Work Text:
You know anything about haunted houses?
Know anything about that big, cold mansion up on the hill outside of town?
Sat empty for seven years now. Some say it’s cursed, that it was paid for in blood money and the spirits of those who died for a dollar still linger in the stones. Some say the family brought the curse into the house with them, some horrible affliction of hereditary insanity.
Do you remember those twins? Barely? Sounds about right, they hardly ever came into town anyways. Well, they’re dead and gone now, the both of them.
You know the story of the brother. The things he did. Where it got him.
Standing, shaking, sopping wet, teetering on the edge of a cliff. Bullet whipped across the left side of his skull. Toppled right into the river below.
But did you hear about his sister?
-----
Did you do it on purpose?
Did the glint of the pitchfork in the low light spur you into action, propelling you between him and the three sharp prongs. Or was the pain a surprise, three hot coals burning their way through your body?
Did you get to say everything you wanted before you went?
Well, the barn is still there. So is Sheba. All but one of her puppies have moved on to other homes. Lucky, the one remaining pup, still trots up the grassy hill to your old bungalow and whines at the door.
How many times did you sit in that barn, I wonder? How often did you sit, in a gamboling pile of puppies, right where you took your last breaths? Did you ever nap on your deathbed, unknowingly practicing for the real thing?
Were you lonely there? God, you must have been. Parents across the ocean, friends all put to rest in a bed of loamy soil, your twin locked in a cage miles and miles away. The separation must have been unbearable at first, even if it was needed. Though how you really felt about him, about anything, we’ll never know. Lot of things we’ll never know.
You’ll never know he’s dead.
Emma stayed with you, you know. During your autopsy. You two were the only girls in a room full of men, just like always.
-----
Your funeral was beautiful. And expensive. Paid for by your mother’s jewelry. Emma and Travis were there, said a few words, shed more tears. Your parents couldn’t be bothered, but you’ll never know that.
You’d never know it if you’d lived, but your brother survived. Somehow. It came at the cost of his memories.
Funny how it’s always the less deserving one that lives.
Perhaps it’s a kindness on your memory, that he doesn’t remember you. The things you two did. The things he did. It’s a blessing, really, that he’s been cast so far from your grave.
Is that how you would’ve wanted it? Or would you rather he remember?
I guess we’ll never know that either.
What we do know is that you were mourned. Even after seven years, Travis still picks up that pitchfork as he sleeps, and wakes up gasping for air. Emma rolls over to comfort him, and the two of them still shed tears for the girl they lost in that barn, and the time that they never got to spend with her. The things they never got to learn about her.
They never knew your birthdate until they saw it on your headstone.