My Sister the Savior

Dory was convinced our house was haunted. She was five years younger than me and quite impressionable. As her big brother, I was supposed to protect her from everything. Including ghosts. Especially ghosts.

We were latchkey kids. We lived in a time when it was acceptable to walk a mile or more home from school at ten years old. At fifteen, I wouldn’t be caught dead walking with her. I would assume the mantle of protector of the household once we were home. Besides, she walked with several of her friends. They were a feral pack. Even at ten.

My father’s schedule was never consistent. I taught myself to cook with Dory serving as a guinea pig and outspoken critic. Dinners were a nightly rotation of minute rice, minute steaks, or pizza bagels. (Homemade, not frozen.)

Dad checked in from a payphone whenever he could. He knew he would be late and made sure all homework was done, everyone was fed, and would be in bed early. Rules were stringently enforced. My father’s arrival well after dark meant my sister’s irrational fear of ghosts would be heightened.

I focused on homework at the desk in my room, while Dory did whatever it was ten-year-old girls did, in her room. My hunting dog Corky, sprawled on my bed; legs kicked as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Corky was mellow as far as high-energy hunting breeds went. The first thing he ever pointed at was a half-eaten ham sandwich on a coffee table. My father was so proud, he gave him the rest of the sandwich.

Corky started acting strange just after sunset. He barked and growled several times. Sniffed the air; nose twitching. His eyes followed something unseen. The noise caught my sister’s attention. She stormed into my room, assuming I was teasing the dog.

“You shouldn’t tease him. Daddy will get mad!” Anchored in my doorway, hands firmly on her hips, she chastised me. A position that would become familiar throughout the years. She was a stout fireplug of a statue. St. Dory of the Divine Rebuke.

Corky growled again and looked past her. His nose sniffed furiously. Registering. Processing.

She peered over her shoulder, awash in nervous energy. That was all I needed.

“Maybe he saw a ghost. Dogs are keenly in touch with the spiritual world.”

I used words like “keenly” at fifteen.

Milk-pale, she jumped into my room.

“Is that true? You’re not lying? I TOLD you this house was haunted!”

I wanted to feel guilty about the apoplexy of terror that consumed her. I truly did. But I was fifteen; this was justifiable and expected behavior.

Corky should have settled with Dory in the room. He feared her wrath as well. Instead, he stood on the bed, hair bristling. Startled, he launched from the bed, bounding down the stairs.

My sister and I exchanged glances. She was paralyzed with fear. Corky never acted like this. I wouldn’t admit I was scared. Not to her. Not yet.

Downstairs the front door was wide open. Corky growled at the closet door. His tail wagged as he paced furiously. I had locked the front door. It was my duty. I knew I did. Dory peered from my doorway.

“What is it?”

I waved her back into the room.

Now I was scared. Me. The protective big brother. Someone had broken in and hid in the hall closet. Waiting.

I ran upstairs.

“Are there ghosts?”

Her voice quivered and broke. She seemed smaller than I remembered. The stout statue had become a fragile porcelain doll. I grabbed a matador’s sword that hung on my wall. A souvenir from one of my father’s business trips. He never got to realize his dream of running with the bulls. He wanted me to believe it had been used in an actual bullfight; for all I knew, he purchased it in an airport gift shop.

“Lock this door when I go downstairs. Do not open it for anyone! If you don’t hear from me, go out the window and hide on the roof.”

Tears streamed down her face.

“Don’t go! The ghosts will get you!” She pleaded.

With all the bravado I could muster, I marched downstairs. Dory closed the door behind me. Corky remained fixated on the closet door.

Whoever was in there was trapped. I was oblivious to my sister’s prying eyes through a crack in the door upstairs.

Sword in hand, I pantomimed to Corky my plan of attack. On the count of three, I would open the door and swing at anything that moved.

On three, I gathered my breath. With a primal scream, I flung the door open, lunging wildly with the sword. A rush of cold air passed through me.

Through me.

Then out the front door. Corky’s eyes followed. There was nothing there. The front door closed. Slowly.

Corky eyed me in disbelief, then bolted upstairs.

Prowler? No.

Ghost? Absolutely.

I didn’t know what to believe. Someone had to answer to my father for the hacked-up coats that hung limp in surrender. I would be joining the ghosts that haunted the house in due time.

Dory slipped down the stairs with Corky. She stared at the closet, then me.

“Ghosts.” She said plainly. Resolute.

Nothing else made sense. I shrugged helplessly at the shredded coats.

A serene smile crossed her face.

“Blame Corky.”

Blame the dog? We loved Corky. I couldn’t subject him to my father’s rage.

I looked at her beatific smile. It made sense. She had made peace with the ghosts and didn’t want to antagonize them.

Corky had gotten into the closet and torn up the coats. I took the blame for not closing the closet door. That’s what we presented to my father.

Thus, my sister saved me from becoming a ghost.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Please enjoy all of my other stories on Vocal and follow me on Twitter @thedutchsimmons and on my webpage thedutchsimmons.com - I promise... I'm moderately entertaining!