My Sister got a boyfriend and I lost contact with my family

*All names and locations have been altered to align with the rules of the subreddit*

My sister and I have always had a very stereotypical sibling relationship. I used to annoy her when I was bored, hiding her possessions, shooting her with Nerf guns, basically trying to do whatever to get under her skin. This was by no means one-sided, as she tried to embarrass me whenever she got the chance. The countless times she brought up that one time I got sick on a trip to Germany, my cringy teenage phases, and the endless number of embarrassing pictures. 

However, there were also the sweet moments, like when I was going through my first heartbreak. I was crying profusely on our porch, but she was there to comfort me. Her idea of comfort was giving me a blanket and a hug, then saying, and I quote, “You’re such a little bitch.” with a big shit-eating grin. I understand that such a comment is very juvenile, but I still think of it as one of my fondest memories of my sister.

Years went by, she went off to college, and I managed to get a job, an incredibly shitty, dead-end one, but a job nonetheless. Our relationship grew to the point where we actually enjoyed each other’s company and would hang out on occasion outside of family holidays.

We would do the usual catching-up discussions. How are you? What have you been doing? Get your teeth fixed; they look like piano keys. That sorta thing.

We met up in a coffee shop, and she told me she had managed to get an apartment and there was some guy she had started dating.

“He’s a good guy, boring, calm. I think you would like him,” She said.

“As long as he is better than,” I started, but was cut off.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re so annoying, it was for two months when I was 17.”

“He looked a lot like Weird Al. Do you ever listen to his music and think of Andrew?”

“I will hit you.”

I chuckled, “So what’s his name?”

She glanced away, and under her breath she said, “Andrew…”

“OH, MY GOD!” 

“Shut up.”

“DOES HE ALSO LOOK LIKE…”

“NO! He’s really sweet.”

She was right. Later that week, during a house party, I met Andrew, and he was sweet, and he did not look like Weird Al, in case you were wondering. They would give each other glances, kiss, hug, and dance. Now, being the asshole little brother that I am. I could not let the opportunity slide and took every chance I got to make vomit noises to ruin their romantic moment. While Andrew laughed at me, Olivia questioned my age, my masculinity, and my intelligence. Which, in all honesty, I think is fair. 

Even though I would never have admitted it, it was nice seeing my sister so happy. Andrew seemed like a good guy. But their relationship did move very fast.

The next time I met up with my sister was around a month later, in the same coffee shop. After the formalities, she dropped what felt like a bombshell.

“Andrew is moving in,” She said.

“Scuse me?” I replied

“Andrew is moving in.”

“Okay… why?” 

She looked at me with a dumbfounded stare.

“What type of question is that? Why do you think?” She said.

“I don’t know, maybe the guy is living in his car, trying to hide from the police. Isn’t this very sudden? How long have you two even been dating?” I asked.

“We both wanted to move in with each other. You’ve met him, he’s harmless.”

“You answered none of my questions. How long have you two been dating?”

“A few months.”

“Yeah, months, not years, so you barely know him.”

“I do know him.”

“No, you do not. You truly don’t know a person after a few months.”

“I’m doing this either way, I just thought I should tell you.”

“Olivia, you can’t be fucking serious? You’re insane, actually insane. What type of good guy moves in with a woman he met a few months ago? A good guy wouldn’t rush into things like that. What if the guy is a manipulative psycho? You’re going to end up in a fucking documentary!”

“You’re such a fucking child. Andrew is a good guy, and he is moving in,” She snarled.

She stood up and walked hastily toward the exit. My sister has always been light on her feet, barely making noise as she moved around. But this time, each step carried unnatural weight for her frame. Now I was the one dumbfounded. I was left there with two newly brewed cups of coffee and the tab, mind you. Even now, I don’t think I said anything that was too out there.

We didn’t speak for a while after that. I did try to reach out, but she didn’t answer. I called and checked with our parents if they had heard from her, and sure enough, they had. They said she was fine, but still mad at me. When questioned further, my parents told me to back off, it’s her life, and reminded me about how they met and moved in just after a few months. Which granted, yes, those relationships can work out. However, that type of relationship could never work out for my sister. 

Months passed by, and not a word from my sister. I tried calling her, but it immediately went to voicemail. When contacting her friends, they just said they haven’t seen her. I even drove to her apartment and knocked on the door, but no one answered. This wasn’t like her.

Christmas was coming up, and I expected our usual family gathering. Christmas was one of the few times a year I actually met my parents. Maybe then I could talk to Olivia without just getting second-hand information about her life from my parents over the phone. Maybe then I would get the chance to apologize. The updates my parents did give was that she and Andrew were supposedly very happy together. 

When I called my parents, asking about Christmas. My dad told me it wasn’t happening. He didn’t give me any reason. Just a firm “Christmas is cancelled, don’t call again, don’t come home, I love you, son,” and then hung up the phone. 

My mind was spinning, “Don’t call again, don’t come home, I love you.” What type of bullshit is that? Thoughts started forming in my head that maybe I wasn’t that wrong about the manipulative psycho comment. As I replayed my father’s words in my head over and over, details started to emerge. His voice fluctuated so much between the statements. The “Don’t call again, don’t come home” was assertive, demanding, but the “I love you” was almost whispered, weak, and afraid.

I decided it was best to visit my parents. My dad is one of those tough men who could totally land a plane if he wanted to and only drinks whisky. Basically, a man with a big mouth and way too full of himself.

I drove to my childhood home. I parked my car in the driveway and relived childhood memories. How I would sit on the porch, scared to walk into the house, because I had my first beer and thought my parents would catch me. How I would get toy swords and pretend to be a knight slaying monsters.

I checked the windows for any sign of movement. But the blinds were closed, so I couldn’t see a damn thing inside. My father has some weird ideas, but this was always one that bothered me the most. He argued that unless you’re changing or sleeping, you should never cover your windows because “it sends a message to the outside world, you’ve got nothing to hide.” 

I approached the front door and knocked. I could hear how someone was approaching the door. My father opened the door hastily. When he saw me, his eyes widened, and he lunged at me. He grabbed me by the collar and threw me down on the ground. The back of my head absorbed most of the impact, dazing me. My father got on top of me, and punches came crashing down, all the while he was hurling insults at me.

“You dumb little shit! You stupid fucking idiot! I told you not to come! I told you to not call! Why didn’t you just fucking listen? Just stay the fuck away.”

He beat me until the brink of unconsciousness. I think my nervous system shut itself down. I could no longer feel the pain, only the taste of iron filling my mouth. My vision started to blur, and only then did my father’s fists stop raining down. Once again, he grabbed me by the collar and lifted me just a bit. He then got close enough to my ear that I could hear his exhausted breaths, and he started whispering.

“I’m so sorry, son. Please don’t call the cops. We want to live. Please, just leave. We love you so much.” My father then let go of me, stood up, and walked inside our house.

I lay there for longer than I would like to admit. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to get up and stumble back into my car, where I also spent an ungodly amount of time trying to gather the strength just to drive off. I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. God, it looked horrible. My face looked like a net stress ball being squeezed. But other than a chipped tooth, there was no permanent visible damage, at least I don’t think so.

I called in sick to work and spent the rest of the week living in my car, constantly driving back and forth in front of my house. I got stopped a few times by neighbours worried about the elephant man in the 2003 Kia Spectra, constantly roaming the street. Their worry quickly faded when they recognized me through the blue and purple lumps. I told some of them what had happened, leaving out my father’s apology and pleading. They all responded very differently. Some would say they haven’t seen my parents for quite some time. Others backed off quickly, arguing that it’s a domestic issue and that they shouldn’t get involved, and a certain few said that maybe I should just leave.

No one would leave or enter the house, and the windows would remain covered. After my father’s warning, I didn’t dare to call the cops. Eventually, I even stopped driving up and down the street, parking my car right in the yard. I just sat there in the driver’s seat staring, waiting for something to happen. Anything at all.

I saw neighbours walking up and down the street, some stopped by and tried to talk to me, but I dismissed them. I knew I was in trouble when old lady Liza approached the car. She screamed, flailed, and snarled that my car was an eyesore and threatened to call the cops on me if I didn’t move. She’s always been a mean old bitch. Granted, I used to terrorise her when I was a kid. 

This was the first time her threats ever got through to me, though. The thought of cops arriving and the effects of that petrified me.

“Please, just give me 2 more days,” I begged.

“2 more days? You have been here for far too long already! Like 2 days could fix whatever problems you have!” She barked.

She sounded even worse now than she did when I was young. I guess she never quit smoking like she said she would.

“Your car is a pile of garbage, pestering this neighbourhood. It looks like a ratsnest,” she continued.

“Please, just please. I swear to you, 2 more days and I will leave. Please…” I started. 

I wanted to keep pleading, but I couldn’t get the words out, just weeping. Liza was taken aback by my antics. I could see the cogwheels in her head turning.

“2 more days,” she said and walked off.

I cried and cried and cried, and then night came.

I was once again staring at my house waiting, and this time I saw something. I saw the blinds slowly separating, and a face appearing. It scanned the street, and I saw how it saw me, and as soon as it did, I saw how Andrew disappeared back into the house. Thoughts of my parents dying echoed through my head. So, I got out of my car, and I started running towards the back of the house. 

Maybe Andrew hadn’t thought of the spare key to the back door. Maybe then I could sneak into the house and get the element of surprise. Sure enough, the key was still there. I put the key into the keyhole and turned slowly, managing to avoid the click of the lock. Just like I did when I was young. Slowly, I began opening the door, praying that the hinges wouldn’t creak. In an attempt to get better control, I grabbed the side of the door. The side was sticky and warm. My hand was covered in grey sludge. It felt like dipping your hand in super glue. With every finger movement, I could feel my skin stretch and eventually the layer of sludge cracking, only to fill with more substance. 

The sludge covered the entire room. Thick drops slowly made their way down the cupboards. In the corners of the room, the sludge had hardened into a honeycomb pattern, crawling its way onto the walls. I was stunned, filled with questions, but still in a panicked state. So I pressed on.

I began making my way toward the living room. Each step was followed by a wet slap sound. I resorted to dragging my feet across the floor, intertwined with steps, when the pile of gunk got big enough to hinder my movement.

The living room was more of the same. Except for the 3 cocoon looking pillars protruding from the middle of the room. I could see my parents’ faces poking through the muck. My mother’s eyes fixated on the walls in front of her, while my father’s eyes darted around. The third cocoon was busted open, with nothing inside.

I ran up to my father, and just as I was ready to claw and scratch to free him, his eyes stopped darting around and met mine. And he began speaking.

“DON’T TOUCH IT. YOU’LL GET STUCK. This material isn’t like the rest. Sammy, why didn’t you just listen? Why could you not just have gone away? You could have lived. You could have fucking lived!” 

“Dad, what the fuck is happening?”

“Oliva and Andrew came to visit, then I don’t know. It happened so fast.”

A screech of pain bellowed out from upstairs.

“That poor boy,” My father said.

“Was that Andrew?” I asked.

“They’re … mating. You need to run, Sammy. If she sees you, you’ll die.”

“I need to get you and mom out!”

“Sammy, we’re already dead.”

“Brother?” A soft voice said.

I turned around and witnessed what I can only describe as a mass of flesh with appendages long enough to grab whatever surface was around it. A series of lumps and stretchmarks overlapping each other, each desperately trying to end up on top. Spots of open flesh with teeth blooming like flowers. A vile abomination to whatever god there was.

I started running, almost stumbling on the slimy surface as I headed for the back door. The sound of wood breaking as fingers take hold of the walls on the other side. I turned the corner and smashed face-first right into the beast. Its skin had the texture of dough that needed more flour. 

Its fingers wrapped around my arms twice over, and with a quick yank, it separated me from its body, like plucking a tick. I could not find a mouth, but I felt the vibration of its voice through its fingers. It said with a kind voice, my sister’s voice, “Brother.”

I was suspended in the air, kicking, flailing, screaming, begging for my life. It lifted me higher and higher. The lumps started to separate, making way for an abyss. I could still feel the vibrations of its kind voice pulsating through its fingers. The voice sped up, and then it started overlapping until a symphony of the word “Brother” filled my entire being. 

It was starting to let go.

“HEY!” It was Andrew.

He was by the third cocoon, holding what looked like a hunk of meat. A tumour-like ball, red and lumpy.

“I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL SMASH IT,” He said and raised it above his head.

The creature roared a guttural scream with such ferocity that this time I could see it vibrate. It threw me across the room and began charging at Andrew, leaving behind a new layer of sludge. Andrew began running out in the hall up the stairs. I got up and bolted my way towards the back door.

Through the wet slaps of my feet hitting the floor, I heard Andrew scream, and scream, and scream. I was slipping my way forward, bumping into every corner, trying desperately to find balance with every step, until I reached the kitchen. I threw the door open and practically threw myself outside. I landed in the grass, and I could hear the sound of what I imagined was bones twisting, cracking, and popping. For some reason, for but a moment, I felt safe. Or safe enough to let me catch my breath before I made it back around the house into my car, and I sped off, leaving tire tracks in the yard.

It was gone. Everyone was gone, and what was once my childhood home was now this thing’s nest. Andrew has to be gone. My father is already dead, and I didn’t even get the chance to talk to my mother.

Despite what my father said, I ended up calling the police. I lied to them, saying it was a hostage situation, trying to get some big guns involved. They showed up, they entered, and they found nothing. There was no sludge, no giant lump of flesh, no Andrew, no mom or dad, and no Oliva. 

A bigger investigation started, and I became a suspect at one point, but nothing ever came of it. I even inherited the house. I did go back, bringing anyone I could, to make me feel safer. And guess what? Everything was fucking spotless. Not a single drop of sludge, no damage to the house, no blood. Hell, I couldn’t even find dust. The only difference was the smell. Each room smelled different. The upstairs smelled sweet. The living room reeked of pork, and the kitchen of chemicals.  

I just left the house, never even sold it. I couldn’t bear to see it, smell its smells. I just wanted it to rot away. Then the usual trouble came: substance abuse, money trouble, and sleep issues.  I can’t sleep anymore, even on heavy medication, and after all of that, you know the worst part? I don’t dream of my parents, I don’t dream of Andrew. I don’t dream of Olivia or the monster. I dream of that red lumpy ball of flesh.

Eventually, I got into therapy, trying to make sense of it all. My therapist said that maybe getting the entire picture of what happened would make it easier for us to communicate. So here it is, the entire picture, and I hate this picture so so much.