Twisted

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Miraculously, I’d found the cracked votive candle in one of the few kitchen drawers that had not been ransacked over the years, a fading image of Mary etched into the glass. I vaguely recall an image of the candle amongst the other tattered stuffed animals and half-dead bouquets displayed outside the cabin six years ago in memory of my twin sister.

Emily. Emily and Eleanor, myself–I’ve always hated when parents of twins choose to name them similarly. As if sharing a womb meant definitively that the siblings would be best friends. I’d never found a best friend in my sister; although standing in this abandoned cabin, my childhood home, I can’t deny that we do share an eternal bond. I would never come back here if it weren’t for her.

Other than the occasional rebellious teenagers sneaking out into the woods with a ouija board or some overachieving campers seeking shelter in the storm, I imagine I’m the only person to step foot in this cabin since her death. My parent’s marriage slowly cracked under the weight of grief, my mother presumed dead after disappearing one winter morning, a hastily written note in her place: “I need to be with my daughter”. My father left shortly thereafter.

Perhaps if my mother had bothered to stick around for a little longer, to comfort me in my time of grief, she would have lived to see that Emily was very much here. At her funeral, the first sign appeared. As I stood in the funeral home’s bathroom, splashing cold water in my face to lessen the chance of a panic attack, I caught a brief glance of her in the old vintage mirror. Standing behind me, a devilish smile across her face. She appeared only for a moment, but it was enough to send me running out of the bathroom and straight out the door, never to attend the service.

Sure, I questioned my own sanity after that incident. I saw the counselor at school the principal had recommended to me to deal with my grief. You’re just going to have to take my word for it that I’m not crazy. As sane as one can be after being abandoned by every member of my family that supposedly loved me.

I move from the windowsill and sit on the creaky living room floorboards. The only light in the room coming from that little flame, painting the walls in a flickering amber. Only the light is not so I can see, I’ve grown comfortable being alone in darkness. That's what happens when you’re barely a preteen and the electricity gets shut off because there's no one around to pay the bill.You sit in the darkness until eventually after some concerned phone calls from neighbors, social workers show up to ship you off to some new random families. That candle is a warning.

Stay away. Of all the appearances my sister has made, she is always strongest on this particular autumn day. October 11th. Not only the day of our shared birth, but the day she left us. Happy birthday to me. I chuckle at the idea of bringing a cake to this cabin and singing us a birthday song, blowing out the candles with the ghost of my dead sister.

My previous birthday when I turned sixteen, I’d awoken to invisible hands around my neck. I struggled against the tightening grip around my throat, trying to gasp for air and clawing at the empty space above me where I instinctively knew Emily was. Eventually I got a scream out and my foster parents ran in, and found me panting and crying in my bed alone. They were used to these odd encounters and wrote it off as my trauma.

I’ve tried to ignore these messages from Emily, hoping as time passes her presence will weaken. Maybe she’ll find the light. I’m not sure what I believe in, but I do know that my mother hasn’t been harassing me from the other side. She found peace. I wouldn’t describe Emily as being peaceful even when she was still living. She always somehow grabbed the attention while I faded into the background, ignored. Twin rivalry is real, and she definitely won that competition every time.

Finally last week, I received a message I couldn't ignore. My foster parents couldn’t ignore it either, in fact they booted me off to the next family for it. Written across the living room walls in thick, dripping letters: “The Cabin. I’m coming back for you”. It was written in deep red letters that I could only assume were blood.

As per usual, I begged for my foster parents to understand that it wasn’t me. How on earth could I benefit from damaging property and being shipped away again? Although I can’t deny, their only alternative explanation is to accept that I’m being haunted by my dead sister. I can see how they’d rather assume I’m just damaged.

I’d decided it’s time once and for all to face these disturbances head on. If she’s managed to create physical images that even others can see, I can only imagine she's getting stronger, not fading away as I’d hoped. It’s probably her hatred of me for ignoring her previous messages that fuel her newfound grasp on the physical world. That's just like Emily–can’t be ignored.

I have no idea why she's brought me out here tonight, but I figured better be safe and light the candle so nobody randomly strolls in mid-seance, mid-ghost twin vs. live twin epic duel for a physical body, or whatever she expects to happen.

“Hi Emily… if you’re here,” Even as I say it, I feel stupid. I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the one-sided conversation.

“Listen, if you’re trying to tie up loose-ends here, I’ve tried. I don’t know who killed you. Nobody does! If the cops can’t figure it out, how am I supposed to? I am sorry about what happened. I understand trying to contact your twin sister, giving her clues to your death, sounds like a great movie. But I don’t know!” I sputtered it out so quickly because I hadn’t realized I’d been keeping it all in all these years.

Suddenly, the room around me changed. Natural light filtered through the windows, the damage and dust on the old raggedy furniture seemed to disappear, and I saw my family in the kitchen, making pancakes. My mother looked just as I chose to remember her, before the grief overtook her and her cheeks sunk into hollows. She was young, pink color on her lips and nails, and smiling–I hadn’t seen her smile once after Emily’s death.

Great, you’re giving me creepy flashbacks to before your death, I thought. I would’ve said it aloud, but a small part of me didn’t want to disturb that happy family in the kitchen. It’s been difficult to reminisce about these few happy memories over the years since so much pain had overtaken them. For a moment, I was grateful to Emily for the memory.

I saw my younger, childlike self sitting at the table while mother and little Emily stirred the pancake batter. Her blonde hair was in softly curled pigtails and I couldn’t help but be entranced by her childlike innocence. I turned to look at my younger self, pouting in the corner. Who knows what I was upset about at that time, but it probably had something to do with my mother letting Emily stir instead of me, or giving her a better present.

I was a little confused by my own expression. My face was twisted into a grimace. I looked… angry. Jealous. Of course I was jealous of my twin sister, but this image didn’t quite fit into the mold of my memory.

“Sissy, come lick the spoon!” Emily said to my child self, and little me returned with nothing but a scowl.

This was all wrong! Surely, Emily was presenting these images altered to me. She wanted me to think that she wasn’t in the wrong even though I knew better!

Then, the little pig-tailed girl turned right to me. Present, nearly-adult me. Not the childlike vision of myself. “You did this.”

She looked right into me, her big brown eyes becoming filled with tears. I felt a sudden pang of desperation, I wanted to help her. I didn’t want this innocent girl to feel any pain. She didn’t deserve it.

“You didn’t deserve it…” I said aloud to her, almost in a trance. “I-...I’m sorry”.

Emily began to sob. Faint purple lines appeared over her neck. Bruises.

I fell to my knees, overwhelmed with grief and… guilt. The child seated at the table looked foreign to me. Why was she so angry? Why did I look so…evil?

The floor underneath my knees seemed to swell and tremble. Underneath the floorboards, a dark substance began to pool between the cracks. The metallic, nauseating smell was undeniably familiar–blood.

“What have I done?” I sobbed into my hands as they came up to cover my eyes from the horrific scene before me. I could hear my sweet mother crying in the background, and wanted to comfort her. But those cries were drowned out by a bloodcurdling sound. My own laughter, starting from that corner of the room and then filling the entire cabin as if over speaker. I tried to plug my ears but the sound did not waver.

I was the evil one.

***

One year later

***

“Happy birthday, Eleanor!” A frumpy nurse strolled into the tiny, fluorescently-lit room.

My consciousness was fading in and out, my surroundings difficult to make out between the opening and closing of my eyelids.

“I’ve brought your morning dose, and a special surprise!” The nurse said, her voice loudening as I could feel her moving closer to my bedside.

A small dixie cup with some multi-colored pills. A vanilla cupcake, with a birthday candle, unlit.

“Are you sure this is for me, not Emily,” I sputtered out angrily. I heard the nurse sigh, exhausted. “You know Emily is the one who gets this kind of stuff. I never get anything. My parents hated me and wished I’d died instead of her!”

I watched the nurse leave the room as I struggled against the restraints on my arms.

She deserved it.

I know she did.