Sister: A Short Story

by Sarah Dalton

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

In 1997 Isabel Quirke sits down to write a letter to her sister. A letter she never intends to send. Within the pages of that letter she describes the frightening events that led up to the disintegration of their relationship.

Susan Quirke, before she became Susan Hades--mother of Mary--goes through a transformation so extreme it changes her forever. Her younger sister Isabel can only watch.

--A short story in the Amazon bestselling Mary Hades Series---

Book One: Dark Spirit
Book Two: Possess
Book Three: Nocturnes
Book Four: Haunt Me

Additional short stories and novellas:

Spirals (the origin story)
My Daylight Monsters
Shadow
Sister
Messenger

Release date: October 1, 2014

Publisher: October 1, 2014

Print pages: 36

Sample

Letter to Susan Hades from Isabel Quirke. May 1997.

 

Sister,

 

Remember when we first moved to the sea? You said it was too cold, but I thought the thrashing waves and the grainy sand were so exotic and wonderful. Everywhere smelled like salt. In a rare moment of energy Mum chased us along the lapping waves, laughing when the tide splashed over her bare feet. I remember how you insisted that you hated it because you missed your city friends, yet I’ve never seen you smile as widely as our first day on the beach when Dad taught us to fly that kite. You laughed so hard when the kite blew out of my hands and up the beach. I tripped and fell as I chased it, and you gripped your tummy and doubled over in a fit of giggles.

I was four. You were eleven.

You and I never really got on, did we? Sometimes I think it all stemmed from that awful week, but somehow I think it went even deeper. Was it before I was born? Was it when you saw me in the hospital all wrinkled and red? When did you decide that you hated me?

I never meant for any of it to happen. You must believe me.

Mum had a bad eighties perm. Sometimes I look at the photographs to remind myself she was young once, that I was a child once. I’m still a child, I suppose. But not many children carry the burden I do. I’m afraid that if I don’t grow up fast enough I will wreck everything, like I always have.

Don’t ask me why I’m writing this letter. I’ll never give it to you. Never. I’m sure I’ll end up burning it, or when I die, whoever gets my stuff will find it hidden away amongst a pile of old newspapers or something. Oh, you can guarantee that I’ll be batty when I’m old. I’m one of those people. I’ll kill all my brain cells with vodka and fags. Maybe I won’t even reach old age. You’ll probably outlive me. In fact, I’m sure of it.

Maybe you will read this one day, when you’re sitting prim and proper in your shiny house, with your hair set into some perfect do and your well-behaved grandchildren at your feet. You will have grandchildren, sister. I know you will.

What will you think of this letter? Will you be nostalgic? Will you tear it into tiny pieces? Or perhaps you will shed a tear and raise a glass of chardonnay in tribute to the sister who could have been your best friend if she hadn’t fucked it all up with Ricky Fuller. I’m sorry for the language, but whenever I think of his stupid face, my blood boils. He brings out the worst in me. I should have known better, I guess.

You were going out with Ricky during the… event. He came to pick you up that night. It’s a good job Dad was away on one of his business trips, because he would not have approved of those ripped jeans, or the leather bomber. But I thought he was dreamy, and I thought you were the luckiest girl in the world. I was jealous of you, Su. I know you will never believe me when I say it, but I was. I mean, I know I was nine, but I’d already been indoctrinated by the cult of Disney and he was like the prince and the villain. A lethal combination.

See, even now. Even though I hate him, I can’t stop talking about him.

I’ll talk about you instead. You were lovely that night. You let me play in your room as you preened yourself for the date. You were so excited that you forgot to be mean to me. You showed me your dresses, and you asked me to help pick out your nail varnish. We both agreed on black, and then decided you should wear a lot of denim and eyeliner.

“Are you going to kiss him?” I asked.

You held up a tartan mini-skirt and then tossed it away. “I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t you go kissing any boys. You’re far too young.”

“As if!” I exclaimed in horror.

There was a knock at the door and you shoved your feet into tight kitten-heeled shoes. “That’s him!”

When Mum answered the door I heard his gruff, monotone voice. I dashed into the living room for a glance. Mum had a big grin on her face and fussed over him like the Queen had stopped for a cuppa. You bustled through, stomping your feet and swearing under your breath.

“You ready?” Ricky asked, brushing his blond fringe out of his eyes.

“Sure,” you replied with a voice so smooth it could cut butter.

Oh, Susan. You sly dog. You were such a heartbreaker then, tall, pretty, dark hair with bright pink stripes. You wore make-up and you swore and you danced. It’s not like now. I never see you smile anymore.