The Girl Who Never Existed

Getting our family portrait taken at the end of every summer was an unbreakable tradition in our household. This year was no exception. We stood in the familiar, cramped studio of Garys Lens & Light on Main Street, posing against a mottled gray backdrop.

The shutter clicked, the bright flash momentarily blinding me. Gary pulled his head out from behind the camera, flashing a wide, satisfied grin and giving us a thumbs-up.

"Absolute perfection," Gary declared, his voice booming in the small room. "What a beautiful family of three!"

His words had barely landed before a sharp frown carved its way onto my face.

"Did you miscount, Gary?" I interrupted, a flicker of irritation lacing my tone. "My sister, me, and my parents. We are clearly a family of four."

The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the room seemed to solidify.

Garys practiced smile froze, turning brittle. Beside me, my parents slowly turned their heads. The way they looked at meeyes wide, expressions utterly blankmade the hair on my arms stand up. It was a deeply unsettling, hollow kind of stare.

"Sweetheart, what on earth are you talking about?" my mother said. Her voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. "You have always been our only child. What sister?"

They practically dragged me out of the studio and into the car, but my mind was already racing, heavy with a suffocating dread.

The second we got home, I sprinted to the hallway closet, tearing through boxes until I found the heavy leather-bound albums holding our past family portraits. I was going to find the proof. I was going to show them Haleys face.

But as I flipped open the thick pages, a wave of pure, glacial terror rushed from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. The blood in my veins felt like ice.

Between my fourth and eleventh birthdays, there were eight family portraits.

My fingers trembled as I touched the plastic sleeve of the first one. There were ten people in the photo.

I turned to the second page. The number of people had dropped to nine.

...

I shoved the pages over, my breath coming in shallow gasps, until I reached the eighth photolast years portrait.

There were four people.

For seven years, counting my sister who vanished today, seven children had disappeared from our family photos.

Who were they? And where, dear God, did they all go?

"You're lying to me!"

I stormed into the living room, hurling the heavy album onto the coffee table with a resounding smack.

My father looked up from his armchair, the TV remote hovering midway to the side table. My mother poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping flour onto her floral apron.

"Lying about what, Kate?" she asked softly.

"The portraits! Haley is right here! Look at all these people! Why are you telling me Im an only child?"

My parents exchanged a long, heavy look. My mothers eyes instantly welled with tears. "Kate, honey... your condition is flaring up again."

"I don't have a condition!"

I slammed my finger against the glossy paper. "This is Haley! Shes right here in the braids! Shes two years older than me, she has a tiny freckle above her left eyebrow, and she has to drink warm milk every single morning, she"

"That is enough."

My father stood up. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that brokered no argument. He reached over and calmly slid the album out from under my hands. "You are an only child, Kate. You always have been."

"No!"

I snatched the album back, frantically flipping it open to shove Haleys face into his line of sight.

My hand froze mid-air.

There were only three people in the photograph.

My father, my mother, and me.

I flipped the pages like a maniac. The second photothree people. The third photothree people. Every single page, just a perfectly neat, smiling family of three.

"Kate..."

My mother walked over and crouched in front of me, her voice trembling with what sounded like genuine heartbreak. "Listen to me, baby. When you were little, you had a terrible fever. A hundred and five degrees. It lasted for three days."

She reached out, gently touching my knee. "The doctors told us there might be lingering effects. You've always blurred the lines between your dreams and reality. Remember in third grade? You swore you had a classmate named Daisy, but the teacher told us she didn't exist..."

No. I don't believe it.

I shoved her hands away, spun around, and bolted out the front door.

Mrs. Gable next door. She had watched us grow up. She would remember Haley.

I hammered on her wooden door a dozen times before the deadbolt finally clicked. Mrs. Gable stood there in her reading glasses, looking utterly bewildered by the sight of me panting on her porch.

"Oh my stars, Kate, whats wrong? Youre sweating through your shirt, child." She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling. "Come inside, let me get you a piece of candy."

I lunged forward, grabbing her wrinkled, fragile hands. My voice shook violently.

"Mrs. Gable, please, tell me the truth. I have an older sister, don't I? Haley! Shes three years older, she wears her hair in a ponytail, and she always wears a red butterfly barrette!"

I was begging now, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. "She disappeared today! And my parents are saying she never existed!"

Mrs. Gable stared at me. For a few agonizing seconds, she just looked at me. Then, her gaze deepened into something inscrutable.

"What on earth are you babbling about, sweetheart?"

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her hands out of my grasp. "Kate, youve been an only child since the day they brought you home. Ive watched you grow up. What sister?"

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the porch planks.

How was this possible? Just last week, Mrs. Gable had complimented Haley on the sweater she was knitting. She gave both of us candy.

Just then, a heavy, warm hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind.

"Mrs. Gable, I am so sorry for the disturbance this late," my father said. I hadn't even heard him cross the lawn. He offered her an apologetic, weary smile. "Shes been under a lot of pressure with school lately. A bit of a nervous breakdown. Shes been talking nonsense all evening."

Mrs. Gable waved him off, her face practically melting with pity. "Get that sweet girl inside and let her rest. Poor thing. Don't push her too hard."

I was half-carried, half-dragged back into the house.

Later, my mother brought a steaming mug of chamomile tea into my bedroom, gently stroking my hair. "Drink this, Kate. Be a good girl. Just sleep. Everything will make sense after you sleep."

When the mug was empty, I lay in the dark, my mind replaying the shifting images in the photo album.

Was I actually losing my mind? Was Haleyand the seven other missing childrenjust a phantom created by a broken, fever-fried brain?

I curled into a tight ball, my hands mindlessly searching under my pillow, desperate to anchor myself to something real.

Suddenly, my fingertips brushed against something cold and hard of plastic.

I pulled it out into the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds.

It was a tortoiseshell butterfly barrette.

The tears came instantly, hot and fast, choking me. It was Haleys favorite clip. Her best friend, Brooke, had given it to her for Christmas.

I gripped the barrette so tightly the plastic dug into my palm. I wasn't crazy. My sister was real.

But why was everyone lying to me?

Wait. Brooke. She went to our high school. There was no way Brooke would forget her.

The next morning, I forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal like everything was normal. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed out.

The moment I hit the school grounds, I bypassed my locker and sprinted toward the junior hallway to find Brooke. She and Haley had been inseparable since kindergarten. If anyone remembered my sister, it was her.

"Brooke!" I called out, breathless.

"Hey, Kate! What are you doing in the upperclassmen wing?" Brooke grinned, affectionately ruffling my hair.

I didn't smile back. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the butterfly barrette, and held it flat on my palm.

"Do you remember this? Its Haleys. She wears it every day."

Brooke glanced down at the clip, and then she laughed.

"Kate, you don't have a sister. Thats yours." She looked at me like I was making a weird joke. "I gave that to you for your birthday last year, remember? You said the butterfly shape was your favorite. You wouldn't take it off for a month."

My hands started to shake. "You didn't give this to me. Its my sister's! You and Haley shared a desk in kindergarten! How can you not remember?"

Brooke tilted her head. There was no hesitation in her eyes, no flicker of a lie. Just pure, unadulterated confusion.

"Kate, we grew up together. Youre like a little sister to me. But I don't remember you ever having a real sister." Her smile faded into concern. "Youve always been an only child. Are you okay?"

She reached out to touch my forehead. "Are you sick? Let me take you to the nurse."

I gripped the barrette and backed away, stumbling over my own feet. When she reached for my arm, I turned and bolted. I flew down the stairs, running until my lungs burned, and collapsed into my desk in the sophomore homeroom.

My head was a hive of buzzing static.

Maybe they were right. Maybe there never was a Haley. Maybe the barrette had always been mine. Maybe my mind had fabricated this entire person to cope with my own loneliness. Maybe I really did need to see a psychiatrist.

I have no idea how I survived the rest of the school day.

When I got home, the house was empty. My parents were still at work. I locked myself in the bathroom, turning the faucet to cold, and violently splashed water on my face, praying for clarity.

The girl staring back at me in the mirror was pale, her eyes hollow and unfocused. I looked insane.

I slid down the bathroom wall, wrapping my arms around my knees as the dam finally broke. I wept until my ribs ached. I was sick. I was deeply, fundamentally broken.

And then, through my blurred vision, I saw it.

On the edge of the wooden doorframe, about five feet off the ground.

Two faint, jagged lines carved deep into the wood, one slightly higher than the other, maybe two inches apart.

Next to the higher notch, clumsily carved into the paint, was the letter H.

Next to the lower notch was an M.

It was from when we were kids. Haley and I used to stand back-to-back against the doorframe, using one of Dads spare razor blades to secretly mark our heights, measuring who was growing faster.

The blood roared back into my ears. My scalp prickled with a sudden, electric heat.

You can alter digital photos. You can fake text messages. But you cannot fake physical scars carved into the very bones of a house.

I scrambled up and ran my fingers over the rough, splintered wood. My knuckles turned white.

I was not crazy.

Haley existed. She stood right here, pressing her back against this wood, going up on her tiptoes just to be a little taller than me.

Someone was erasing her. My parents, Mrs. Gable, Brooke... every single one of them was in on it.

I stood up, wiping my wet face with the back of my sleeve. They could force the town to play along, but they couldn't force the actual law. I needed to go to the police.

"I need to report a missing person!"

I threw myself against the high counter of the local precinct, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "My sister is gone! And my parents and everyone else are pretending she never existed!"

The duty officer, a heavyset, middle-aged man with a permanent scowl, looked down at me.

"Whoa, slow down, kid. Take a breath. What's your name? What's your sister's name? When was she last seen?"

I spilled everything. The photos, the denials, the barrette, the doorframe.

The officer listened, his expression tightening. He turned to his computer and typed in my information.

"You're Kate. Father is Richard, mother is Susan, right?" He squinted at the monitor, clicking his mouse.

"Yes! Please, search for Haley! Look her up! Shes really gone!" I pleaded, leaning over the counter.

The officer was silent for a long moment. Then, he grabbed the edges of his monitor and swiveled it to face me. His face was stone-cold.

"Look for yourself, kid."

Right there on the screen, the official state registry glowed blue and white: Head of Household: Richard. Spouse: Susan. Dependents: Kate (Only Child).

He opened another tab, searching the county school records, scrolling down page after page.

"There is no record of a Haley in this entire county. Not a birth certificate, not a school file. Nothing."

"No... no, thats impossible..." I stumbled backward, the air knocked out of my lungs.

Seeing my distress, the officer immediately picked up the desk phone and called my parents.

They arrived fifteen minutes later.

My mother burst through the precinct doors and threw her arms around me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking with raw emotion. "Kate, you ran off again. Do you know how terrified I was? I was losing my mind looking for you!"

My father stood behind her, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. He looked exhausted. He turned to the officer. "I am so sorry, Officer. When she was young, she had a terrible fever. It didn't break for three days. Ever since then, she gets these... episodes. She hallucinates people. Weve taken her to doctors, they call it hysteria. Shes on medication."

The officer sighed and gave me a pitying look. "Look, kid, stop working yourself up. Look how fast your folks rushed down here. They love you."

The ride home was suffocatingly quiet. I sat in the back of our old station wagon. My dad drove in silence, the streetlights rhythmically casting shadows over his face. My mother sat in the passenger seat, turning around every two minutes to check on me with worried, mournful eyes.

As we drove down Main Street, my dad pulled over. Mom hopped out and bought a candy apple from a corner vendor.

"Here," she said, handing it to me through the window. "Your favorite."

I took a bite. The sugary, crimson shell cracked, and the tart juice flooded my mouth. Without warning, a tear slipped down my cheek.

The police database was connected to the state. It was the ultimate, undeniable truth.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I really was sick. There was no sister. I was an only child. I had these wonderful parents, and I was torturing them with my broken brain.

I wiped my face aggressively. Im done, I promised myself. Starting today, I will never mention Haley again.

But just as the car rolled past the dark, narrow alleyway at the end of Main Street, a faint, chilling sound drifted through the open window. It was the sound of children singing a jump-rope rhyme:

One, two, wash them clean, walk them down the street unseen.

Three, four, stand in line, follow the stranger, you'll be fine.

Five, six, close your eyes, don't look up into the skies.

Seven, eight, on the wall, in the studio, we hang them all.

A hazy, fragmented memory flashed in my mind: a group of children, holding hands, singing in the dark.

...

From that day on, I became the perfect daughter.

I didn't speak Haleys name. The oppressive tension in the house visibly evaporated. My mother started humming while cooking dinner again. My father would read the morning paper and chuckle, reading snippets out loud to me.

It was as if, as long as I kept the ghost buried, life was picture-perfect.

During breakfast on Saturday, my dad suddenly tapped his forehead. "Ah, the portraits from last week should be ready. Kate, do you mind swinging by Main Street this afternoon to pick them up? I've got overtime today."

"Sure," I said, keeping my eyes on my oatmeal.

At three o'clock, I pushed open the glass door of Garys Lens & Light. The bell chimed into an empty room.

"Hello?" No answer.

I called out again, stepping up to the front counter. Several brown envelopes were scattered across the glass display case. I sifted through them until I found the one marked with my father's name.

I pulled the photo out.

It was the three of us. Me in the middle, my parents flanking me, against that mottled backdrop. Just the three of us.

I stared at it until the faces blurred, then shoved it back into the envelope.

As I turned to leave, something caught the corner of my eye. Tucked beneath the counter, in a small, shadowy compartment, the edge of a stack of photo negatives was sticking out.

There were strange, microscopic scratches on them.

Frowning, I picked the negatives up and held them to the light.

They weren't random scratches. They were deliberate, tiny grooves dug fiercely into the film with a fingernail.

The scratches were of varying lengths. Irregular, but patterned.

I froze, the breath dying in my throat.

It was Morse code.

When Haley and I went through a detective novel phase, we memorized Morse code to pass secret notes that our parents couldn't read. It was a language only the two of us shared.

My hands shook so violently the negatives rattled against each other. I squinted at the tiny marks.

Dash... dot... dash...

I... WAS... SOLD...

Dot... dot... dash...

RUN...

I WAS SOLD! RUN!