My sister like’s to pretend she’s a writer. She describes herself as a literary romance writer. In actuality, she writes cringy YA fan fiction and paranormal romances. Reminiscent of what a 13-year-old would write. She’s 28. Still lives at home. Hasn’t made any money from her writing. But that doesn’t stop her from writing 10+ hours a day. Prolific, yes. Talented, no.
A few days ago, she came into my room without knocking. “Jakey, I need your help,” she said. I’m 20, and she still calls me Jakey.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Some man sent me a creepy message. I want you to track him down.”
“Well that’s what happens when you put your pictures on those types of sites.”
“It’s about my writing,” she said, starting to tear up. “It’s very important, just please help for once.”
“Fine.” I followed her to her room. Decorated like she was 12. Pink shag carpet, pink walls, posters of boy bands on the walls.
“Look at this message,” she said.
I read the message on her monitor.
Subject: My Best Friend’s New Boyfriend is a Vampire (Chapter 41)
Chapter 41 ruined the entire story. I read each and every chapter as they came in only to be let down 100% by this ending. You wasted HOURS, no, not hours, DAYS of my life. In return, I am placing a curse on you. You will have ZERO literary success.
I laughed. I wanted to see what chapter 41 was all about. I pulled it up and started reading it aloud. “The vampire stood over me, his eyes steel gray, the color of a sword just taken out of the Vulcan’s forge, the shade of the sky on a stormy night, where the clouds are leaden with heavy rain, their pupils piercing my heart like a dagger sharpened on a wet stone. He was shirtless and his body was like that of a Greek God, like that of Adonis. not an ounce of fat, as strong as Hercules, no, stronger. Like Hector storming the walls of Troy. I had never seen a man so strong, so masculine, so viral…”
I couldn’t help myself any longer and burst out in laughter. “Please tell me this is a parody.”
“No, this is a serious work. Currently #34 in the paranormal romance section.”
“Well let’s see. First, I think you meant ‘whet’ instead of ‘wet.’ And virile, V-I-R-I-L-E, not viral. I know the men you bring over are viral, but that is not what most women desire. Plus, it’s just so over the top. Too flowery, too many similes, too many allusions. But you did manage to use the correct version of ‘their.’ Probably puts you in the top 10% of fan fiction writers.”
“I’m actually in the top 2% for your information. By both likes and views. And it’s called figurative language. It’s what writers use.”
“It’s called purple prose,” I responded.
“I didn’t bring you in for a literary critique. I want you to track down this man.”
“Just ignore him.”
“He put a curse on me. And not some fake curse. The number of views and hearts on my recent stories has declined 90%.”
I laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. So can you find him?”
“How?”
“His IP Address.”
“And how do you expect me to get that? Hack into whatever site you post your drivel on? Even if I had it, that would just give me his general vicinity.”
“I’ve seen you use the thing on your computer. The black screen with neon green text like in the movies.”
“The terminal? That doesn’t make me a hacker,” I said, laughing . She looked at me for a few seconds and then burst into tears.
“Look,” I said. “Why don’t you report the message. Then he will get banned.”
“You don’t understand,” my sister wailed. “You are an awful brother. I have the number 7 romance story of all time. Across all subcategories. The number 2 and 6 paranormal romance stories. My stories typically garner several hundred thousand views–”
“And you also have hundreds of thousands in college debt. You live at home and can’t hold an actual job for more than a few months at a time. You don’t make anything from your writing. You’ve never had a literary career. Or any career, for that matter. Unless you count entertaining creepy old guys a career. How much do they pay on average? $20? $30?”
“I’m telling mom,” she said, running out of the door, crying. She really did act like a 13 year old.
My mom knocked on my door a few hours later. “Jacob,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your sister said that you called her the w-word.” My mom was originally from Utah, hence her avoidance of using the word that rhymes with door..
“I did not.”
“You implied it. It is disgusting and bizarre to comment on your sister’s private life. You do not have a normal relationship with her. And I am very worried about you two.”
“She’s 8 years older than me, why does she need you to solve her problems.”
“I am very disappointed Jacob,” she said, before leaving. My mom talked a lot, but never did anything. I wasn’t worried.
My sister entered my room the next day, again without knocking.
“I need your help,” she said. “I am going to cast a spell to break the curse.”
I looked at her, sure she was joking, but she looked serious.
“And I need the blood of a male who has never known the pleasures of the female flesh.”
“Well, thanks to you, there aren’t many in this city.”
She slapped me. Only hurt a bit, her fleshy hands were slow.
“Fine, I’ll help,” I said. This was going to be some good entertainment.
We walked to her room. She had covered the windows with black out curtains and lit a series of candles around a saucer that sat on top a portable burner.
“Be careful not to burn this place down,” I said.
“I won’t. I got this spell from a warlock.”
“A warlock? That’s a male witch, right? What did you have to give him in return?”
She slapped me again.
“Hey, I just wanted to know how much he charged for it.”
“Do not interrupt me,” she said. “This is very serious.” She wasn’t joking, She had truly gone off the deep end.
“Willow bark,” she said. adding some twigs to the potion.
“A cup of mushrooms,” adding a plastic container of shiitake mushrooms to the brew.
“Are you sure those are the right type,” I asked. “I mean, you don’t want to mess up the recipe.”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “The juice of one lemon. A purple plum sliced in thirds. The rind of an orange. A tablespoon of sugar. A cup of dirt from a graveyard. Holy water.”
“How’d you get that?” I asked. “You aren’t exactly a priest’s type.”
“Shut up,” she said. She pulled out a knife. “I need your blood.”
“No, you’re crazy,” I said, backing up.
“Fine,” she said. “The warlock said my blood would work too.” She sliced the tip of her finger over the saucer and turned on the heat.
She handed me a paper. “At least read the spell, that’s the least you can do.”
“Fine,” I said. I chanted, trying to suppress my laughter, some words in the made up language the warlock had invented. I looked at my sister. She was serious. She needed help.
After about a minute, I saw some dark smoke rising from the brew.
“This isn’t safe, I’m turning this off,” I said. I moved to turn off the burner, but my sister slapped me, and this time it hurt.
“No,” she screamed. “I need to complete this. Suddenly, the black smoke coalesced into a serpentine shape, about 4 feet long. It hovered in the air briefly before it flew towards me, its lamprey-like mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Heading towards my throat. I raised my hand, trying to block it. It bit into my forearm.
“Help,” I cried. “Give me your knife.”
My sister ran over and slashed at the creature. Blood poured out of its wounds, but it maintained its grip.
She tossed me the knife. I caught it and began sawing its head off, but its grip didn’t lessen. I stumbled backwards, knocking over one of the candles. The pink shag carpet immediately caught ablaze. This place was going to burn.
“Get out,” I yelled.
My sister ran out as the fire spread. Fire. I picked up one of the candles and held it to the monster’s head. After a few seconds, it released my arm. I threw its body into the inferno and ran outside.
Our house burned to the ground. And I have a festering wound and a 102 degree fever that won’t break. All because of my crazy sister. I’ll never forgive her.