The Haunting of Charles Dean

I can forgive myself for a great many things—cowards are good at looking the other way when they need to. But there's one thing I'll never forgive myself for, and after thirty long years it has finally come back to haunt me.

Despite the fog of age, the events that transpired are still crystal clear no matter what I drink in an attempt to forget.

I was seven at the time and my family lived in a cabin far from the city—I remember us driving for what felt like hours just to get necessities. The house was cramped, smelling of must from a bygone century, but mother raised us by herself and had little choice in our residence.

My sister, Clara, never complained about it. She enjoyed the vast acres of land to get lost in, conjuring fanciful tales of the faeries that inhabited the shrubs and trees. I, on the other hand, preferred my stories in books, which is where most of my time went.

But Clara always found some way to get my attention.

On that particular day, she snatched the book straight out of my hands, losing my page as she hugged the thing and skipped merrily out of the house. I vaguely recall our mother telling us to return soon for dinner before I chased after my sister. I followed the sweet sound of her giggling and the occasional frill of a white dress as it disappeared behind a tree or rock, the forest growing ever denser the further we strayed.

Calling out, I said how little I cared for such games and fussed over the dirt that caked my trousers and shoes. My words hit the empty air, and I began to panic as I no longer heard the hums of the person I so recently sought. I knew not which way she went nor where I came from, but decided nothing would be resolved by standing still and crept onward. Every sound of rustling bushes made my heart jump, every step I took only adding to my anxiety.

It wasn't long before the smell of some kind of meat hit me, and I so foolishly assumed it was my mother's cooking—perhaps I had gotten turned around, and was making my way back to the house where my sister would be waiting. Only the stronger the stench got, the more it burnt my nostrils and left a rancid taste in my mouth.

I came upon a chasm soon after, a wide circle in the ground too large to see the other side. Clara teetered just on the edge of it, peering down into the great rift. I pushed my nerves aside long enough to join her, and discovered that not even the afternoon light of the clearing pierced the darkness inside that hole. The look on my sister's face was of uncertain awe, some mixture of terror and curiosity, but she remained transfixed nonetheless.

Stepping back from the precipice with a sudden bout of vertigo, I dropped to the ground, plastering even more mud about me. When I shouted to my sister that she should return home with me, she turned and looked ready to reply, no doubt to tell me why we should investigate the abyss further.

That was when I saw it emerge from the pit. A pale arm surfaced, twice the length I thought humanly possible yet so emaciated, the bones underneath pressed up against its leathery, pale skin as it moved toward my sister.

The horror of it had me frozen in place, unable to utter a word as it grasped her ankle, then pulled backward into the pit. Clara fell forward and dropped the book, clawing and screaming for me as the horrible abomination dragged her into what was certainly the depths of hell itself.

When I finally regained control of my body she was already gone. I ran as fast as I could—I remember weeping uncontrollably as I moved through the forest with no notion of which way was home, catching dark shapes moving at the edges of my vision as what little light there was began to disappear. It felt like an eternity I was trapped in those woods, and I surely ran in circles for most of it.

Eventually I made it home and told mother everything at dizzying speed. She didn't hesitate to call the police and, pushing through my fear, I led them back out into the woods, trying my best to recall the pit's location with haste.

As I reached the clearing again once again, I found that no pit existed—just a strange lack of trees in a perfect circle, my book sitting at the threshold of where it once was. I pleaded with the police men to dig, that she had to be somewhere underneath—alas, my stories were as fanciful as the ones my sister would always dream up.

Mom was never the same after that. She tried her best to console me, but I felt the searing disdain behind her eyes. My story sounded like a child's folly, I realize that in my later years, but I know what I saw that day. I won't ever be able to burn it from my memory, much to my dismay.

I moved to the city once I came of age, finding myself a small apartment and modest wages. I've seen many therapists in the years between now and then, telling all of them the full truth—that I abandoned my sister like a coward, left her to die in those woods with a creature that I never caught full sight of. They always look at me with sadness, as though pitying my addled mind.

But I'm not insane. Do you want to know why? Because this creature has returned my sister to me. I see them now, as I'm writing this, for the first time in thirty long years, standing just outside the door to my room. The abomination's arm is still wrapped around my poor sister, she herself looking much older, slenderer, and grey of skin.

They're waiting for me to join them I realize, as I should have done so many years ago. I have no apprehension this time as I know they will find me wherever I go and whatever I do, and it is something of a relief to face the fears that have haunted me for my entire life.

I won't abandon you this time, Clara.