Twinepathy

There are three times when I can sense Calliope’s presence: twilight, dawn, and when my bedroom is pitch black, not a sound to be heard, and I’m writing.

Tonight is one of those nights. My asthmatic lungs have kept me up for another restless night of no sleep, and with my computer monitor as the only light in the room, as fluorescent and blue as always, I can feel her.

Watching me, waiting for me, pleading with me.

Calliope went missing about six months ago, snatched from her twin bed in the bedroom we shared, gone without trace nor sound. The only evidence that she had been taken was a hastily written note found underneath her pillow.

Charlotte. Run.

Where, Calliope? Where should I run? From what, who? Months have passed and my family and I still don’t have answers. Law enforcement and the federal agents who flew down to help still don’t have answers. And people are starting to get too used to a life without her.

The experts suspected that the kidnapper knew Calliope, maybe even me too. And that Calliope knew what their intentions were, and that's why she had time to warn me. But the expected window for the kidnapper to nab me has come and gone, and the experts’ opinions have changed. It was a random hit from a stranger. Impossible to figure out who, equally as impossible to find her.

Hope has been lost.

But not from me.

Twinepathy is very much a thing. Calliope and I used to use it to play tricks on our unsuspecting victims. Calliope would be told a secret, and suddenly I’d know it too, just from looking at her.

And now… she’s still trying to tell me something.

Tonight, the sensation is sharper. Her presence isn't just in the walls of the house or the air against my skin. It's inside my head, like an itch in my brain. I press the palms of my hands to my eyes, rubbing until the darkness turns fuzzy, like a staticky television. Flecks of darkness dance in my vision when I reopen my eyes; focus on the laptop monitor. My fingers hover above the keyboard, stuck in between writing and not knowing. This would be my seventh social media post in as many days, pleading with people to still care, still look, still do something. The cursor blinks. So does something in the corner of the screen—except it’s not a blinking cursor.

It’s a reflection.

I jerk around. Nothing behind me, just my bookshelf and the half-open closet door. But when I turn back, my reflection winks at me.

A new document has opened, but I hadn’t touched anything.

In thin, halting letters, someone types:

“Charlotte.”

My breath hitches as another line appears:

“Don’t be afraid.”

I type back. Who is this?

A pause. Then:

“It’s me. It’s Cal.”

I feel like I'm drowning in cold syrup. Each keystroke sticks to my fingers

Are you real?

Another pause.

“Not in the way you mean.”

Where are you?

“Close. But trapped. You have to find me.”

The lights flicker. I swallow and try again.

Where are you?

Nothing. The document window closes itself.

But I feel her still, heavy in the air like a thunderstorm about to split the sky. I slam the laptop closed, my call to arms momentarily forgotten, and pace the length of my- our- bedroom. Someone’s hacked my computer and is messing with me. I convince myself that what I just experienced is a mirage; hope manifesting into something tangible I can grasp.

But that’s when I realize my reflection is still sitting on the bed.

She tilts her head. Not curious—recognizing. Like she’s been waiting. I rub my eyes again, and try to remember how to remind yourself you're dreaming. Is it that you can’t read clocks? I glance at the pink digital clock on my nightstand, where it clearly proclaims two o’clock in the morning

I move haltingly toward the mirror, toward the thing staring at me with Calliope’s face. Now that I’m paying attention, I don’t know how I ever thought it was my reflection in the first place. Only Cal has a mole, like a north star, below her left eye. “Calliope? Is it really you?”

The reflection nods and lifts her hand to the glass. Once, twice, three times it’s knuckles knock on the glass. It smiles warmly and smirks in an expression I can read all too well: well, what are you waiting for?

I don't-can't- move. There's bruises around both wrists and it’s lips are chapped. The imitation of Calliope looks older, or maybe just worn thin; aged by trauma and unimaginable circumstances.

The hand that knocked on the glass crooks into a beckoning finger, and I’m put under a spell. My feet drag me closer. It flattens its palm on the mirror and smiles wider, welcoming.

I place my hand over hers on the mirror.

It’s cold. So cold it stings. Her lips move, soundless. I strain to hear. I don’t hear a voice—but I feel the words. Like a buzz in the air between us.

“Charlotte.”

“Are you my sister? Are you Calliope?” My face pales, “or are you the…thing that took her?”

“It’s me, I promise. I’m stuck. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“How do I know it’s you? That you’re real? That I’m not dreaming?”

Calliope’s lips lift in an amusing smile, “Always with the questions.” She glances around, as if she can see the entirety of the room, and then points to her made bed, collecting dust. “Underneath the pillow is my diary. The password is 10222022.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, folding my arms across my chest, “but you could have forced that information out of her. That doesn’t prove anything.”

“That’s the day Logan Fields first said hi to me in the hallway.” She raises a challenging brow, and the mannerisms are so like my twin’s that I let myself believe it’s actually her.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

She leans in closer, pressing her forehead to the glass. I follow, matching her. The cold bites into my skin. Her breath fogs the mirror between us.

“I’ve run out of time. They’ll be back. You have to find me, Char. Please.”

“Where are you?” I ask, my voice cracking in desperation. “What does your surroundings look like? How are you able to talk to me like this?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Look for Amaia. She’ll know what to do.”

I frown, confused. Amaia Cross is a grade above us, and, as far I’ve been concerned, doesn’t even know we exist, “What are you talking about?”

Calliope looks behind her quickly. Her eyes meet mine, frantic, “If you don’t find me soon, something is going to happen. I don’t know what. But they’re preparing for something big.”

“Who’s they?” I scream in frustration.

Calliope’s image distorts, moving in and out of focus. My reflection comes into view, and the two images begin to meld together.

“One last thing…” Calliope’s voice trails off, distant. I slam my fists against the glass, hearing a crack.

“Whatever you do, don't trust the trees.”

Calliope blinks once, twice, and then she’s gone, and I’m forced to stare at myself in the mirror.