My brother died on December 13th, 1997. That day is no longer just a memory, but instead plays like a Super 8 film that is constantly looping through the spools inside my head. It was an unusually bright day, but as my brother and I would soon learn, still bitter cold. We ran out of our home wearing our puffy winter coats, laughing like mad children, as our mother called behind us. Telling us that we make sure we are home by lunch. As I looked back at my mom, I saw that she had a smile on her face. It would be the last time I’d see her smile.
We had no grand scheme. We were children on winter break. It had just snowed the night before, so there was fresh powder snow everywhere. Our neighborhood had been transformed from boring suburbia, into a winter wonderland. We ran through our neighborhood, and found ourselves at the park that was just 5 minutes from our home. I don’t know how long we played, it could have been an hour, it could have been 10 minutes, but at some point, my brother found…it.
The Stick.
The stick had been half buried under the snow, and when my brother pulled it out, he looked like Arthur pulling sword from stone. The stick even looked like a sword, with two symmetrical protrusions, giving the stick the appearance of a cross-guard hilt. My brother began to swing the stick around wildly, pretending to fend off some great imaginary army, and almost immediately, I asked if I could try.
“Go find your own stick,” my brother said. I spent a few minutes trying to find my own stick, but all the sticks I found were puny and insignificant when compared to the great sword my brother had found. Again I asked my brother to let me play with the stick and again my brother told me to go kick rocks.
We were standing under the large oak tree which dominated the center of the park. It’s branches were bare of any life. I’m sure that the great sword had once been apart of that tree. I looked up at the naked tree and it’s branches moved jaggedly back and forth in the cold wind. Then in a fit of rage I reached for the stick my brother was holding, attempting to yank it from him. I almost got it out of my brother’s hands, but he caught on to what I was attempting and tightened his grip. We both wrestled with the stick in a tug-of-war match that must have only lasted a couple seconds, but felt like an eternity under that bare tree.
“Fine keep it!!” I yelled at my brother and all at once let go. My brother who at that very moment was pulling the stick, was caught off guard by the sudden change in tension, and fell backwards violently. The stick flew from his hands as he fell and he let out a short gasp on his way down.
As my brother hit the ground, there came a sickening crunching noise. His legs jerked for a moment, as if he was trying to tap-dance the air, then then he went still. It had all happened so fast. I approached my brother. His eyes were staring open at the sky, but they were vacant…like doll eyes. I noticed my brother’s head was resting on something that I had not noticed until that moment. It was a large rock buried in the snow. Crimson rivulets of blood were pooling down the rock and into the snow, which was absorbing my brother’s blood, like some demented version of a red snow cone.
I screamed my brother’s name, begging him to wake up. He did not move. His doll eyes continued to stare up at the sky. I ran home screaming, with the wind howling after me. It sounded like laughter.
I was 10 years old. My brother had been 12. He would be 12 forever.
My brother’s death destroyed my parents’ marriage. Though they never separated, they became strangers to each other. Both of them secluding themselves to a separate corner of the house. Letting their grief fill the empty space, like a noxious gas. They spoke to each other less and less as the years went one, until they were like like silent ghosts, haunting our home.
And of course there was the other terrible thing that hung in the air. The Silent Accusation. My parents never outright blamed me for my brother’s death. Not out loud at least. His death was deemed by all responsible authorities to have been a tragic accident. How sympathetic the adults of the world were towards me. How kind. How understanding. But there was the silent accusation that said otherwise. This accusation could be heard every time a door slammed shut in our house. It could be heard every time my father opened a new can of beer - he never use to drink. It could be heard every time my mother scrubbed the dishes, for minutes on end even after the plate had been cleaned spotless. It was in every corner of the house. It was in the wind out side - the one that sounded like laughter.
While other children my age were collecting Pokemon cards, I was collecting therapists. These kindhearted soft spoken adults always said the same thing. “It wasn’t your fault.” The words never stuck and neither did they. I moved from one sympathetic professional to another. The only thing that stayed, the only constant in my life, was
The Silent Accusation.
Two and a half years after my brother died, my father suggested that we go to the county fair. I couldn’t remember the last time we had done something together. Something that didn’t involve therapists or counseling or yelling or crying or worst of all - silence. Something fun. *As a family.* My mother simply nodded and then staring into her coffee cup said, “That could be nice.”
We got into the car and my dad - on one of his rare sober days - drove us to the fair. Well sober-ish. It was a relatively cool summer evening. I had spent so much time in our quiet home or in quiet offices - that the energy and noise of the fair was jarring. There was so much laughter and music, and pleasant smells. There was popcorn and donuts and snow cones that were doused in red sugary syrup. I watched as people went on the merry-go-round or up the Ferris wheel. As they tried their luck at rigged carney games. It was all so overwhelming. My parents and I were like black and white characters who had stepped into a technicolor world. It didn’t feel like we belonged.
We lived in a fairly small town. So underneath the noise of the fair there was another noise. Whispers that sounded like howling wind.
“There he is. The brother killer.”
“I heard he bashed his skull with a rock.”
“What a little psycho. Shouldn’t he be institutionalized?”
“It’s just like Cain and Abel, man.”
“What a freak.”
The whispers - whether or not they were really there - overwhelmed my ears. Everywhere I turned people were staring at me, licking their red snow cones in accusation. I stepped away from my parents and then I saw it. Saw Her. Tucked away at the back of the fair was a stall. It was just at the edge of the fair, where the lights stopped and the darkness of the fields beyond began. There was a big cartoon-ish sign over the stall that read:
SINK A FISH, MAKE A WISH.
As I approached the stall, the sounds of the fair receded. There was a woman in the stall. She had silver-gray hair and wore a purple robe. She had piercing green eyes and although she looked old to me, her face showed no signs of wrinkles. It was crease-less, like a mannequin or a doll.
“Hello there,” she said in a voice that was smooth and warm. “Care to play?”
“Sure, I guess,” I said in a small reedy voice. “But I don’t know how.”
The woman smiled and brought out three plastic fish tokens. She then pointed to a rounded jug at the back of the stall, and said, “All you have to do is try to get all three fishes into the jug. You do that, you win.”
“How much to play?”
“No charge.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I picked up the three fish tokens. The jug hole wasn’t exactly small, but it wasn’t huge either. I could easily miss. I took a deep breath and tossed the first fish. It went in.
“That’s one!” The woman said holding up her index finger. I noticed unlike her winkle free face - her finger did look old.
I tossed the second fish and it went in too. The woman gave an excited cheer and raised another finger, giving me the peace sign. Then said, “One more fish and this one is for all the marbles.”
My hand started to feel sweaty. I almost dropped the fish. I took another deep breath - feeling like a fish myself - one that was out of water, desperately gulping for air. I tossed the fish, it hit the edge of the opening and seemed to rattle their for what felt like an eternity, and then it fell in.
The woman gave a gleeful laugh and said, “Well done, you win!”
She offered her hand for a high five and I returned the favor. I smiled for the first time in two and a half years.
“So what do I win?” I asked. There weren’t any prizes hanging on the stall. Normally you would see stuffed animals and the like.
“It’s just like the sign says,” the woman said. And now her eyes narrowed. “Sink a fish, make a wish! Well, really sink three fishes and get a wish.”
“A…wish?”
“That’s right. And what ever you wish for will come true.”
The sounds of the fair had all but vanished at this point. Without really thinking, and in a voice that was hollow and breathless and desperate, I said, “I want my brother back.”
“Granted,” The woman said almost immediately. She was still smiling, but now her smile bothered me. I realized for the first time, just how far away this stall was from the rest of the fair. How dark the field beyond it was. As if her stall was the only thing standing in between the real world and oblivion. Then I heard a familiar voice. It was my mother calling my name.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I said. The woman said nothing. She just continued to smile at me. One of her fingers - and god that finger really looked old now - was twirling her silver-gray hair. I slowly backed away, then picking up speed, ran towards my mother’s voice. When I reached my mother, she berated me for leaving her side. She had understandably become overprotective since my brother’s death.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she said. And in her voice I could hear The Silent Accusation. I decided not to tell my parents about the woman and especially not about the wish. The rest of the time at the fair went normally, but I noticed as we were leaving both the woman and her stall were gone. As if she’d never been there. My parents and I did not speak on the car ride home, and not five minutes after we left the fair, it started to rain.
That night I could not sleep. Maybe it was due to the rain splattering against my window, or that I could still hear the whispers of the fair people, but for whatever reason sleep would not come. When I looked at the clock next to my bed, it read 2:05 AM in bright red.
And then I heard it. The sound of something or someone moving in the room next door. Which made no sense. That was my brother’s room, and no one had been in there since he died. It had become a tomb or a holy shrine to my brother’s memory. My mom refused to move any of his belongings and so the room looked exactly as it did the day my brother left the house and never returned. Once a couple of month’s after his death, I had put my hand on the door knob to his room, thinking of going in, when my mother came into the hallway carrying a laundry basket. She saw me and dropped the basket. White socks went sprawling across the floor. My mother never even said a word. She just glared at me. A glare that said, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you know this is all your fault. Don’t you dare go in there.” I let go of the door and walked away.
Now, on this rainy night where I could not sleep, I found myself tip-toeing into the hallway. To my shock the door to my brother’s room was open. And I could hear someone moving in there.
“Mom? Dad?” I called softly into the room. Hoping it was the latter and not the former. My dad drunkenly stumbling into the room I could handle, but I don’t know what I would say to my mom. Outside thunder roared. I stepped into the room. There were glow in the dark stars on the ceiling of my brother’s room, that had been there since he was a kid. The glow had faded, but the stars still illuminated the room in a sickly green color. Just enough so I could see. There was someone in the room. The thing that was sitting on my brother’s bed could not have been my brother. It looked all wrong. It’s face was too long, it’s eyes too far apart. It looked more like a grotesque cartoon caricature of my brother. But it was wearing the same puffy winter jacket my brother was wearing the day he died. And then I noticed what the thing was holding in it’s hand. It was The Stick. The great sword my brother and I had fought over.
The thing turned to look at me and as it did white lightning blinded the room for an instant. I couldn’t breath. I stared at the thing and it stared back with red bloodshot eyes. Staring into it’s terrible eyes I was hit with an unavoidable truth. One that might have driven me insane, if not for the fact that I was too stricken to feel anything but fear. The truth was this: Those were my brother’s eyes. The face and body might have been misshapen, but there was no mistaking the eyes. They were the eyes that use to wink at me across the table when we ate breakfast and made jokes in the morning. They were the eyes that would glare at me whenever I accidentally used his toothbrush. They were the vacant doll eyes that had stared up at the sky on that fateful day in December. And now they were looking at me. Piercing me.
“My stick,” the thing croaked. It’s voice was hoarse and jagged. And as it spoke some kind of slime dribbled down it’s chin. “It’s my stick. Go get your own.”
“Not real…” I stammered. To my horror the thing had gotten off the bed and was walking, no lurching towards me. It’s legs seem to move at impossible angles. It’s bones made horrible cracking noises. “Not real. You’re -“
Before I could finish, the thing that was and was not my brother swung the stick and it collided against my head with a loud thwack. Either by intention or supernatural coincidence, the thing had timed hitting my head just as thunder roared outside. I crumpled to the floor in a pathetic heap. My head was spinning and then I felt another thwack on my rib-cage as the thing that was and was not my brother began to beat me with the stick.
Then it dropped the stick. It’s cold slimy hands wrapped themselves around my throat.
“All your fault,” the thing said. It lifted my head and brought down on the floor. “It’s all your fault.”
“No!!” I said in a strangled voice. It’s hands squeezed harder. And in the horrible green glow of the room I noticed it’s hair was silver-gray just like the woman at the stall. I could feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. It brought my head up again, meaning slam it back down. In one last desperate bid, I grabbed it’s hands and tried to pull them off my throat. I alleviated some pressure. Outside thunder and lightning boomed, and I could smell county fair donuts.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked. Now my voice sounded just like the thing. Jagged and pathetic. “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. For everything. I’m so sorry.”
The thing stared at me. It’s eyes turned from a glare to a suspicious squint. Mucus dribbled down it’s chin and onto my face. There was another flash of lighting and I felt the thing let go. I coughed and sucked in the air and looked around, thinking that at any moment the thing would be back on me. But I was alone in the room. There was no sign of it, or that anything had been in the room in years. Only that wasn’t exactly true. There were two things I noticed. One, there were wet shoe prints that went out the room and into the hallway.
And two, in the corner of the room, resting gently against the wall, there was a stick that looked a lot like a sword.
I did not tell my parents about that night in my brother’s room. No reason to tell them something they would not believe. I rehearsed some lines to explain my bruises - and I did have several of them - but it ultimately proved pointless to come up with answers to questions my parents would never ask. The only sign that what occurred that night in my brother’s room did in fact happen were the wet shoe prints that ran up and down the hallway. My mother blamed those on me when she saw them the next morning. I didn’t deny it. My parent’s never asked about the stick, and I never brought it up, and though I never touched it, since that night it would appear now and then in different corners of the house. Someone was using it.
I spent the next couple of years avoiding that house for as long as I could, staying out partying with kids who only pretended to be my friends and eventually left my parents’ house as soon as I turned 18. I didn’t look back. I thought I would never be back to be honest. I wanted to find a life of my own. One that didn’t involve wishes or whispers or horrible things lurking in the shadows. For a while, I thought I did escape it all, the way a person wakes up from a bad dream. But I returned home last December. Exactly 26 years since the day my brother died. I’ve been here since.
My parents are old. And seem even more like ghosts now. My mom in particular is not doing well. Even after all this time, I want to be there with her when he passes. And although the years seemed to have softened my parents in some ways, I’ll still see the silent accusation in their eyes. They can’t hold their glares as long as they use to, they’re too tired now, but it’s there all the same. I guess it will always be there. I don’t know how much longer I can stand being in this house. At night, I hear wind that sounds like laughter. I smell county fair donuts and red sugary snow cones. I see wet shoe prints running up and down the hallway. And when I try to sleep, I swear I hear something or someone moving in the room next door. But I don’t go in there anymore. God help me if I ever do.