looks like it was wallpapered. And terribly, at that.
Upon further inspection, I realize the wallpaper has been haphazardly placed to cover something in the wall. A thrill surges through me, but my nerves chase it. I know Alana won't be back for a while, but this seems wrong somehow.
As usual, I shrug through my better judgement and pick at the wallpaper with my chipped nails. It peels back easily, as if this is done more than once a day.
Behind the wallpaper, there is a square hole in the wall. It reveals a worn leather notebook, clean despite the dust flying from the wood around it. I sneeze as I pull the book out, quickly replacing it with a similar notebook sitting on one of the shelves of the bookcase.
Can't be too careful.
I fix everything back the way it was and run to the bathroom with the journal pressed to my chest. The lock clicks as I shut the door and I climb into the too-big-for-one-person bathtub, closing the curtain behind me.
My heart thunders as I look at the treasure in my hands. I finally put my twitching fingers to use and untie the leather cord around the cover. It comes undone easily enough, and I flip open to the first page.
The thundered beating of my heart seems to come to a halt.
I think I'm going to be sick.
Plans. So many plans of murder, torture, and mutilation. Different names--some I recognize, others I don't--are written in fine script at the top of each page with their age and a date. I choke as I realize these are death dates.
"Ethan Hannabee, 24, 12/04/2015"
And at the bottom of the page..
"Method: Castration while restrained. Throat slit into a smile. He bled like a river, full and seeming to never stop."
He lived down the street from us when we were younger. He went missing three days before the date written.
The words do not seem like my sister, but I would recognize her handwriting anywhere. It's as if a robot wrote this, unfeeling and calculated.
My hands tremble as I flip through the notebook, more and more names curl across the pages. More and more dates.
Reddish brown dots are splattered on the paper every now and then.
I heave and throw myself from the tub, almost not making it to the toilet before I puke everything I've ever eaten into the waiting bowl of water.
No wonder she lives on an island.
People won't find bodies out here.
My curiosity is eating away at the better parts of my sanity.
I've always been naturally curious; pillaging through drawers at friend's houses when they leave the room, searching through the attic at my grandma's house. I know it's a nasty habit. Invading people's privacy is rude and I'm a terrible house guest to keep. But I digress.
My sister left me alone in her house. Truly a moronic thing to do. She knows I can't help myself. But she said she had errands to do for a few hours and it was best if I stayed behind. Just as well. She's always been extremely more to herself. She even moved to a beach house on a secluded island in the Bahamas by herself. Don't get me wrong, coming here for two weeks vacation from my chaotic life is nice, but her staying here alone is bothersome. At least to me.
Now I have the opportunity to learn something about my quiet older sister. For a few hours. A pillager's dream.
I sigh, pushing away the book in my hands to stand from the soft couch. She has so many things to go through. My fingers are twitching with the possibilities. The house is light with windows upon windows on every wall. Everything is white trimmed, fancy but simple all the same. I cross the room to the small table set up beside the front door. Alana keeps her keys and mail here with a small dish for pocket change. Nothing worth thumbing through, though. I pull the single drawer of the table open and gasp.
A gun.
Okay, not too strange. She does live by herself. I actually feel better about her having it than not. I don't touch the thing, though. Some things even I won't mess with.
I shove the drawer closed and move to the coffee table. Fictional books are stacked neatly with classy decorations of Buddha and such. Normal things.
I'm beginning to think my sister actually is boring.
I search through nightstands, bathroom drawers, closets...everything. Nothing but normal items like blankets, shoes, makeup, etc. I'm beginning to lose interest.
My feet thump against the wood floor as I trudge back to the couch to resume my reading. The open book lying face down on the cushion gives me an idea. I turn to the large bookcase on the wall and smile devilishly. I've seen enough mystery movies to know bookcases can be a goldmine.
I pull a book, flip through it, and replace it. I do this over and over to the dozens of books living in the impeccably clean bookcase. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I groan, annoyed that I am related to someone so damn ordinary.
As I'm sliding the last book back into place, it slams against the wood back of the shelf in my frustration. The wood falls, thudding loudly against the floor. My heart hammers in my chest from the shock.
The wall behind the bookshelf is...different. I thought the walls were just painted, but this looks like it was wallpapered. And terribly, at that.
Upon further inspection, I realize the wallpaper has been haphazardly placed to cover something in the wall. A thrill surges through me, but my nerves chase it. I know Alana won't be back for a while, but this seems wrong somehow.
As usual, I shrug through my better judgement and pick at the wallpaper with my chipped nails. It peels back easily, as if this is done more than once a day.
Behind the wallpaper, there is a square hole in the wall. It reveals a worn leather notebook, clean despite the dust flying from the wood around it. I sneeze as I pull the book out, quickly replacing it with a similar notebook sitting on one of the shelves of the bookcase.
Can't be too careful.
I fix everything back the way it was and run to the bathroom with the journal pressed to my chest. The lock clicks as I shut the door and I climb into the too-big-for-one-person bathtub, closing the curtain behind me.
My heart thunders as I look at the treasure in my hands. I finally put my twitching fingers to use and untie the leather cord around the cover. It comes undone easily enough, and I flip open to the first page.
The thundered beating of my heart seems to come to a halt.
I think I'm going to be sick.
Plans. So many plans of murder, torture, and mutilation. Different names--some I recognize, others I don't--are written in fine script at the top of each page with their age and a date. I choke as I realize these are death dates.
"Ethan Hannabee, 24, 12/04/2015"
And at the bottom of the page..
"Method: Castration while restrained. Throat slit into a smile. He bled like a river, full and seeming to never stop."
He lived down the street from us when we were younger. He went missing three days before the date written.
The words do not seem like my sister, but I would recognize her handwriting anywhere. It's as if a robot wrote this, unfeeling and calculated.
My hands tremble as I flip through the notebook, more and more names curl across the pages. More and more dates.
Reddish brown dots are splattered on the paper every now and then.
I heave and throw myself from the tub, almost not making it to the toilet before I puke everything I've ever eaten into the waiting bowl of water.
No wonder she lives on an island.
People won't find bodies out here.
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