Creepypasta Collection Book 1

I Won't Take Care of My Sister Anymore

I've never been straight with anybody, so I'm going to tell you something that's the truth; I hate my family. My older sister moved to America with hardly a goodbye, my dad's dead and I always hoped my mum would follow him. Well one day she did.

She left behind a crap load of money and a six bedroom house, set outside the city and with a stream running beside it. My dad had left her a two million pound fortune, enough for her to live on with change, especially since she was too much of a skinflint to spend any of it. Now she was dead, the house and money sat there. I didn't expect to see a penny.

Mum and I had always hated each other. We didn't have little spats, we had a full on feud, and growing up my cheeks would always be red from where she'd slap me. Sometimes she did it backhand and cut my face with her engagement ring. Yeah, we hated each other.

It never got better when I matured and she didn't mellow with old age, she just got more and more spiteful. By the time she died, we'd gone five years, six months and three days without speaking.

To some extent I sympathized with her; she'd had a hard life. My dad spent four nights a week out of the marital bed, and used to call her ugly and wouldn't let her have self-esteem. It was a depressing marriage. Then there was my younger sister.

She was ten years my junior and from the minute she was born, she was the favorite. Always getting the hugs Mum never gave me. I don't want to whine, but I resented it and I was cruel to her. Call it my mother's side getting through.

That changed when my sister had her accident. She fell twenty feet out of a maple tree, and thumped her head on the floor. They said when they found her blood trickled out of her ears, and she was already comatose. She never woke up.

I told you I didn't expect a penny from the will, so you can imagine my surprise when our family lawyer told me I was the sole heir. Yep, he was surprised too. Two million pounds and a six bedroom house were mine, but on one condition; I had to move in and become my sister's sole carer.

Caring for a coma victim isn't hard; to be honest, you just have to listen for irregular beeps on the machines they have her hooked up to. She had nurses who came once a day to check on everything, so I didn't have to do a thing and I was a millionaire for it. But I hated being in the same house as her.

She's my sister and all, but after so long in a coma you're already dead. That, coupled with how she looked, meant I couldn't see her as my sister. She was a woman technically but she never developed, so she was more like a freakishly tall child. Her bones stuck out, her skin was grey and her face had the absent look for a corpse.

At the beginning it was unnerving sleeping in the room next door to her/ I'd lie in bed trying to sleep, but all I could think about was her on the other side of the wall, immobile and mute.

One night she scared the hell out of me. I was stretched on my bed, lights off, the house as silent as ever. I heard a bang from my sister's room, and something clattered to the floor. I thought she'd fallen out of bed, like maybe the nurse had left her in a funny position. I ran in her room but she was laid down like always, face staring absently at the ceiling. On the other side of the room a photo frame was on the floor.

A few nights later the nurse called in sick, so I checked on my sister myself. I made sure she was nowhere near the edge of the bed, I'd gotten paranoid, and switched off the light. It was too early to go to bed, so I had a few drinks.

The thing about my bladder is it only acts up when I'm in bed and, sure enough, as soon as I tried to go to sleep that night, I had an urge to go to the toilet. On the way there, I noticed my sister's door slightly ajar.

I probably hadn't closed it right, but after the photo frame incident, I thought I better check. Everything seemed fine, but when I looked at my sister, I was sure she was wearing a different gown.

I wouldn't bet my dead mum's house on it, and you write that kind of thing off, don't you? It must have been a trick of the brain. That explanation satisfied me, and I slept for a few hours. But the next day had me doubting myself again.

The nurse was well enough to visit the next night, and she did the usual check. Before she left, she grabbed me for a word.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said. "It was short notice, but you did a great job."

"It was nothing," I said.

"No, you were great. I didn't think you'd change her clothes and everything."

That got my attention.

I didn't press it because the nurse would never believe me, but you can bet I didn't sleep easy from then on. Every reasonable explanation ran through my head, did I change them and forget? Was the nurse mistaken? I didn't have a clue.

All I know I never went in my sister's room unless I could avoid it. A few weeks later, I didn't have a choice. The machines she's hooked up to have alarms, and one night they started making a racket.

I got my ass into her room as quickly as I could, and as soon as I did, the alarms stopped. It was a big relief. Then I looked at my sister's face. Her mouth was wide open, an enormous cavity aimed at the ceiling, the corners of her lips crooked.

They said it was just a reflex, but as much as I wanted to buy it, I still moved my bedroom to the other side of the house, as far away as I could get.

I'd hear noises every night, scaring the crap out of me every time. I lost sleep and I was a stressed out wreck. As pathetic as it sounds, I didn't dare go check on her.

And then something happened that made me move out of the house.

It was a rare night where I felt like I was going to get some sleep. I was in that stage, where you know you're on the edge of sleep but not quite there yet. Then my bedroom door opened and banged shut.

It shook me straight out of drowsiness, and I sat up in bed. I could feel something in the room with me. It wasn't right.

On the floor beside me, lit in the moonlight, was my sister. Her body rigid and her mouth wide open, her face pointed at mine.