A woman refuses to leave the house her sister may haunt.
“If I leave, they win.”
That’s what I tell reporters. I didn’t used to. I used to tell them the truth. But they want the story. Well — they want that story. The real story is a question, I guess.
What if she’s still here?
I can’t leave her if she’s here.
So I stay. And I always will.
My sister and I are Those Sisters. You know our story already. Most of it, anyway. Sometimes people confuse it with that “elevated horror” series that came out, and while that show was kind of close, all that stuff at the end with the dog and the devil was made up. There wasn’t a dog in our story. Sometimes I wish there were. At least she has someone who knows, I used to think about Character Me in that show. At least she’s not all alone. But anyway.
My real story.
My sister and I were walking home from the library. I was ten, she was twelve. It was a pretty summer day. Not too hot. Breezy, somehow — as breezy as the south suburbs can be in late August. Tanya used to say it was “haunted hot dog weather.” She loved playing with words like that. Being silly and spooky, in a fun way. Like “Hocus Pocus” or “Practical Magic.” She loved being a fun big sister. It was the day before her birthday, which she loved. Not in a psychotic narcissistic way. She just loved that it was right at the edge of summer, before the start of school. She said it was a secret birthday that the whole world could celebrate — maybe. All because of where it fell in the year.
“Anything can happen on my birthday,” she said, even that day, kicking a dead leaf into bright green grass. “It’s in-betweenie Halloweenie.”
A car was following us. Chicagoland is full of cars, so this wasn’t too odd — but the car was moving slow. Real slow. Five miles an hour, maybe. And had been, since we started out from the library. I think that’s why Tanya was in full-on “fun spooky” big sister mode. She was scared, and trying to figure out what the hell the car was up to — without scaring me. But I was scared, too.
I remember the full sun, turning the grass bright. The frizzies on her hair gold. I remember spinning my friendship bracelet — an embroidery one I had just learned how to do, even better than what Tanya knew how to do — around on my wrist.
Orange, red, pink, yellow. “Sunset Sorbet,” she had named it. We were going to start a business. A friendship bracelet stand. “Better than Lemonade.” Every night that summer we made friendship bracelets till streetlights. Getting ready for The Grand Opening. Mom was at work and this was before cell phones. That part the show got right. It felt the exact same. Two girls, having fun, pretending they weren’t scared of the car following slowly.
They even had the same joke Tanya told — I must have said it in some deposition at some point, back when I was a kid. “Hey, Nikki!” Tanya said, a big smile on her face — her joke-telling smile. “What’s brown and sticky?”
“I dunno. What?” My own voice was lost under the sound of the car’s screechy muffler. It was a brown car. With gold letters on it. I could never remember what they said.
“Guess!” Tanya said, even louder. She grabbed my wrist, right on top of the friendship bracelet. Sometimes we held hands when we walked, but not like that. That’s when I really knew she was scared. “Guess.” She said again, the smile still big on her face. Pretending she didn’t see the car. Scanning the houses on the street to see who was home in the middle of the day, the day before school started. The day before her birthday. Now, I think, as a grownup — a workday.
“What’s brown and sticky…” I mumbled. Unable to look away from the man now — the man at the wheel of the car.
A handsome man. With a smile even bigger than my sister’s.
“A STICK!” Tanya yelled, and laughed the emptiest laugh I had ever heard then. I would only hear emptier on TV, later. Or when grownups would laugh when I tried to make jokes, after they found me. But even then, their laughs had nervous energy in them. Tanya’s had nothing. She was just making a sound to trick the man into thinking she didn’t know he was there. Even though he had already seen me. He already knew I knew.
Tanya threw a rock right at his head.
It would have hit him, too — if the window had been open.
I had never seen her pick it up. Even if she didn’t trick him, she tricked me. It made a terrible cracking sound against the glass. But it bounced on the street like a toy. The car stopped. We ran.
There was still some forest in the suburbs then. Little patches of trees in between little houses. There was a thick little bit of them on the street right before ours. Tanya took us dead into it, like a star of track and field.
We slid down into the drainage ditch dug out around the creek. Tanya didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She was my big sister. She looked around, quick. It was too open. A car couldn’t reach us here, but a person could.
“We have to hide.”
I nodded. She hadn’t let go of my wrist. She pulled me into the big pipe with the little creek running through it. The sound of our steps was covered up by the sound of trickling water.
We walked for a very long time. So long, the light at the end of the tunnel was the size of a Buffalo Nickel.
She never, ever let go of me.
The water got higher the deeper we went. Finally, she sat down, and pulled me into her lap.
“We can’t talk,” she whispered, her voice more like a low tone vibrating deep in my ear. I nodded. Tears ran down my face. I remember being scared the sound of them falling into the water would be enough for the man to hear. Even though he hadn’t followed us. Even though he couldn’t know we were here, buried under the world. Tanya hugged me tight. “We will wait, and then it will be okay.”
I still don’t know if she said it, or if she just sent it to me. I felt it, either way. I knew.
The light took a long time to fade from the nickel. Then, the whole world was the sound of water and my sister breathing. I think I slept, but maybe I didn’t. I definitely remember peeing. Tanya never said or did anything to make me feel bad about that. But at some point in the night, or maybe it was early the next morning, Tanya squeezed my wrist and the Sunset Sorbet. I nodded. We walked on sore legs, back through the tunnel. Into a darkness I had somehow grown to see through. Finally, we made it out the other side.
Where the smiling man was waiting.
Maybe my sister would’ve been a doctor. Or a lawyer. I bet she could’ve been a movie star, or a movie maker. A rock star, if she could sing. She seemed like she wanted to be a storyteller of some kind. But doctors and lawyers were who they wanted the golf course for. The one they wanted the land for.
The one this house is on.
A long time ago, the story was “kidnapped woman buys kidnapper’s house.” Well, with every flashy title you could imagine. “Tortured Girl Buys Torture Castle” was another one. I saved a lot of the articles, back when they came out on paper. I printed a ton out, too. But then that story got old. Sometimes those kinds of titles still show up online. Especially around Halloween. Now, the story is mostly about me being the “last holdout in golf course development.” “The house on the links.” Sometimes they get really golfy about it. “Home in One” was nice. “Rough Stuff” is my favorite. I’m not sure why the writers forgot about the whole true crime angle, but it’s kind of refreshing to just be the one curmudgeon who won’t sell to billionaires so she can make one lousy million.
I don’t know if reporters don’t know how to Google anymore, or if Google just sucks now. But my story these days is very different to the storytellers. They — the golf course people — want this house because it’s located perfectly for some sort of wastewater facility with curb appeal. Sorry, I stole that line right out of one of the articles about it. But basically, they’re like a fracking company buying up some West Virginia town so they can strip it for parts. They just bought up a whole town in the Chicago southland to make it a golf course — one of the world’s best. But apparently, one of the world’s best without the best wastewater management facility.
We all have our trials.
Everyone around me has sold their place and made a mint, I guess. To the extent that the course literally surrounds where I live. The library Tanya and I went to is now where the run-off Country Club is — the event space they rent out to the commoners. I think they have, like, really nice proms there now. Where Tanya and I went to school is now where the real, world-class course restaurant is. They fly fish in every day. I don’t know what kind. I’ve never eaten there. But sometimes I laugh, thinking about fish on their own private flight.
The house where Tanya and I grew up is where the kiddie pool is. I think she’d like that. I like that, actually. Sometimes I walk by, and I hear kids laughing. They sound so happy. I cry, almost every time. Which is almost every day. I’m not jealous of them, though. I’m happy for them. I love to hear that sound.
I live in his house now.
It’s never felt like my house. And I know to a lot of people, that would sound sad. But it was never really his house, either. Not once he had us in it.
The old stories talked about how we were held captive so close to where our Mom lived. Next door to our friends and neighbors. The old stories made it sound like everyone who loved us was a prize fool, an evil idiot, for trusting anyone around them. The old stories made my mom lose all hope in herself. The old stories made my mom hate herself for teaching her girls to love the library. The old stories never made it sound like a man — a handsome man — who went to church on Sundays and the bar on Fridays — who kept two little girls locked up in his house — was just as bad.
Even one who, all those true crime stories in the early 2000s loved to talk about, was a shit to the women he worked with and the women he dated. “He never hit me but he could be mean,” this one lady said on a podcast back then. I don’t often laugh out loud, but I laughed out loud at that. “I told our guy friend he was mean, and he said I was just being sensitive.” That lady got named as a Woman of the Year by Time Magazine. For saying the man who did those things to my sister and made me watch was mean. For admitting it. For not being scared to tell the world the truth.
I mean…that lady was right. And Time didn’t know all that about me, so. I guess it’s fair that they sent me a tote bag. I was a loyal subscriber.
It’s not that lady I’m mad at, of course. I’m glad she even said he was mean. Most people didn’t. Most people just said “I can’t believe it.” “You’d never believe it.” “Can you even believe it?”
I don’t know if it’s because he looked like a movie star.
Or because he was just…a guy.
I don’t go out much, but I tried to. In my twenties. I went on a trip around the world, paid for by one of these people — sweet people — who think they can buy something back for you, with a trip around the world. So I was out in this little restaurant in Austria. Something with “Monkey” in the name. In Salzburg. And yes, I went there because Tanya loved “The Sound of Music.” I could barely remember it, but I knew she loved it there. And I ended up loving it there, too. In part because I pretended she was with me there. In part because it was very beautiful. The streets were pink at night.
And no one knew anything about me.
I thought.
I was talking to a blonde waiter. He was very friendly, and very — pretty. Not handsome. Handsome people scare me, you won’t be surprised to hear. Anyway, this pretty man and I talked a lot that night. I drank beer for the first time. He couldn’t believe it. And I ended up telling him everything. I’m one of Those Sisters — was basically how I started. I told him more than I ever told the lawyers. Or the papers. Or my mom. And he listened to me. Really listened to me. But then, at the end, even when my face was wet and my beer was gone and his hand was in mine, he said —
He asked —
“But was it ever hot? You know? Because he was so handsome?”
I don’t make a lot of friends.
Not because I don’t want to. I’m sure if I had more friends, they would wonder why I really stay in this house. I’m sure the friends I do have, do. Maybe they think I like the publicity. The notoriety. Not unlike the blonde waiter, I’m sure some think — she has a story. The lucky bitch. Some people live their whole lives without even having one story. I have two. And a house.
I hate the house, of course. It makes every cup of coffee taste bad. Every TV show ring hollow. Every song plays flat in here. Every night’s sleep sucks. And every sunset lacks sorbet. But still.
Tanya could be here.
When I was little — little little, like nine or before — I used to daydream about meeting my true love. He would be funny, kind, and good at basketball. He would be a vet (or a lawyer, or a doctor.) He would be a soccer player and a rock musician. He would own an ocean, and together we would swim with the dolphins. We would go to Olive Garden on my birthday — December 13th. Also an “in-betweenie” time, but not as fun as a “in-betweenie Halloweenie” time. Just a birthday people forgot or lumped into Christmas. He would hate the Celtics and love the Chicago Bulls. He would know how to beat the Ecco the Dolphin Sega Game and not outright tell me, but give me hints when I asked. He would love me, my mom, and my sister more than life itself. He would taste like watermelon Jolly Ranchers.
And he would be handsome.
I thought of all that — I dreamt of all that — before the smiling man got us.
Sometimes I wake up with my mouth tasting like candy. I stuff my fingers down my throat when I do. I don’t think all men are bad. But it’s hard not to when the ones you’ve met are very bad. Time Magazine Bad Men of the Year. Maybe I’m just as bad. I don’t think so.
But the night I couldn’t find my sister was the night I killed him.
He expected something like that from her, but he never expected it from me. Tanya always fought him. She always lost, but she always fought him. Especially for me. So the night she didn’t lay down next to me in the stupid little race car bed he bought for us — some sick joke on our childhood, I guess — the night she didn’t come home to me, I waited. Our whole life after he caught us after the tunnel felt like the tunnel all over again, every day. Waiting. Hoping. Getting caught.
Waiting. Hoping. Getting Caught.
So that night, I waited for her to come home. I hoped for her to come home. And when she didn’t, I decided he needed to be caught. I have often thought, as a grownup, why I didn’t do it before. I have done a lot of therapy, and therapists have given me a lot of forgiveness. And even though I know the shape of it — even though I understand the taste of it — I don’t know if I can give it to myself. Because what if what I did that night, I did the first night?
That is another part of my story that is really just a question.
The night she didn’t come home, I did nothing. The next day, I did what he wanted. Then he went to work. Instead of not leaving the room, I did leave the room. I went to the kitchen. I got on the stepstool, and took out a tall glass from the very back of the kitchen cabinet. Then I threw it, hard, on the floor. When it hit the ground, I felt my sister, holding onto the Sunset Sorbet.
The Sunset Sorbet was long-gone by now, but I felt it anyway.
I took it as a sign.
I very carefully picked up all the little bits of glass. I carried all of the little shards I didn’t need upstairs, and hid them under the race car bed. He couldn’t fit the vacuum under there. I shoved all the little pieces in deeper with one of the longer pieces of glass. The glass I wanted was the bottom part of the cup. Where it was strong. I could hold onto it there. On top, it was like an open mouth now. Full of jagged teeth.
The broken glass looked like a wave on the lake. “Look at that chop!” Tanya had said once, when Mom had driven us to go see Buckingham Fountain late at night. We had gotten glow-in-the-dark bracelets there. You’d crack them, and the glow would start. You could keep them glowy longer if you put them in the freezer when you got home. Mine was green. Tanya’s was purple. “Greenie Halloweenie,” I named them. Tanya liked it.
“I’m going to put you in the freezer,” I told the broken drinking glass that day. I tucked it under my pillow on my side of the race car bed. I was only going to use it if Tanya didn’t come home again. I still thought killing was a sin then.
But then Tanya didn’t come home.
The handsome man did. He didn’t always, always smile — not after he got us. But he did that day. He got me an En-Cor Pressed Turkey Dinner. And a Kids Cuisine. At first, my heart stopped when he showed me what he had in his plastic shopping bag. Two TV dinners. One for me and one for her. But no. “These are both yours, Buttercup.” He smiled, and I watched him cook the meals, one by one, in the microwave. He knew I liked The Princess Bride, so he called me by her name.
“One for the taste,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows as he made the tasty turkey one. “And one for the penguin — and the brownie.”
He zapped the second dinner, and tossed me the brownie, wrapped in plastic. I caught it.
“Good reflexes!” He said. And smiled again. “Want to play NBA Jam?”
Playing video games with someone evil is a strange experience. Stranger still when you are a little kid, maybe becoming evil yourself. Either way, I don’t play video games anymore. That night, I played as the Chicago Bulls — and he played as the Celtics. When we were little little, Tanya and I always played as the Bulls. The bad guys, the computer player bad guys, always played as the Celtics. That night, I beat him. I brushed my teeth and said my prayers in front of him. That was normal.
“I pray my mom finds us and you die,” I said. I always said that. He always laughed. But tonight, he said —
“You. You pray your mom finds you.”
I didn’t say anything.
He used to tuck me and Tanya in. We would lie, silent and stiff as a board, as he literally tucked us in — all around every edge. Then, the moment he pulled the door shut, we would fling the blanket off. Disgusted. Like it was an extension of him. We would sleep cold, in each others’ arms. Not his disgusting tuck-in blanket. I didn’t fully understand then, but I knew it was different with Tanya and him than it was with me and him. I was the kid, Tanya was the grownup — to him. But we were both little kids. I know that now. And I felt that then. Anyway, that night, I waited.
I waited and waited and waited. I held my own wrist. “Tanya? If you’re here, please stop me.” I said to the room. The room said nothing back. I squeezed my wrist tight.Then I felt under my pillow for the sharp glass mouth. I took it — and pressed it, hard, into my belly. I cried out. It hurt.
“Nik?” He called out from his room. ‘What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel good!” I yelled. Then I pressed it in again. I cried out again. He ran into the room, worried. Like a handsome dad. Like a dream date. Like a vet.
When he leaned over me, to take care of me — I used the broken glass to slit his throat.
He bled to death, all over the race car bed sheets.
His blood looked like Sunset Sorbet.
It took days for me to leave him.
And not once did Tanya come home.
It was hard to talk to Mom after. As much as he did a number on me, I think, now, he did more of a number on her. I don’t fault her for it, but she didn’t last long after. I don’t fully recall how I got money for the house. Some of it was from the handsome man’s family — what penance they thought they could do. Some toll they thought they could pay. There were lawsuits, and book talks, and rights deals, or whatever. It’s amazing the money you can make from being destroyed. His house lay empty for years and years. At least the time it took me to see what I wanted of the world. Or what I could, anyway.
By then, Mom was gone. Tanya was still not home. And his house was for sale. One way or another, I bought it. Now I’m still here. The days and nights are nothing like they were, but also much the same. More waiting and hoping than catching anything. I have wondered if he killed her here, where he would have put her. I have wondered, if he killed her elsewhere, where that where would be.
Sometimes — especially around her birthday, around the anniversary of it all — I have wondered if she escaped.
If she lives on, somewhere, somewhat okay, like I do — hoping I’m alive. Hoping I’m safe.
Too scared to find out if I’m not.
The days I spend like anyone spends them. Doing some work to pay the bills. The nights, I split in two. Part one: dinner and a look. I eat something we used to like — something I knew she’d like, something I think she’d like — and then I look for her. Inside, outside. I cover new ground, old ground. I dig and I peel back and I try to guess — where could my sister be?
Part two: Better than Lemonade. This is the part before I go to sleep. I make a friendship bracelet for her. I’ve gotten so very good. Sometimes so good, they look machine-made.
I don’t sleep in the race car bed. I got a new one. But I lay the bracelets on the race car bed, end to end. Over the same sheets he died on. The whole mattress is covered now. A bracelet for every night she’s gone. I start a new layer when I have to. And I know, when I die, this will be another story. “Old lady who lived on golf course made friendship bracelets.” “Friendship bracelet hoarder goes gently into that good night.” I don’t know. I’m not good at headlines.
A friend I have told me about Wrigley Field — how the apartments with park-facing rooftops have all been bought up by the Ricketts. All but one. The rooftops are all extensions of the ball park now. Ritzy things, she says. “It’s like baseball Vegas,” she says. Except for one apartment — one rooftop — that is still privately owned. Sometimes, I feel like that rooftop. But instead of ball games, everyone wants tickets for my dead. But no one more than me.
“How can you stay?” People ask. The papers ask. The buyers ask.
And I picture myself finding her. Seeing her golden frizzies that day. Hearing her screams after. Feeling her arms around me in that tunnel. Her voice in my brain. Her love in my heart.
I feel myself wrapping myself around her. Being big sister to her bones. Holding her close. Saving her now, like I couldn’t then. I picture us leaving that tunnel, and walking into sunshine instead of his smile. I think of The Grand Opening.
Her hand on my wrist.
And I ask the world back —
“How can I leave?”
If I leave, they win.
