The Blonde Lock Beneath the Torn Floral Wallpaper

The hallway was wide enough for three people, but I used my whole body to make it smaller. I pushed my sister behind me and kept one hand stretched back until my fingers found the sleeve of her light-colored dress. She was shaking. I could feel it through the fabric.

My stepmother stood several feet away beneath the dim chandelier, slender and perfectly dressed in a formal blouse and skirt. Her dark brown hair was pulled tight from her face. Nothing about her moved except her hand, which came toward me with sudden purpose. The floral wallpaper behind her had faded into brown and green shapes, except for one jagged tear near the baseboard. A thin lock of blonde hair showed through it.

“Dead girls don't reveal family secrets, touch her again and everyone will know what you buried.”

Her fingers closed around my arm. Her grip was hard enough to pinch through my dark hoodie. I stayed between her and my sister, though my shoes slipped slightly on the polished floor.

“You'll be buried beside her.”

The words settled into the hallway. My sister made no sound. The mansion seemed to absorb even the small noises—the faint electrical hum, the scrape of my shoe, the uneven breath coming from behind me.

My name is Daniel, and I was fifteen that morning.

I looked back because my sister had stopped pulling against me. She stood with her round face turned toward the wall, blue eyes fixed on the torn paper. Her blonde hair had fallen across one cheek. A tear moved slowly down the other.

Her hand rose.

At first, I thought she was reaching for me. Then her arm extended past my shoulder, trembling toward the wallpaper. The lock of hair was still there, fine and pale against the dark opening. I could not tell whether it belonged to someone on the other side or had only been caught in the tear from long ago. I knew one thing: it had not been there when I passed through the hall earlier.

My stepmother followed my stare. Her grip tightened once, then loosened.

“That’s nothing,” she said.

I kept watching the tear. “Dad, Mommy is still inside that wall.”

My voice sounded too small for the hallway, but it traveled. Somewhere beyond the tall doors at the end of the passage, a floorboard creaked.

My sister’s fingers remained pointed at the wall. She did not look at me. She did not speak.

My stepmother released my arm and reached toward her instead. I caught her wrist before she could touch the child. Her skin felt cold beneath my hand. For one second, none of us moved.

Then a man’s voice came from the far end of the hallway.

“Nobody touches my child.”

My stepmother turned toward the sound. I saw my father standing in the open doorway, his face partly hidden by the shadow inside the room. He looked from her hand to my grip around her wrist, then to my sister’s pointing finger.

No one spoke.

The wallpaper tear waited behind us, its edges curled outward. The blonde lock caught the weak chandelier light and gave a small, unmistakable shine.