The Night Sister

As Rose climbed the stairs, she heard Sylvie say, “What do you think is the matter with Rose now?”


Mama mumbled something Rose couldn’t make out. Chop, chop, went the knife on the wooden cutting board.

Half an hour ticked by. Rose tried to focus on her own homework. But the math problems on the paper just turned into blood splatters and broken glass against a wooden floor.

“Rose?” Mama called, coming up the stairs. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

“Outside,” Rose said, jumping to her feet. “In the tower.”

Mama’s face got tight, with the corners of her mouth pulled down. She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded.

“All right,” she said. “If you insist.”

Rose practically ran to the tower, but Mama followed slowly. Mama never hurried for anything.

It was dusk now, the September sky a murky gray.

“Do you remember when Oma told me about mares?” Rose said, as she approached the doorway. “Well, I’ve found one.”

Rose looked back at her mother, waiting for a response, but Mama said nothing. Her face twitched slightly.

“We have a mare here, at the motel. And it’s done something terrible.”

Rose felt almost giddy as she said the words. At last, her mother would have to believe her. She’d show her the blood, then tell her the truth about Sylvie. Mama would take Rose in her arms and whisper, “Oh, you poor dear, it’s terrible, the things you’ve been through. Terrible that I’ve never believed you. I’m so sorry.”

But when Rose reached the spot, she stared at the floor in dismay. There was nothing. The floor was clean and bare—no trace of blood or glass. Rose blinked down, her eyes filling with furious tears of disbelief. She half-wondered if she could have imagined it. She bent down and touched the floor; it was slightly damp, and she was sure she detected the faintest hint of lemon cleanser.

No! No, no, no!

“There was blood,” Rose said breathlessly. “And broken glass! From a lightbulb.”

Fenton must have been carrying the lightbulb—holding it in his hand when Sylvie attacked him. Sylvie in mare form, a terrible creature with wings, extra arms with hideously sharp claws, mandibles for a mouth.

“Rose, please. No more of your stories.”

“It’s not a story, Mama! It’s Sylvie! She’s not who you think she is. She goes out each night and she—”

“That is enough.” Mama’s eyes had lost any trace of patience. “There are no such thing as mares! Not another word about any of this—not to me, not to your father or anyone else. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put it all out of your mind. You’ll go inside, finish your homework, do your chores, and get yourself to bed early. Do you understand?”

Rose bit her tongue hard, teeth clamping down until tears came to her eyes. She nodded. Yes. She understood. She was entirely on her own. She’d get no help from Mama or anyone else.

Mama led the way back up the driveway to the house. When Rose looked up, she saw Sylvie standing in front of their bedroom window, watching her and Mama with a worried scowl.





Alfred Hitchcock Universal Studios Hollywood, California September 19, 1961

Dear Mr. Hitchcock, Father had to put down Lucy the cow. We were born on the same day, Lucy and I. Lucy was born with a black spot in the exact shape of the state of Vermont. People used to come from all over just to see her, to take her picture. My father always said that Lucy’s birth was a sign, a lucky sign that good things were in store for our family. So what does her death mean? Even more bad luck, I suppose.

My uncle Fenton is gone and it’s all my fault. I am a terrible person. A monster. You would be shocked if I confessed the things I have done.

I’m sorry to burden you with all of this, it’s just that I have no one else to turn to. I feel I will burst inside if I don’t tell someone the truth—someone who might just understand that every one of us has evil inside them. Every one.

Sincerely yours, Miss Sylvia A. Slater The Tower Motel





328 Route 6


London, Vermont





Rose