The Night Sister

Rose didn’t understand why Daddy even bothered with the sign: it was a waste of electricity. The only cars passing through were local.

Rose could hear the distant rumble of trucks passing by on the interstate. It was like a living thing, the highway. Always awake, always buzzing with traffic.

And then, there, by the tower, a shadow. Sylvie, slipping through the doorway of the tower in her nightgown.

Pulling on a robe, Rose crept out of the room and down the hall, only pausing as she passed her parents’ room. She could wake them, tell them, “Sylvie’s out of bed again. She’s down at the tower right this minute.” But they’d never believe her; Rose knew that. They wouldn’t even get out of bed to check her story. And even if they did check, if they did catch Sylvie sneaking around outside, that would be a disaster of a different sort. She could only imagine what lengths Sylvie might go to, to try to pay her back.

But maybe, she told herself, if she followed Sylvie, caught her in the act, she’d have evidence, proof. And then Rose might, for once in her life, have the upper hand.

She moved on, past her parents’ room, down the carpeted stairs, and crept out the front door. The night was strangely warm for so late in September. The air was sticky, and moist like breath. They hadn’t had a hard frost yet; summer was still hanging on. Crickets chirped. Cicadas buzzed. In the driveway, a praying mantis rested, spiked arms bent in a way that looked like prayer, but that was really an efficient pose for snaring prey.

Sylvie told her once that the female praying mantis always cuts off the head of her mate. “A cannibal of the worst sort,” Sylvie explained. She’d said it during dinner, and Mama had flashed both girls a warning look.

Rose continued down the driveway, the pebbles rough and warm beneath her bare feet. The lights in all the motel units were off, with no cars parked out front.

“Clarence, you need to face facts,” she’d heard her mother say to her father just last week. “We need to close down.”

“Not yet,” he said. “There’s still a chance things may pick up. We’ve got foliage season coming. No one wants to look at the leaves while speeding through on the interstate.”

Rose heard something (a small, strangled cry?) coming from the tower up ahead. She stopped and held her breath, listening hard. She was only fifteen feet away now, standing right at the edge of the shadow it cast with the moon behind it.

She was sure then that she heard her name in a hushed voice. Rose—hurry—

Did Sylvie know she’d been followed? Worse still, did she want Rose to follow her? Was Rose walking right into a trap?

Rose took several steps forward, careful to stay in the shadows. She kept her eyes trained on the open doorway.

She thought she heard a low hum, then a rustling.

Suddenly she wanted to turn around, to run back to the house and wake up Mama and Daddy:

Sylvie’s in the tower. She’s turning into something terrible.

But she needed to see. That need pulled her along, some invisible wire growing tighter and tighter, the tug fierce and impossible to resist. As she took another step forward, she heard what sounded like the rustle of large wings.

A shadow passed in front of the open doorway, from left to right. It moved quickly, a blur in the darkness. And were those wings? Extra arms flailing?

Rose gasped—then, realizing too late that she’d made a sound, clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Rose!” a voice shouted. It was Sylvie’s and not Sylvie’s. Familiar, yet with a strange rasp and hum. And it was angry.

Rose turned and took off, running, running as fast as her legs would take her, up the driveway, her bare feet pounding on the pebbles, her eyes fixed on the house. She did not dare look back. Behind her, she heard the rush of wings coming closer. Closer still.

Heart hammering, she reached the front door at last. She pulled it open and slammed it closed, locking it quickly.

“Rose,” her mother called from upstairs. “Is that you?”