Remember

Do you remember back in the days when the streets were flooded from the rains of despair? When the people’s clothes were dripping and they had nothing to protect them from the storm? The water washed away every single ounce of courage and hope… and their jobs. The lightning struck one person at a time, one family at a time. Those who weren’t hit rolled along with the thunder, seconds from being dropped into the collected pools of polluted precipitation.

Think back, remember more clearly. The woman, beautiful and proud. Do you remember her flowing hair or crystal eyes? It’s no wonder she was married quickly. After being fought over by every worthy man in the town, she fell for the one that no one expected her to fall for. Perhaps it was the reality of being inlove; she didn’t want to be sent off to live with someone of a higher class without love, but with plenty of money. Maybe it was that she wanted to betray her father’s plan for her future. She could have thought to let go of her family ties and made a decision for herself for once. Whatever the reason, she was gone.

As soon as she had disappeared from town, she was back. They bought a house, the kind every woman dreamed of owning one day. Shuttered windows, brick accents, and a wide front porch with rocking chairs… she certainly needed those chairs, pregnant with triplets like she was. They were secluded from society, no one ever understood why. Her husband came into town every two weeks for a haircut and some groceries, but that was all we ever saw of him. Sometimes we could see her, rocking on her front porch, signing lullabies to her unborn children. Of course, it was only through the trees that we saw her, but she appeared to be fading into a nightmare. It was as clear as the moon on a cold winter’s night that this pregnancy was taking a toll on her.

We had our proof too, in the month when the leaves were growing and the flowers were blooming. The day that the chicks and the fawns were born, the fresh dirt was dug up and the tiny worms were being tossed aside. Two new babies were welcomed to our town, Morgan and Sarah, but two new graves were being made and our carpenter was commissioned to build two new coffins. One was specially sized for a premature life that didn’t live any longer than three hours.

Imagine being a devoted husband, excited for a new life with your happy family. Imagine having that wife ripped away from you in the blink of an eye. That happiness wouldn’t be too evident anymore, would it? The two baby girls had to live without a mother and without a father, in reality. Although their mother left a legacy that rung throughout the mountains and forests and bounced off of the walls in the village, her daughters never heard the slightest whisper of it. Their father dragged them away to live in the big city, far away from the beautiful, enchanting woman he had once loved.

Ten years had passed, before we heard news of their dysfunctional family once more. It was when the storm struck. It washed away the children’s father, even farther than he’d been washed before. The storm was the monstrous Great Depression of the 1930’s.

Now, that quaint little house their family had once lived in had been sold to a new, kind family, looking for a fresh start. They molded into the town and were well liked, but kind of like a good cheese would have a slight bite to it, a lingering sourness, this couple left behind a wake of curiosity. Their past was undisclosed, their future hung in the trees with their freshly bleached laundry.

​In order to stay alive, we went through great lengths. There had to be a way to make money; there had to be a way to get through. The couple put the house to good use. They rented out the rooms, the couches, and the furnished patio; anywhere that could be used for a family or a person was used. It was successful all around. They made enough money to pay the bills and buy food for their guests, and the guests had a place to stay after the circumstances had pushed them out of their homes.

​On cold nights we could see smoke pouring out of the chimney and we could hear music in the streets. They were enjoying themselves, making the best of what they had and taking advantage of their talents. It was an inspiration, to see their simplicity. There were a family. Along with the owners, they had a tall and handsome magician, a musician that was obsessed with dressing everyone properly, a teenage boy who was most likely running from the law, an older couple that were only months from becoming too ill to live, but that were more in love than ever, a family of three, mother and sons, and two little twin girls, barely over ten.

​None of us made the connection, of course, being that the twins had been only a few days old when they left, but we learned of them and put it together eventually. Morgan and Sarah were back, drawn to their birthplace without knowing it.Their father, absent as he was, hadn’t told his daughters about their family’s past or where they had been born. It was only fate that drew them to their home. When their father left to find work, he abandoned them with only a small amount of money and a note telling them to be safe. The train brought them to our town, and our town brought them to their house, where boarding was open. They had to work, in order to stay. They became part of the kitchen staff for the owners, washing and cooking. In return, they were allowed a room with two small beds and a cracked mirror.

​Morgan was the taller of the two, with gorgeous blonde hair, much like her mother. Sarah had thick, dark hair that resembled her father’s, but she had her mother’s eyes. They were beautiful little girls, some who would probably grow up to be major heart-breakers. The family in the home accepted them, and gave them more love and attention than they’d ever received.

​Everyone in the home was brought into town for church on Sunday. We had, of course, known that the new couple was very religious, but we didn’t know that they would make everyone come with them. It turned out that most of their boarders were Christian as well, but it was rather funny to see the convict dressed up in a worn suit with the sleeves rolled up, sweating in his britches. Morgan and Sarah fit right in. They made friends with the Sunday school teacher and proved to be very willing to learn and adapt. They both had quite unique voices, and would sing songs to us every week. It was always so heartfelt and experienced. They acted ten years older than they should have. I guess it comes with a childhood of growing up like they did, alone.

​Their time in the house was marked with strange occurrences, things that happened only in myths and old tales. One evening, they were lying in bed and falling asleep, tired after a long night’s work in the kitchen. It was a birthday, so the meal had been slightly more extravagant than normal. It was late; the clock had just struck half past eleven. Lights were off and the hallways were silent, except for the cool breeze that blew in from opened windows.  Everyone’s slippers were sitting soundly by their beds, and the last light in the house had been diminished. Suddenly, the light in their bedroom was on. The action was impossible in itself, but the following events were even more startling. A howl was perceived from throughout the hallway. It had possibly only echoed throughout Morgan and Sarah’s bedroom, but it had been loud enough to wake the dead. With the windows being open, as they were, Sarah rushed out to close the nearest one. She ran down the hall towards the window, but found that it was as shattered as their relationship with their father. It looked as if a fist had forced its way through one of the panes, the fist of a person in anguish. In an attempt to clean up the shards of glass, Sarah sliced her calf and began bleeding. She called out to Morgan, who dashed out from the bedroom to help. When she saw the chaos and the warm, sticky blood, she swooned, but regained her composure in order to save her sister. Clutching on to Sarah’s clenched fist, Morgan pulled her down the hall, as the wailing continued. It wasn’t coming from the window, that was clear, but from where? Looking back in disbelief, the two girls saw something that chilled their insides and made their bones rattle. Written in the fluid from Sarah’s leg was a note that read, “I wish I knew what it felt like to bleed.” Their screams went silent in their throats when they heard loud knocks from above their head. Something, or someone, was pounding on the roof. Whatever it was, it wanted in.

​Days later, the cut had healed and they had gotten the image out of their mind. Every bump in the night and every sight of that window still stopped their hearts, but it started to get easier to move on. Already being wiser than they wanted wasn’t easy, and now they had to deal with the looming presence of something else.

​Do you remember inventing ways of enjoyment for yourself as a child? Perhaps you made dolls, perhaps you made mud pies, and perhaps you even pretended to be related to some friend of yours, wedded under the sun by a cold lake on a summer’s day. One of our twin’s favorite pastimes was something we called “matchbox messages.” You would tie a looped string to two sides of the room. It had a matchbox attached to it and it worked like a pulley. When one side was pulled, the matchbox would move away. You could slide little slips of paper into it, with notes written on them. Morgan and Sarah would have conversations, as play. It happened in one of these moments, a calm afternoon of simple small talk. A foreign note appeared mid-conversation. The handwriting was unknown. It was strange enough, finding another note, but the way it was written and what it said was even stranger. It appeared to be a child’s scrawl, as if the person who wrote it had no idea how to hold a pencil. “Use your voices while you still have them. –Sydney,” it said. It all sounded so comfortable, so easy, as if threats were just a regular and dandy thing. They passed the note around the house, wondering if anyone knew a Sydney, as it was signed, yet no one seemed to remember meeting such a person. Morgan and Sarah were clueless, confused, and concerned. What was going to happen to them?

​The third scare was sooner; they were happening more repeatedly. The knocks on the ceiling grew more intense. The howling grew louder. The crusted over blood by the window seemed to grow every night. It was the evening, and a rainy one at that. Perfect right? I remember everything so clearly; eyesight may fail, but memories never do. The skies were clouded, and lighting flashed, a clear impersonation of the difficult decade. The girls were cleaning up from dinner, this time just an ordinary meal of chicken and turnips. They were on dish duty, Sarah was scrubbing and Morgan was drying. The routine was simple, and memorized. This evening was slightly different. Morgan handed over a new dish, a dirty bowl, and Sarah went to drop it in the soapy water. The next thing went by so quickly, no one can be quite certain if it actually happened. Sarah leaned over, and saw a face next to hers. It was a girl, dark haired with a crooked smirk. She was gone as quick as she had come, but it did the deed. Sarah’s curiosity was sparked, enough so that she followed the knocks in the night straight to her grave.

​How would Morgan have known that her sister was gone? Sarah had left during the middle of the night. Morgan thought up excuses for her disappearance and created reasons in her head, while ignoring the sting in her heart that could have saved her. She had gone to use the bathroom, she had taken a last minute trip into town, or she was eating in the kitchen… While every reason made sense, Morgan knew that something was up when it grew darker and darker and she didn’t come to bed. The remainder of the night, and the remainder of two childhoods, could only have been by fate and the guidance of someone unseen. Morgan felt that the only place she could go was to the church. The place that had offered her the most comfort was where she could start her search; she could wander and pray, and maybe even come across her sister. For some reason, she found her way to the cemetery behind the church. She cried that night, and her tears joined the rain that streamed down her body. Roaming between the lines of heavily marked gravestones, she paused, as a name caught her eye. Sydney.

​“Here lie mother and daughter, passed on to the great heavens at an unfortunate time. Loved dearly and cherished, you’re in our memories.” The epitaph was written clearly, but underneath the cut words, Sydney’s name was scratched into the granite, in the same child’s scrawl that the note had been written in. Morgan heard a quivering cry, and found her sister lying behind the tombstone. She was broken down to a weak pile of distress, and Morgan could only join her. The twins sat together, not talking, but understanding. They knew the story. And together, they died.

​Sarah and Morgan were found the next morning, lying by the grave of their deceased relatives. They had joined their family. They were together. We buried them just as the sun passed down over the horizon, glowing brightly in pinks and gold. It shined a light on the situation, and we understood as well. And now we remember. Do you?