The Night Sister (16 page)

Mr. Alfred Hitchcock

Universal Studios

Hollywood, California

September 16, 1961

Dear Mr. Hitchcock,

I am eighteen today.

And I am a wicked, wicked girl.

Yours, as always,

Miss Sylvia A. Slater

The Tower Motel

328 Route 6

London, Vermont

Later that night, Rose found herself back down in the living room, watching Sylvie dance; her sister was doing the twist, pivoting like a screw that couldn't decide which way to turn, the top half of her body going one way, the bottom the other. Then, as Rose watched, Sylvie's head turned completely around, so that the back of it faced forward. She reached up and parted her hair to show that her skull had split, forming a second mouth. A grotesque mouth with red lipstick.

“Come dance with me,” the new mouth said, the hair around it writhing like tentacles. Around Sylvie's neck—twisted like horrid, flesh-colored licorice—was the pearl necklace.

Sylvie took a step toward her, the mouth smiling now, laughing even, the red lips stretched back. It looked obscene, like a lady's private parts.

Rose screamed. She screamed and screamed, but could not move as Sylvie moved closer, her hair dancing like snakes around Rose's face. Sylvie put a hand over Rose's mouth and nose, covering them so tightly, so completely, that Rose could not get any air.

She woke up gasping for breath, again overwhelmed by that now familiar feeling of being paralyzed. She struggled to move, to bring her body back to life. When she was finally able to lift her head and sit up, she found that she was alone in the room and it was morning. The clock said nearly eight. She'd slept in. She took a few gulps of air, tried to still her panic.

A dream. Only a dream.

Downstairs, she heard voices: her father, mother, and Sylvie sitting down to breakfast.

Sylvie's bed, across the room, was neatly made.

Rose got up and began to make her own: pulling back the covers, smoothing the sheet, and folding the top edge over neatly. As she straightened her pillow, she discovered two short, thick strands of black fur stuck to the cheerful yellow pillowcase. Rose frowned at them curiously for a moment; they hadn't had a cat or dog since old Ranger had died. She brushed them off, then picked up the pillow. That's when she found them: Oma's emerald earrings, left there like a secret gift just waiting to be found.

Rose's mind raced, all thoughts of the strange black hairs driven away.

Sylvie must have done it. Sylvie must have realized how unfair it was that she got both the necklace and the earrings. Maybe Mama had spoken to her, told her to do what was best: “Give your poor sister one of them. It's only fair.”

Or maybe she'd done it on her own, to show she was bigger than all of this pettiness, to be the hero in some new shiny, Sylvie way.

Rose imagined it now. She'd go downstairs in the earrings, and her mother and father would be so proud of Sylvie for being so kind, thoughtful, and generous. They'd be so focused on Sylvie that they wouldn't notice how the cut green stones brought out the flecks of green in Rose's hazel eyes, how they made her beautiful. And surely, Rose thought as she carefully carried the teardrop-shaped earrings over to her dressing table with the mirror, surely they would make her beautiful. She clipped them onto her earlobes, tucked back her tangled hair, and admired the way they caught the light. Exquisite. That's what they were. The loveliest thing she'd ever owned.

She took her time brushing out her hair and put it in a careful braid. She chose a maroon dress, one of her best, with lace at the sleeves. It was a dress Sylvie had helped her pick out, saying it was perfect for her milky complexion and dark hair.

When they saw her come down the stairs, they'd forget all about that other girl—the one who'd ruined the cake and said she'd hated her sister (“The cruelest possible words one could utter at a birthday party,” Mama had said last night). Maybe they'd even forget that they'd grounded Rose, given her all of Sylvie's chores in addition to her own for the next month. They'd see that this new Rose was clearly some other girl, a nicer girl, a beautiful girl who would never do anything so naughty. As if the old Rose had been under a spell she'd woken from. And all it took was the magic earrings to do it.

Rose finished making her bed, checked herself one more time in the mirror (now who's the movie star?), and headed down the hall to the stairs, beckoned by the scent of bacon and coffee, the familiar clank and clatter of breakfast being served, her family's voices.

She entered the kitchen as elegantly as she knew how, back straight, head held high, feet light on the linoleum floor. When Sylvie looked up at her, she dropped her fork.

“My earrings! I couldn't find them after the party, but I was sure they'd turn up. You've had them the whole time, haven't you?”

Rose took a step back. There was some mistake. There had to be.

“You…you left them for me.”

The room felt smaller. Rose took a gulp of air—suddenly she understood. Sylvie had left the earrings for Rose, not as a gift, but to make it look as if Rose had stolen them. And Rose had walked right into the trap, like a fool. The certainty of it hit her hard in the solar plexus, forcing out what little air was in there.

Sylvie stood up and stepped toward Rose, shaking her head. “If you'd wanted to borrow them, you could have asked. You didn't need to steal them.”

“But I…I found them, under my pillow.” Rose took a step back, nearly tripping over the leg of a kitchen chair.

“Rose,” Mama said, voice stern, “take off the earrings. Now.”

Rose did as she was told, fingers shaking. She saw how foolish they looked—the dainty, glimmering green stones in her hand with dirt under the nails and deep in the creases of her skin. It was all wrong. As she handed them over to Sylvie, she looked up at her sister's face, half expecting her to turn her head completely around, to start speaking from an ugly gash of a mouth on the back of her head. But Sylvie only smiled sweetly, a look of pity in her eyes.

Rose felt dizzy. Sick to her stomach. She needed to sit down, but couldn't make her legs move in the direction of a chair.

“You need to leave your sister's things alone,” Daddy said flatly, still clutching the newspaper, not even looking up from the stories of the day. The Russians were testing more nuclear bombs, but President Kennedy had tests of his own going on. Only a matter of time until the whole world blew up. Sometimes, like now, Rose found herself wishing for it, willing the bombs to start falling from the sky, beautiful and strange.

He stood up and snapped the paper closed. “Coming to help me with the books, Sylvie?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, clearing both her plate and his. “I'll be right there.” Then she turned to Rose again. “Honestly, Rose, the next time you want to borrow something, just ask.”

Mama smiled at her older daughter—so kind, so forgiving. But it was all an act, and Rose knew it. Rose gave her sister the most sinister look she could muster—a look that said,
You're not fooling me.

After Sylvie followed Daddy out of the kitchen, Mama started collecting dishes and putting them in the sink. She picked up Rose's plate, too, even though she hadn't eaten.

“Mama, I'm telling you: Sylvie gave me those earrings. She left them for me this morning under my pillow.”

She's the monster. Not me.

Mama turned and stared at Rose wordlessly for a moment. The look on her face made Rose's blood run cold. It was an expression that said,
I don't know you at all; you are a stranger to me.

“You must stop these lies, Rose,” Mama said at last. “And if you ever, ever steal anything from your sister again, there will be very serious consequences.”

The next night, Rose woke up with a start. She glanced over to Sylvie's bed and saw that her sister was gone. Rose threw off the sheets and got out of bed, holding her breath, listening. Where was her sister—her wretched, cruel sister, who'd planted the earrings to make her look like a thief? What could she be up to next?

Rose felt it then: the thrum of certain danger. Something bad was going to happen. She just knew it. The air felt the way it did just before a thunderstorm: all charged up, heavy, and waiting.

Rose went to the window, pulled back the lace curtains, and peered down at the yard, bathed in silver moonlight. Pebbles on the driveway glinted like jewels, and down at the office, moths flocked to the light out front, hovering, banging uselessly into it. The motel sign was all lit up, but Route 6 was empty this time of night.

Tower Motel, 28 Rooms, Pool, Vacancy.

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?”

“Yes,” Rose said, so happy to be back, happy to be alive, she didn't care if her mother caught her.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Mama had appeared at the top of the stairs, and was tying her robe.

Should she tell? How could she? There was no way Mama would believe what Rose had just seen; she scarcely believed it herself.

“Nothing,” Rose said, working hard to slow her ragged breath. “I couldn't sleep. I came down for a drink.”

“Okay. Just get yourself back up to bed soon. It's after midnight.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Rose went into the kitchen, flipped on the lights, opened a drawer, and pulled out the largest kitchen knife she could find. Knife in hand, she poured herself a glass of juice and sat at the table. Ten minutes later, she heard Sylvie rattle at the locked front door. Then she must have taken the key from under the mat, because the door opened. Rose steeled herself, knife clenched in her hand. She tried to prepare herself for the sight of the monster Sylvie entering the kitchen, winged and lashing out at Rose with her extra arms and snapping mandibles. Rose would aim her knife right at the creature's chest—go for the heart. But what if the thing had no heart? Yellow blood, that's what insects had.

Instead, she heard Sylvie's footsteps padding softly up the stairs and going down the hall to their room.

Safe. She was safe. For now.

Rose sat at the kitchen table all night, thinking, planning. Her mind raced, but there were two facts she clung to: Her sister was a monster. And Sylvie now knew that Rose had seen her, which put her in more danger than ever before.