My Sister is Missing: The most creepy and gripping thriller of 2019

‘I’ll bring you later, I promise. I just … not right now, okay? I want to go inside and wait for your mom.’

‘I’m staying here,’ Ben huffed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

What am I going to do with this kid? My eyes travelled back to the woods. The path looked normal now, just a dirt-trodden trail I’d followed a million times as a kid, but as I considered going, the path turned wavy again.

I need to get inside now. As I bent down to pick up Ben, I forgot about that whole ‘lift with your knees’ bit. Lifting him from the ground, I let out a painful groan. To make matters worse, he started to kick and twist in my arms.

‘No! I’m staying out here!’ He threw his head back, nearly slamming against my teeth as I whipped my own head back to get out of his way. I trudged back up the hill, Shelley in my shadow and Ben flopping doggedly in my arms.

Back inside, I released him from my arms, panting. Worried he might try to run back out, I collapsed on the living room carpet beside him. Shelley sat down too, giving herself distance from Ben.

‘I’m sorry if I disappointed you. I know your mommy and you have a routine. But, when I was a kid, I fell down and hurt my head in those woods. Now, every time I think about going down there, I get really sick and nervous. Do you know what it feels like to be nervous, Ben?’

Ben looked exhausted now, curling up in a ball on the floor. The tantrum had sucked the life right out of both of us. I need Madi here to help me, I thought, dejectedly.

‘I get nervous a lot,’ Ben whispered. He surprised me by scooting close to me, and the next thing I knew, he was curled up on my lap.

***

We ate dinner at the table. Noodles again. My sister didn’t come home, and she didn’t call back either.

Ben loved the noodles, although by the time he was finished, there was more pasta covering his lap and chair, than he could have possibly consumed. Shelley, on the other hand, was nice and neat, wiping her mouth more than necessary, and tucking her napkin onto her lap like a fancy lady. They couldn’t be any more different from each other, but they were hooked at the hip, despite their age difference.

Ben seemed fine now, the temper tantrum temporarily forgotten. What will happen tomorrow when he wants to go again? I wondered. But then I thought, Madeline will be back by then. I’ll let her take him.

After dinner, I gave them both a bath. They insisted on taking one together, assuring me that it was okay, and they always did that. It felt strange, being around children like this, and being the one in charge. I couldn’t help feeling as though I was one of them, just playing the part of grown-up in our own made-up play.

Ben and Shelley didn’t wash much; they splashed around, squirting each other with green and pink rubber duckies, until the other screamed and got mad. By the time they were through, the tile floor in the bathroom was covered with a thin coat of water. I sighed, drying up the floor before lifting their bodies, like slippery noodles, out of the tub. Madi and I used to be the same way, fighting constantly but loving every minute of it. My heart ached as I thought about my sister – where in the hell was she?

My anger and frustration were becoming something else – concern. Why would Madi leave without telling me? Did she go talk to John, did they get into a fight?

Again, I realized that I barely knew him. Hell, I barely know her anymore. We’d been close when we were kids, but whatever sort of bond we’d once had had come untethered over the years. When your relationship consists mostly of monthly texts and Facebook updates, it loses its fortitude.

I tucked the kids into bed around ten o’clock. Shelley wanted to watch Elmo on her Tinkerbell TV set, but Ben insisted on me reading to him. I turned the DVD on for Shelley, and then I chose a book from one of the bookshelves in the family room for Ben. It was a tattered, old book called Where’s Goldie? The fading sticker on the front said it cost only sixty-nine cents. Sure enough, when I opened the cover, I found my own name inside, scrawled in sloppy cursive.

Peering at the shelves, I realized most of the books were either mine or Mom’s. I used to be territorial with my books. Well, I still was, actually, but back then, I used to scribble my name on everything. I took the book back to Ben’s room, relieved to see that Shelley was already asleep as I passed by. The tune to Elmo’s World rang out through the speakers.

Ben was pleased with my book choice and bragged that he always knew where to find Goldie, the naughty little yellow bird that hid from her perpetually perplexed owner, Maggie.

I had to do three full read-throughs before he even closed his eyes. I lay beside him for nearly a half hour, listening to the sounds of his soft breathing, like the purr of a happy cat. That tantrum today had sucked the life out of me, but Ben seemed perfectly fine now.

I listened for sounds outside, hoping I’d hear the Jeep pulling up in the driveway. My stomach churned as I realized I was alone again. With the kids asleep and Madi gone, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Something was wrong, I could feel it.

I might not know my sister as well as I once did, but she still wouldn’t leave me, of all people, in charge of her kids without saying something first.

Finally, I pushed myself out of bed, careful not to wake up Ben. I crept down the hallway, and walked through the house, turning off excess lights. Back in the living room, I flipped on the porch light for Madeline. All those late nights I’d waited up for her, so eager to hear stories about her night – parties with alcohol and boys who knew how to kiss … it wasn’t until later, in our twenties, that she confessed her stories weren’t true. Some of them, yes. But mostly, they were embellished. She wanted to impress me, but more than anything, she wanted the stories to be true. As a teenager, Madi could be a liar and a fantasist sometimes. Was that what was going on now? Would she show up at the door, like she did all those years ago, with some wild story to explain her absence today?

Sitting down in her office chair, I spun around in circles, feeling childish. I held my phone in my lap, staring down at the blank screen. My landlord had left a voicemail earlier, but I didn’t feel like hearing his wheezy voice right now.

I thought about calling my sister again, but then I thought better of it. I was acting like one of those babysitters that call every twenty minutes and ruin the parents’ night out.

But I’m not the babysitter. She didn’t even ask me to watch them. For the first time all day, I wondered if I should be seriously worried. If I should perhaps phone the police.

I considered the possibility that something really was wrong, some sort of desperate emergency. But I knew it wasn’t family related – Mom and Dad were both dead, the few aunts and cousins we had lived thousands of miles away, and we barely spoke to them anyway.

It must be something to do with John, I decided. But what if she got into an accident or got hurt somehow…?

Slowly, I strolled up and down the hallway, looking at our family photographs. Last night, it’d been too dark to see them all, but now the hall was lit, old photographs of my mother and father illuminated on its walls. There were so many pictures of the four of us – Mom, Dad, Madeline, and I. There were a couple of our grandparents, too, and toward the end of the stretch were pictures of my sister and John, and baby pictures of Shelley and Ben.

In their wedding photo, John and Madeline stood behind a giant white cake, John holding a silver knife as he prepared to make the ceremonial cut. A crazy thought flashed through my head – what if John had taken my sister? What if he’d hurt her?

‘I’ve really freaking lost it now,’ I muttered. I’d been watching too many of those true crime mystery shows on the Discovery channel. I was up late every night, and there wasn’t much else on besides those types of shows and info commercials.

I pulled my eyes away from the happy couple and headed for my own room to change my clothes. I passed Dad’s office on the way. Last night, I hadn’t paid it much attention, but now it sat stark and empty, even his old desk was gone. Instead the room seemed to be used for storage; boxes of books and paint supplies were stacked in one corner of the room and several see-through plastic tubs of old clothes.

I sniffed the air, half-expecting to smell my father’s aftershave and pungent cigar smoke floating in the room. He’s gone. Every last trace of him is gone. And I didn’t even go to the funeral to say goodbye…

Guilt festered inside me, but, like always, I pushed myself to move forward, to forget what I had or hadn’t done.

In the guest room, I gathered a change of clothes and then went back down the hallway to the bathroom. I was worried about being able to hear the kids if they woke up and needed something, so I left the door open a crack as I showered.

After scrubbing the dirt and sweat from my face and hair, I went back out to the living room, giving the driveway one last, wistful look, hoping my sister would return. It was nearly midnight by now. This was getting ridiculous.

Torn between irritation and concern, I fought the urge to text or call again. Finally, I made my way to her bedroom. It seemed wrong to sleep in her room, but the Mello Yellow room was too far from the kids. I didn’t trust myself to wake up if one of them cried out in the night or got sick. What would I even do if they got sick or hurt? I wondered.

As happy as I was to meet my niece and nephew, I didn’t know much about kids. And I definitely didn’t feel comfortable being in charge of them for this long.

My sister’s room was still pristine, and it smelled like some sort of cleanser – bleach, maybe? Turning on the fan to battle the fumes, I folded down her strawberry quilt, and climbed beneath the sheets. The bed was cold, like lying in an ice cube tray. Tucking the covers up to my chin, I flipped onto my left side like I always do. From this angle, I had a straight-on view of my sister’s closet. It was pulled most of the way shut, but there was a small gap in the white pocket doors. I could see a box labeled ‘Pictures’ sitting on the closet floor.

I flipped to my right side, staring at my sister’s billowy red curtains instead. Then it hit me – the balcony my parents used to go out on to smoke was off the master bedroom. Sliding the covers down, I emerged from the bed and pushed the curtains apart. Sure enough, the white door to the balcony was still there.

It wasn’t really a balcony since it was on the ground floor, but that’s what we always called it. My parents used to sneak out there and smoke cigarettes as though Madeline and I didn’t know what they were doing. The house would reek of it every night after we went to bed, but I never really minded. I always liked to imagine them out there kissing, like secret, star-crossed lovers, and the smoky fumes were almost a reminder, that my parents were truly in love.

But that wasn’t the case, was it? Their love was as fake as these loose-fitting curtains covering the door. It wasn’t real, none of it was.

The bolt on the door was stiff, as though Madeline hadn’t used the balcony in years. I gripped the metal latch and pulled on it until my hands burned. Finally, it snapped over, pinching the tender spot between my thumb and pointer finger.

The gold knob twisted easily, and I pushed the double doors out, the cool night air hitting me with such force that my nightgown blew up above my waist. It was black as a raven out here, but I stepped out onto the balcony anyway, breathing in the cool lilac summer air. The balcony wasn’t very wide, just enough to stand at the wrought iron railing and catch a breath of air, or lean over it, puffing on a cigarette with your spouse…

A streak of moonlight constellated edges of the tree line, the path I’d feared earlier coming into focus. A sudden chill trickled up my spine as I remembered my flashback near the ominous entrance of the woods. Why couldn’t I remember that day?

Bits and pieces came back, every so often, but most of my memories from that summer day were of the crisp white hospital room where machines whistled and whirred, a small team of doctors bandaging up my head. They didn’t let me go to sleep, I had to fight through the concussion as they stitched my head back together.

My eyes sought truth in the darkness. ‘Why was it so traumatic? It’s not like I hadn’t got hurt while playing before.’ The words were whispered, a plea to the forest gods: tell me why.

My eyes scanned the tree line, for animals or man. A strange smell filled my nostrils – like something charring over an open fire.

My neck prickled as I tried to shake away the sudden sensation that someone was watching me from out there. Waiting. Watching.