Sarah Carter is Dead

Sarah Carter is Dead.

I almost don’t believe it.

She had spent the better half of this week lounging on my couch, raiding my fridge and tainting my netflix algorithm. The later half she spent in several pieces, scattered around the woods.

It’s not my fault.

She showed up at my door at one in the morning with a pillow under her arm. When she asked to crash at my place, I assumed she’d only be staying a few days. Her boyfriend can be an asshole, so I didn't think twice about her just needing to get away. My house was a fixer-upper sanctuary.

The first problem came two hours after I got her settled on the couch – she was hungry. I told her she could have whatever she wanted from the fridge, but to stay away from the left over Denny’s. It was supposed to be my lunch the next day.

Sarah never liked to be told ‘No’.

I woke up that morning to the entirety of my fridge tipped over. Its belly of groceries spilled into puddles of rot that trailed out the back door- torn off its hinges. Sarah slept like a babe, tangled in two blankets, grease stains on her shirt. You think I’d be put off, scared, infuriated - but I wasn’t any of those things. For some reason, I could look at the mess, then find peace looking at her.

She didn’t move from the couch that whole first day. She’d sat up and pulled her long legs to her chest and smiled at me in the way that set my chest alight. When she asked for a cola I got in my car and bought one for her, along with a dust pan and broom since mine had mysteriously gone missing.

While I cleaned, Sarah chittered loudly about her work drama. Her laugh was sweet, but then began making me nauseous. My back door was only a few feet away in the back lawn, and took the rest of the day to reinstall (somewhat).

The second problem was – Sarah got hungry again. My couch cushions didn’t meet her satisfaction, she spat up fluff asking for a hamburger;

“Today’s a cheat day,” she said, pulling a shred of fabric from in between her teeth, “I earned it.”

I buried her in the woods that night. Dug through frozen clay and worm-packed soil with a rusted shovel I don’t remember owning. My palms were raw, caked in a mix of blood and mulch. I only stopped when I hit bone- not hers. Something older. Thinner.

I covered her with trash bags. No ceremony. Just a whisper: Stay gone this time.

The next morning, she was on my couch.

Same pillow. Same grease stains. Same look like nothing had happened, like her ribs weren’t cracked open by the time I was done with her.

She smiled and stretched her long legs across the cushions, “We’re out of cola,” she said.

I’ve killed Sarah Carter six times.

Once with a hammer. Once with fire. Twice with my hands.

She only smiles wider- like it hurts to do it. Like her skin wasn’t hers.

Sometimes, I think she’s feeding me memories. Or stealing them.

The photos in my phone don’t make sense. A picnic in a park I’ve never seen. A birthday cake with her name spelled wrong’. A blurry video of us dancing, her mouth open wide, too wide, laughing soundlessly.

When I try to delete them, they come back. She comes back.

The worst was the time I chopped her into pieces.

I kept the head in the freezer, for proof.

That night, I heard her humming from inside. In the morning, the freezer was empty. But the humming was still there, soft and wet and low.

I haven’t opened the fridge since.

I asked her, “Who are you, really?”

She licked mustard off her thumb and looked at me.Then she crawled onto my lap and cried. And I held her, because I didn’t know what else to do. Her bones felt like twigs. Hollow and shaking. Like she'd been starved a long, long time.

She’s been shedding her hair.

It clogs the drains. Tangled, wet knots. I found a braid of it hanging from the ceiling fan like some kind of gift.

I don’t even think I ever knew her.

I mean.

I don’t know who Sarah Carter is. I don’t even know if that’s her name.

The lights flicker when I enter the room.

Sarah’s curled up on the couch again, wrapped in the same plaid blanket I burned last week. Her feet are bare. Mud crusts her heels. She turns the TV volume down without looking at me.

"You're staring again," she says, voice light, “You want something?”

I don’t answer. I sit across from her. The cushions wheeze beneath me. Something shifts under the fabric, like it’s breathing.

“You’re not real,” I say.

Sarah frowns, “Not this again.”

“You died. I watched you die. I made sure.”

She leans forward, arms over her knees, “Do you hear yourself? You say these things like they make sense.”

“They do,” I snap, “You show up. You eat everything. You destroy the house. You laugh like something inside you is breaking. And then I kill you. Every time. And you come back.”

Her head tilts, “Maybe you’re dreaming. Ever think of that? Maybe you’re off your meds. Maybe you never had a friend named Sarah Carter.”

I freeze.

“You say my name like it means something. Like it holds me together. But what if you made it up?” She smiles gently, “You look tired. You should sleep.”

“No,” I whisper.

“Go on. Just for a little while. I’ll be here when you wake up. I always am.”

I stare at her for a long time. Her face is soft. Familiar. Sad.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is a break. A spiral. Maybe –

“You’re so close,” she says suddenly, and her voice changes. Lower. Hungrier, “I can feel you almost understanding. It’s like the skin starts peeling off.”

I blink.

“What?” I ask.

She sits up straighter. The light in the room seems to dim, as though something behind her is sucking it in.

“You keep trying to make me something simple,” she says, “A ghost. A memory. A bad dream. But I’m not any of those.”

I stand, but my legs feel wrong. Rubber-thin. Backwards.

“What are you?”

She smiles. Her teeth are long tonight.

“I’m your consequence.”

My breath catches.

“I’m what you earned. What you invited. I’m here because of what you did. Or maybe what you didn’t do. Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

She gets up and walks toward me, barefoot, slow. The room warps around her. The floorboards sag under each step like they’re rotting from the inside. She’s inches from my face now. Her breath smells like old meat and lilies.

“This is yours.” she says.

I try to speak, but my voice is gone. I taste soil.

Sarah kisses my cheek, gently, like an old friend.

Then she whispers in my ear:

“You keep me so someone can suffer with you.”

I don’t think she ever leaves. Not really. Sometimes I wake up and she’s watching me sleep. Sometimes, I am her. Sometimes I forget who I am entirely.