“Remember Trish,” my dad said to me. “She went out without a jacket and by the time we found her, she was frozen solid. It took a whole week to unfreeze her.”
“That’s great, Dad,” I muttered. Trish this. Trish that. That’s all I ever heard from him. Now you’re probably wondering who Trish is. Trish is my imaginary sibling that my dad made up to scare me into following the rules. As if one sibling wasn’t bad enough. When I was little it was funny, but now it’s just weird. I grabbed my backpack and walked out the door. It was Friday and I had school.
“Remember not to talk in class, James,” my dad called to me. “There was a girl named Trish and she talked in class so much that her tongue fell out and she couldn’t speak.”
“Ok. Whatever Dad,” I muttered.
“Don’t ‘whatever’ me,” my dad said. “You know, you had a sister once and she…”
I got on the bus before he could finish his sentence. My real sister, Maddy (not Trish) sat next to me.
“If I hear one more word about Trish,” I grumbled.
“I think it’s funny,” said Maddy brightly.
“Well, I don’t,” I said and the conversation ended.
Later that day, during science class, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. We were working with chemicals, but I knew that it could be important, so I raised my hand.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I said. Once I had made it to the bathroom I picked out a stall and slipped in. After making sure I had put the seat down, so as to not drop my phone in the toilet, I unlocked my phone and checked my text messages. It was my dad.
“Be careful to waft when you’re smelling the chemicals. This girl, Trish once forgot to waft and her nose got so big, she could barely breathe.”
“Cool, Dad,” I sent and sighed. Texting me during school? He had gone too far this time.
I once again pocketed my phone, annoyed that he had interrupted my favorite class over this. Later that day, back home, I heard banging in the attic. I asked my parents if I could check it out, but my dad gave his response.
“You had a sister once and she wanted to go into the attic, but we told her no. She did it anyway and she got stuck up there.”
I sighed in exasperation, but the next day I heard the banging again. And the next day. And the next. Then, one day my parents said they were going to go on a short business trip, but they’d be back in the morning. Me and Maddy would be home alone until they got back.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” my dad said. “The last time we went on a business trip, Trish decided to play with the lawnmower, and she got so cut up, she actually lost an ear!”
“Dad,” I said. “The last time you went on a business trip was a month ago and the worst thing that happened was when I bruised my elbow.”
“Maybe if you had listened to my Trish stories, that wouldn’t have happened,” countered my dad. “You know you had a sister once,” he began. I nearly shoved them out the door. After they had left, I turned to Maddy.
“Let’s go up in the attic,” I said. “Mom and Dad aren’t here!”
“No!” said my sister. “You heard what Dad said. About Trish.”
“He made that up,” I sighed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He sounded pretty serious.”
“Whatever,” I said. “You can be a scaredy cat if you want, but I’m going.”
“Well I’m staying here,” she said promptly and walked into the kitchen to grab a snack. I ran up the stairs, ignoring my dad’s warning that Trish did that and hit her head. I skidded to a stop in front of the door to my parent’s room. I opened their valuables drawer, grabbed the keys and left the room, ignoring my dad’s warning that Trish had done that and scarred herself with the key by accident. I unlocked the attic door and pushed it open, ignoring my dad’s warning that Trish had done that once and the door had crushed her hand. I climbed the ladder and turned on the flashlight. I looked around the room. I couldn’t find the cause of the banging.
Then I heard another noise. A raspy, choking sound.
I turned around. I was face to face with a horrid creature. As it came into the light I realized what it was. She had a huge bulbous nose, from the story where she forgot to waft. She had red, bloodshot eyes, from the story where she looked directly at the sun. Flecks of ice clung to her skin, from the story where she didn’t wear a jacket. She made another sound and I got a glimpse of what was in her mouth, or more accurately, what wasn’t in her mouth. She had no tongue, from the story where she talked too much. There was a huge bump on her head, from the story where she ran too fast on the stairs. Her body was covered in scars, from the story where she fooled around with the lawnmower. She wore nothing more than tattered rags, from the story where she didn’t do her laundry and had nothing to wear. Her gnarled hands extended towards me. One was deformed and crumpled, from the story where she threw open the attic door. The other had a long scar running across it, from the story where she stole the keys.
Then it hit me. She was here, because of the story where she went up into the attic without permission. Then I realized that I had done everything she had. I didn’t wear my jacket. I had talked in class. I had forgotten to waft. I had been reckless when my parents were away. I had run up the stairs. I had grabbed the keys. I had opened the attic door. I had gone up without permission. I had looked directly at the sun. I had neglected to do my laundry. She made a croaky chuckle and leapt through the air. Her chewed-on nails dug into my flesh, her maw opened wide, and she attacked. No one even heard my scream.
Years later…
“Remember to wear your jacket son,” Charlie’s mother, Madeline, called.
“I had a brother named James once…”
Henry Lomma is thirteen years old and enjoys writing, playing the clarinet, skiing and reading mystery stories. He lives with his family in New York.