I met my younger sister four years ago today. She was adopted, so neither of us ever met her real mother. As for her father, well we don't actually know for sure. My father and my older brother have the same name, so it is just as likely that she is my niece as my sister. It is also possible that she is not related at all. I choose not to think that. We have agreed not to discuss these possibilities with anyone but each other. We have found our truest kin and no Further Proof will be needed. To me, she is my sister.
She came into my life suddenly, found me open and receptive to most things and blurted her revelation awkwardly and shyly. It sort of inspired me, got my imagination going. We discussed it for days, all the timing and possibilties. We were as close as siblings from the first, planning, discussing, staying up all night discovering weird similarities and shared feelings of profundity. Our childhood impressions were uncanny in their similarities, despite her being a good deal younger and growing up in a different part of the country.
She visits me from time to time. She has done this since we first met. We go on long walks on empty streets or hikes when I lived in the mountains. One of those hikes brought on this story:
We were on the road actually. A country road. There was an old house in obvious and severe disrepair. A rusted out Chevrolet pick-up truck was out back; you could see it from the road. "Let's go in," she said, and before I could say no, she was sneaking towards the house behind an small row-orchard of grape vines. For a while, I stood in the road, frustrated and indecisive. Then, my brotherly protective vibe kicked in and I took off after her. Breathless, I came up behind her. We were at the backdoor. She had stopped.
There was a hesitation now that we were at the house. It was funny, because I had never seen this side of her. Despite our shared genetics, we had missed the adventures of childhood. Facing the door and imminent entry into what was almost definitely a haunted house, she froze. All her bluster was gone.
I was showing off. I admit it. I pushed the door open (there was no lock) and climbed into the house (there were no stairs). "C'mon," I said, like an immature dad, "it's just a house. No one's here." I helped pull her up into the haunted house.
I was right about that. The place was empty. Well, not completely. There was a lot of old crap lying around; the type you find in old houses: rusty paint-can lids, old newspapers, lots of soda bottles and snack wrappers, plastic buckets. The wallpaper was fading and half-torn off in most rooms. The windows were filthy and covered with brown vines on the outside that were beginning to force their way inside. A card table had been set up in the dining room. There had been a more organized soda and snack-cracker meal here recently. "At least someone checks up on the place," I said.
"Let's leave," she said.
I made her go up the stairs after me. I wanted to show her the whole house. Mostly, though, I wanted to show her I wasn't afraid.
The stairs were creaky and precarious, but safe enough. There was a big hole in one of the bedrooms that looked down into the living room. It was afternoon in the winter. The light was fading fast.
"Blaine," she said out loud. There was fear in her voice. I found her in the upstairs hallway, by a door. It appeared to be the door to the attic. "Blaine," she repeated, "what's that doing here?"
Propping the attic door closed was a small crutch. It would have been a child's crutch. Whatever it's purpose once was, it was now being used to keep whatever was in the attic from getting out. At least that's how I explained its presence to my sister. She was not amused. "We should leave now. It's getting dark."
"We'll just see the attic first. Real quick." I put my hand to the little kid's crutch. I gripped it slowly. I smiled at my sister, but fear was screaming in my bloodstream. Fear of what? I could not say. Just then a noise, a small noise, a tiny crash came from above. we froze. "The attic," I whispered. My heart was in my throat. "Shit."
At that instant, both of us took off. We basically leapt down the creaky staircase, dust flying at our heels. The floorboards groaned at our footfalls. Through the kitchen we ran and then, at the open door, with no staircase, we leapt from at least a five-foot height, as far from that awful haunted house as we could get, hitting the ground rolling. Breathless, side by side, we lay as the sky grew dark quickly and the house grew dark with it. We lay in the abandoned yard, looking safely at the location of our terrifying bond (a bond which will last each of our lives, a bond of blood, no proof needed). We lay there side by side and laughed. We laughed until the North Star found its own siblings.
