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[sadiecwrites]

The House on Lake Hill Drive

An original short story by Sadie C.

Summary: A woman’s life is shaken up shortly after she and her husband move into their new home.

Word count: 4,298

I was the last person to see my sister before she went missing.

She snuck out of the house on a Friday night during her senior year of high school to go to a college party with some boy she was seeing. She tried to ask our parents, but they didn’t like that she was seeing a college boy, even though he was barely a year older than her. And they especially didn’t like that he wanted to take her to a frat party. 

She begged and pleaded with them to let her go, that she would be back by curfew. She promised she wouldn’t drink or do drugs or do any other stereotypical delinquent activities that happen at college parties. No matter what argument she tried to make, the answer was a hard and firm no. 

You would’ve thought she was a three year old rather than a seventeen year old by the way she reacted. She threw a full on temper tantrum, tears and all, before she got grounded for the weekend for having a bad attitude. She stomped up the stairs to her room and slammed the door shut. That earned her another day of punishment.

I saw her later that night. She hadn’t come out of her room all evening. I was up late watching Beetlejuice in the living room because I couldn’t sleep. She came tiptoeing down the stairs and I almost didn’t even notice that she was there, but she bumped into the little table by the front door on her way out.

When we saw each other she froze, hand on the doorknob, getting ready to open the door. I asked her what she was doing and she hissed at me to mind my own business. I just shrugged and turned my attention back to the TV. She stared at me for a minute before she spoke again.

She asked me not to tell mom and dad. I told her I wouldn’t. She said I was the best little sister ever and she told me she loved me. I said she was annoying but I loved her too. Those were the last words we said to each other.

She didn’t come home that night.

Our mom went to wake her up the next morning but she wasn’t there. When I realized that she wasn’t home, I told my mom what happened the night before. She was angry with me, but she was angrier at my sister for sneaking out of the house. She tried calling her but she didn’t answer. So she tried again. And again. And again. By the seventh time my mom had called her and there was no answer, she knew something was wrong.

My mom called her best friend’s house and asked if she was there. She wasn’t and they hadn’t seen her since the last time she’d been to their house two days before.

She had me text my sister’s boyfriend and ask if she was with him. He replied almost immediately, saying that she was supposed to meet him at the party but she never showed up and he couldn’t get a hold of her. 

My mom called the police after that.

One day turned into a week, then a month, and then a year had passed and my sister had yet to return. There were no signs of where she went, no clues about what happened, if she had been taken or if she’d run away. She had just… vanished.

Harper was gone and I blamed myself for not stopping her.

*

I was twenty-five when I got the first letter, almost ten years to the day since Harper went missing. It was addressed to me, my name and address haphazardly scribbled on the envelope. There was no return address. 

I’m sorry

Please don’t be mad at me

Please don’t be mad

I’m sorry

I love you

I’m sorry

The words were scribbled on a crumpled piece of notebook paper that was covered in coffee stains. It was written in pencil and it looked like a five year old wrote it. I had no idea who this letter had come from or why it came to me. I stared at it for what felt like hours, just reading it over and over again. I was still reading it when my husband came home from work.

When I heard him come in the house, I quickly shoved the letter back into the envelope and put it in my purse. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want him to see it. When he came into the kitchen, I plastered a happy smile on my face despite the unease I was feeling. I wasn’t going to tell him. I didn’t know if I ever would. I just knew that he didn’t need to know about it then.

The second letter came two months after the first. I stayed home from work that day, a nasty stomach bug rendering me useless. I was able to greet the mailman when he came to drop off my mail into the box.

I flipped through the various pieces of mail, tossing the junk and ads into the recycling bin and setting aside the things addressed to my husband. When I got to the last piece of mail, I felt my stomach drop. It was another letter addressed to me, with no return address, written in the same scratchy handwriting as the first one.

With shaking hands, I slowly opened up the envelope to reveal another hand written letter, on the same kind of notebook paper as before.

Jane i miss you

do you miss me too

I love you

I felt bile rise in my throat as I finished reading the letter. I dropped it to the kitchen floor and quickly ran to the bathroom to throw up the meager contents of my stomach. After a few moments of heaving into the toilet, I wiped my mouth with a piece of toilet paper, throwing it into the bowl before flushing.

As I rinsed my mouth out with water, I thought about the letters. Who was sending them to me? What did they mean? For a moment, I had a fleeting, hopeful thought. 

Could it be her?

I went back into the kitchen and picked the letter up from the floor and examined it once again.

No, it can’t be her. It can’t be.

*

I didn’t get another letter in the mail for almost six months. 

In the time since the second letter arrived at my house, I found out that my apparent stomach bug wasn’t actually a stomach bug—it was a baby. My husband and I were ecstatic, of course, as surprising as it was. His parents and brothers were thrilled. Our baby would have been the first for his family. My parents were excited, too, but I could tell the news also made them sad. They wished Harper were here to celebrate, too. Big moments like this would always be tainted by sadness for them. And, I suppose, they would be for me, too.

We decided not to find out the sex of the baby—we wanted it to be a surprise.

The third letter came in a week after my baby shower. My husband had checked the mail that day. He came to me where I sat on the couch, a bowl of fruit resting on my belly while I half-heartedly paid attention to some trashy reality show on the TV. He handed the letter to me with a frown.

“This came in the mail for you,” he’d said, confusion laced in his voice. “There’s no return address so I don’t know who it’s from.”

My face paled as I took the letter from him. I didn’t say anything as I opened it.

Jane you’re having a baby

i can’t believe it

You’re so grown up

I love you Jane

My husband read the letter aloud. Hearing the words spoken brought tears to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away before he could notice them. That sinking suspicion I had gotten when I read the second letter come back to me in full force.

“Do you know who this is from?” he’d asked.

It can’t be her it can’t be her it can’t be her.

I lied. “An old cousin, I think. On my mom’s side of the family. I recognize her handwriting.”

He nodded, seeming to believe me, and turned his attention back to the TV. It was as if he had already forgotten about the letter.

But maybe it is.

*

The fourth letter came three weeks after I had my baby boy. We named him Benjamin—Benjamin, Jr. to be exact, after his father. He was the sweetest baby boy I had ever seen.

I was home on maternity leave when the mailman came to drop off the mail. With my sleeping baby strapped to my chest, I sorted through the different letters, and when I came across the envelope with my name scribbled on it and no return address, I felt something I hadn’t felt with the previous letters: anger. It could have been hormones from just having my baby or true, genuine anger, but in that moment all I could see was red.

I didn’t know who kept sending me these letters, but they obviously knew me. I felt violated, almost, that this person could invade my life with their letters but I had no way to get into theirs. 

I tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out.

you have a baby boy Jane

he’s beautiful

I love you

i am so proud of you

As frustrated as I felt with getting that letter, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I don’t know what prevented me from just tossing it into trash, but I found myself tethered to it. 

I do know why I can’t throw it out. Deep down I know why I can’t. But saying it out loud or admitting it could make it not be true. Or it could make it true. And I don’t know which one would be worse.

  I never got a fifth letter. 

*

It’d been almost a year since I got the last letter. I didn’t have much time to think about them, given that I was a mother now, but I still thought of them from time to time.

I was grocery shopping with Benny one evening after I got off work and picked him up from daycare. He sat strapped into the cart, playing contentedly with a plush toy as I mindlessly strolled through the aisles. I came prepared with a list, as I always did, but in that moment, I had completely forgotten about all of the things I had needed to get. Instead, I thought about my letters.

They had just… stopped coming. A part of me was relieved—no more personal, mystery letters was definitely something I appreciated. But another, almost bigger, part of me was disappointed I stopped getting them. As much as I tried to stop myself from believing that the letters were from her, I think that as time went on, I couldn’t help but let a small part of me cling to the hope that it might be her.

Lost in my thoughts and oblivious to my surroundings, I hadn’t noticed the other cart coming in the opposite direction until we collided. There was a loud crash and Benny jostled, dropping his toy to the ground and letting out a pitiful wail. I felt mortified; I’d never done something like that before. I quickly picked Benny’s toy up and handed it back to him, and he resumed playing as if nothing had happened.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologized to the other shopper. “I was not paying attention at all.”

“It’s quite alright Jane,” he said. “Even though the little guy’s here with you, I understand that this might be your chance at some peace for the day.”

I smiled gratefully at him. Mr. Hendricks was my history teacher in high school and now, as an adult, my neighbor right across the street. He lived there with his wife Amy. They were a lovely couple and Mr. Hendricks was one of the kindest men I’d ever met.

We said our goodbyes and he gave Benny a little pinch on the cheek, which sent him into a fit of giggles. I spent the rest of my shopping trip with a clear head, the letters completely forgotten about.

*

Benny is almost one and a half now. He’s walking and talking and smiling and laughing. He makes me so happy. My parents are absolutely in love with him. He’s brought a spark back to them that I haven’t seen in years. Seeing them with Benny reminds me of the time before Harper went missing. We all still miss her, of course, how could we not? But having Benny around helps to ease the lingering pain.

It’s an early Saturday morning when we hear the commotion outside. I’m sitting in the living room with Benny, drinking my coffee as he plays with his toys and Benjamin is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. The yelling is faint at first. So faint that I hardly pay it any mind. Gradually, the yelling gets louder and louder, until it sounds like it’s almost right in our front yard. Benjamin comes out of the kitchen with a frown on his face.

I move from the couch to the window, pulling the curtains open to peer outside. There’s a woman on the sidewalk outside of my house, yelling into the early morning air. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but she’s definitely causing a scene. A few of my neighbors have come outside to watch, and one of them is starting to approach the screaming woman. I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I find myself moving to my front door and opening it. I begin to walk down my front walkway and as I get closer, her voice becomes clearer.

“Stamps!” she’s crying. “I need stamps!”

I freeze when I hear her voice. It is hoarse and weak, even though she is screaming and crying with all her might. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. How could I ever forget it?

“Harper?” I call out, my voice unsure. She doesn’t hear me—she just continues to yell about needing stamps. I steel myself to call for her again.

“Harper!”

The shout of my voice seems to pull the woman out of her reverie. She stops yelling and slowly turns to look at me. Her face is dirty and her hair is matted. There are dark bags under her eyes and her skin is sickly pale. She looks like a ghost, a shell of who she used to be, but it’s her. It’s Harper.

She smiles when she sees me. I don’t know what else to do except smile back. Seeing her, in the flesh, after all these years… I feel overwhelmed and like I might faint. I don’t even register my husband coming up behind me. All I can see and hear and think is Harper.

“Hi, Jane.”

I can’t move. It’s her. It’s really her. As I stare at her, I start to notice black spots surrounding the edges of my vision. It feels overwhelmingly like a python is coiling itself around my body, squeezing me so tight I have no more air in my lungs. The last twelve years of my life flash before my eyes before there’s nothing.

I awake to the feeling of Benjamin lightly tapping my face, frantically murmuring my name. I blink my eyes open and the harsh morning sun momentarily blinds me. I groan, moving to sit up, but Benjamin stops me from moving too fast.

“Just take it easy for a second, honey. Give yourself a minute to wake up,” he says softly.

I feel completely drained of any energy I may have had. It’s as if I was run over by a semi-truck. All I can bring myself to do is nod weakly.

“Jane, are you okay?”

Hearing that voice snaps me out of it fast. I sit up quickly, almost headbutting Benjamin in the process, and I look at Harper. Up close, she doesn’t look as bad, but she still doesn’t look great. She still has the mole above her left eyebrow and the scar on her temple from when she fell off her bike the first time dad took the training wheels off. 

If I had any doubts of this being Harper, seeing her this close to me erases them. I launch myself into her arms, squeezing her tighter than humanly possible, and I sob as I hold her. Her small arms hug me back, her grip on my shirt pathetic and her grimy smell permeating the air around us, but I don’t care.

“I’m here,” she whispers into my hair. I feel so many emotions wash over me in this moment—relief, joy, despair, anger. The anger is what pulls me back down to earth as I lean back to look at her.

“Where have you been?” I ask Harper, my voice little more than a shaky whisper. She moves her hands from the back of my shirt to cup the sides of my face and wipe away my tears.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she answers, her voice broken. I just shake my head and pull her back in for another hug. I just want to hold her and never let go.

I hear sirens in the distance, but they don’t register in my mind that they’re for us. When they get closer, however, is when I realize someone must have called them. I pull away from Harper and look to Benjamin where he’s sitting on the front porch swing with Benny in his lap, a small smile on his face.

The next minute, there’s two police cars and an ambulance crowded in front of my house and blocking my street. The EMTs rush to where Harper and I are sitting on the ground, desperately clinging to each other. The first one to reach us offers us a sad smile.

Everything after that is a blur.

*

I find myself sitting in the waiting room of the hospital with Benny in my lap and Benjamin at my side as we wait for my parents to arrive. Harper was taken for testing and I couldn’t go with her. Sitting here, waiting, is making me anxious. I just got her back after all these years and being away from her, even for a short period of time, is killing me.

I hear my mother before I see her. Her cries are unmistakable; I had listened to those same cries every day for years after Harper went missing. Her sounds are seared into my brain.

She turns the corner of the waiting room, my father in tow, and sobs in relief at the sight of me. I pass Benny off to Benjamin and shoot out of my chair, rushing to my parents and hugging them.

“Where is she? Where is Harper?” my mother asks, her sobs barely dying down enough to get the words out. I didn’t realize that I had started crying again too until I tried talking.

“The doctors need to run some tests on her and they wouldn’t let me go with her. They said they’d come let me know as soon as they were done so we could go see her.”

Waiting takes an eternity. After over an hour, the doctor finally comes out and gives us the okay to see Harper. When we enter the room, we see her hooked up an IV and all sorts of different machines. She looks sickly, but I suppose she is.

My mother bursts into a fresh set of tears when she sees Harper. Harper starts crying when she sees them, too. Even my father begins to cry, but I don’t blame him. He and my mother make their way over to Harper’s bed, where they hug and hold her until she has to shoo them off of her with a laugh so she can breathe.

There is a knock at the door and a man pops his head in. We all turn to look at him and he gives us a sympathetic smile.

“Hello everyone,” he says as he steps into the room. There’s a golden badge attached to his belt. He’s a police officer. “I’m Detective Wyatt and I’m here to speak with Harper. I understand that this is emotional for all of you, so you’re all more than welcome to stay if Harper wants you to.”

Of course, we stay—we need to know what happened to Harper just as much as she needs to tell her story.

*

The night I was supposed to meet my boyfriend at the party, I ran into Mr. Hendricks. He was out with his wife and they saw me and offered me a ride. I didn’t think anything of it at the time—I had no reason to. Mr. Hendricks was incredibly well-liked and known for doing things like that just because. So, I got into the car with them. They didn’t take me to the party.

For the past twelve years, I was held captive in Don and Amy Hendricks’s house on Lake Hill Drive. At first I was chained to the wall of their basement, beaten and drugged to stay compliant. They never laid a hand on me other than to discipline me when I was out of line—they had no interest in anything beyond just keeping me.

They called me Regina. As time went on, I figured out why they called me that: they had a daughter named Regina before they moved to our town. She was seventeen when she was found dead in a ditch, murdered by a stranger. Her killer was never found, and Don and Amy never recovered.

Slowly, I gained their trust, and eventually, I was given free roam of the house. I had my own bedroom, decorated the way Regina’s room had been in their old house. They treated me just like the daughter they lost, and I knew she had to play along in order to survive.

I began sending Jane the letters when I realized that she had moved in across the street. I was too afraid to try and write for help, but I thought that small, anonymous letters would be enough for the time. So, while Don went to teach at the high school and Amy went to work at the bank, I wrote Jane letters.

I knew I couldn’t send too many all at once, even though I wanted to. I had to space them out so the missing paper, envelopes, and stamps would go unnoticed. I watched Jane’s life happen through tinted windows and white blinds. The only way I could have any part of it was through sending her small letters.

I never sent Jane a fifth letter because the Hendricks’ caught me writing one. When they discovered what I was doing, they went absolutely ballistic on me. I was beaten and starved within an inch of my life. They chained me back up in the basement, said I was ungrateful of everything they’d done for me. For a year and a half, I lived in a dark and dirty basement, treated like a prisoner. Despite how torturous the solitude was, it gave me time to think and formulate a plan.

That morning, when Amy had ventured down into the basement to feed me, and just as I planned, she found me on the ground, appearing to be unconscious. She tried waking me up to no avail. In a panic, Amy had uncuffed me and was about to attempt dragging me out of the basement when I made my move. A surge of adrenaline gave me the strength I needed to knock Amy down. I picked up the discarded wooden tray Amy used to carry my breakfast down to me, flung the food off of it, and whacked Amy in the head. One blow was enough to knock her out cold.

Once I was sure Amy was unconscious, I scrambled out of the basement and into the living room. Just as I had hoped, Don wasn’t awake yet—he was never up before eight on Saturday mornings. All I needed to do was get through the front door and I’d be free.

I unlocked the door and stepped outside for the first time in twelve years. I almost sobbed with relief then and there but I still had work to do. I needed to cause a big enough commotion to lure Jane and the other neighbors outside so that if Don or Amy came to find me, there’d be too many witnesses for them to bring me back in. So that’s what I did.

*

Once Harper finishes telling her story, I feel like I might vomit. I’m still reeling from hearing the tale of my sister’s abuse when Detective Wyatt says something about going to Don and Amy’s house and keeping us updated, but I only half pay attention. I don’t know what’s going to happen next or what Detective Wyatt is going to find. At this moment, though, I don’t care about any of that stuff. I don’t care about Don and Amy. I don’t care about an investigation or a trial. None of it matters. The only thing that matters to me is that Harper is back. She is alive. She is going to be okay.

Harper is home and I feel whole again.