Creative Writing Horror


He always looked out for her whenever the catcalls started. She always tended to his wounds after football practice. Brother and sister: that’s what they were. They were meant to look out for each other, and that protective nature was something they gleaned from the great family life that they had.

The parents were devoted to each other, and they did their best whenever they could. So it was a hideous shock when her mother found out that her daughter’s bedsheets were bright with blood. Periods, maybe? Can’t be. A mother’s instinct says so. A family discussion was out of the question; and being so conservative she needed to know when this happened and whether her daughter used protection.

The ‘talk’ took place in the kitchen between mother and daughter, woman and girl. She used protection; she didn’t want to be on the ‘Virgin Cruise’ as her girlfriends dismissively called those who wanted to preserve their chastity; no, the condom didn’t break; it was a boy from school; it happened when no one was at home; please chill out now, it’s no biggie, times have changed.

How do you spot a liar? Maybe it’s when they look at their feet as they talk to you, or when they stammer so bad it sounds like rap, or when the beads of sweat form and a heady miasma of fear emanates from them, or when their story doesn’t check out. It’s all or none of these things. It’s none of these things.

How do you spot a liar? It’s when brother kisses sister on the lips in a way that’s beyond platonic, and when sister holds her brother’s hand and looks into his eyes with a sense of hope and longing, and when they both look at mother as if she’s the problem. But mostly because a mother’s instinct says so.

When she grabbed her daughter, forced an icy smile to play on her lips as she whispered a threat to call the authorities one summer morning did her daughter open her mouth to speak. From the corner of her eye, the mother saw her son nervously watching them both. What piqued her curiosity was when she sensed her husband looking uncannily nervous too.

Her daughter’s hot breath played on her ear as what she said reverberated and echoed in her head as if it were hollow: It was Daddy, he told me not to tell.

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