When the Closet Worked Its Magic E-Book

Ithaka O.

• Herausgeber: Imaginarium Kim
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The closet swallowed his little sister. It really did. And yet, a year later, after it spat her back out, Elmer Warde must lie:  I imagined it. I am insane.

This, after people suspected him of kidnapping his own sister.

And after they accused him of trying to murder her.

This is the ironic aftermath of a horror story that gets “solved”: the loved ones of the missing person (now missing no more) face a fallout. Elmer’s only hope of staying in touch with his little sister seems to be the insanity defense.

But must he settle for a sort-of-happy ending, or can he hope for a truly happy ending?

*A whimsical exploration of family bonds, ghostly vengeance, and the comfort found in otherwordly connections.

Leseprobe

WHEN THE CLOSET WORKED ITS MAGIC

A LONG SHORT STORY

ITHAKA O.

IMAGINARIUM KIM

© 2022 Ithaka O.

All rights reserved.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Thank you for reading

1

What matters isn’t your sanity on paper, but Darla’s well-being.

I repeat, what matters isn’t your sanity on paper, but Darla’s well-being.

Did that sink in? What matters⁠—

Never mind. This wasn’t doing any good. After years of living early adulthood like any normal American of the 21st century who dabbled in self-improvement audiobooks and Youtube videos about productivity tips, I had figured addressing myself as “you” and creating an imaginary “I,” who knows better than me how to lead my life, might help me see crystal-clearly what was necessary.

But it didn’t. I was about to lie that I was insane, and I didn’t like the idea.

Ever heard of the insanity defense? That. That was what my lawyer recommended we go for. And for that, I needed to admit, on record, that I had merely imagined the closet swallowing my little sister and then spitting her back out.

I had asked him, If I’m supposed to be insane, shouldn’t I tell them the truth?

What truth?

That the closet really did swallow her and that was why she went missing for a year. Then it spat her back out.

He had slowly shaken his head, which had been impressive to watch. Usually when you do that, your shoulder muscles move in rhythm with your head at least a tiny bit, because obviously a head is connected to the body. And therefore, even if you were to shake your head, how would your shoulders remain completely immobile? But with him it was different. He was double my age, with a paunch so massive and taut I wondered if he hid something in there just like our closet had kept secret about its evil magic all those years, waiting for our parents to die in a car crash and for me to graduate from college and get a job so it could predict my work schedule, and then swallow my little sister Darla, who was only seven.

Anyway, because of that paunch, when my lawyer shook his head, all the rest of his muscles stayed remarkably still. It was like no body part cooperated with any other body part. It really looked like he meant it when he signaled Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Give them something to work with, he had said. You don’t seem insane. You held down a job for months. You never even got into a fight with a coworker.

Really? Nobody told you I punched my boss in the face? Funny, cause remember how they told you I stole their lunch from the fridge and obliterated the water cooler?

Stuff like that doesn’t matter. That’s all it is: stuff. That’s useless in court, both for and against you. So come up with an explanation: drug abuse, childhood trauma, stuff along those lines.

You’re telling me to lie.

Son, you’re telling me an evil closet swallowed your sister, then spat her back out. I don’t think I’m asking you to lie. Figure out why you went insane and tell them that.

Folks, this was the aftermath. Ever seen one of those movies where a closet that scares a kid to death is, in fact, a closet that should scare anybody to death? But all the grown-ups tell the kid to grow up, so the kid tries to sleep through the night, but the closet keeps making a noise, so the kid approaches the closet, then it swallows it?

That kid was Darla.

For days, weeks, and months, Darla remained trapped in the closet. And me, as the only grown-up left to her, of course tried to find her. Well, no, let me back up a little. At first I became the suspect in her kidnapping and couldn’t do much. Then my lawyer cleared me of that. Then came something worse: they suspected me of her murder. But of course, there was no proof. I kept telling them, Darla is in the closet. It was the closet that took her. The God damn closet!!!

They investigated the closet. Not that they believed my story, but they did think that maybe, there’s a secret path connecting the closet to a serial killer’s house or something.

But nope, there wasn’t one. The closet hadn’t come with the house and was completely detachable from Darla’s bedroom wall. The thing was something my parents had found at a flea market. God, I never knew why they wanted to buy other people’s ancient crap that not even those other people knew the origin of. They were the kind of people who named their kids after their great-grandparents. That was how Darla came to be Darla and me Elmer. Darla was okay, but Elmer? Come on. The name hit its peak sometime in the 1880s or 1900s and saw a steady decline ever since. It’s not the name a twenty-four-year-old wants to live with. (Sorry, everyone still alive named Elmer, but that’s what I think. At least I’m speaking from experience.)

The police went through other places in our house: the cellar, the attic, the mudroom. They interviewed my coworkers. Some said nice things about me, but some, as expected, said shit about me, such as how I had stolen their lunches from the common lounge fridge and had obliterated the water cooler. (Both of which I haven’t done. Also, “obliterate” was the word that the overdramatic prick used. I merely happened to stand next to the broken water cooler.)

It seemed that people, more than anything else, wanted to be right. And when it seemed pretty clear that a specific person was the perpetrator in a crime, they said all kinds of nonsense about that perpetrator, completely forgetting the “seemed” part in the phrase “seemed pretty clear.”

Some of them even said they had always suspected me of being this creepy weirdo because of my name. They said, Elmer. Whoever is called Elmer these days? And whoever actually likes to work with lab mice? Most of those poor bastards are going to die within the year, more likely within the week. Whoever likes to form attachments to such creatures?

The clear answer they had in mind: someone who kills his little sister and then shows up to work accusing the closet.