Creepypasta Stories

The Awful Thing We Did To Eliza

Dad said a man was coming from the city to photograph us tomorrow. I never had a photograph taken of me before. My parents had one taken with James when he was a baby. Eliza and I weren’t born yet.

The picture sits over our mantle, embroidered in a gold frame. Dad always promised he’d have one taken of all of us when he had the money. He’d say we’d have one of our whole family, together. Now he says it’s better late than never.

James and I are in the living room, drawing. Mom and Dad are seated at the kitchen table, drinking water and tea leaves. Mom is crying quietly.

“Catherine…” Dad says, “we can’t let this kill us. It’s the best we could do.”

“We could have done better,” Mom mumbles, “a better doctor, something…” She trails off.

“There isn’t anything we could have done differently,” Dad says. “We did what we could with the time we had. The Lord needed her back.” Mom lets out a moan.

Upstairs, Eliza is in her best Sunday dress. My mother made her look very pretty. Like she’s sleeping.

Dr. Coffett came to visit a few days ago. Eliza was moaning for hours before. My mother had come in to take care of her, and I was to move to James’ room. All night I heard her retching.

When Dr. Coffett was leaving the next day, I asked him what was wrong with her.

“Well, sweetheart, your little sister is very sick, but I promise you I’ll do everything I can.” He smiled a lazy smile at me. I counted two gold teeth.

After he leaves, Mother tells me Eliza has a bad fever. She tells me I can go up and see her if I like, but not to wake her. The stairs creak as I climb. It’s dark upstairs, and very still.

I reached our room and quietly opened the door. The two windows on the other side of the room had the shades drawn, blocking out almost all of the sun, even though our room was facing it. Tiny rays fell at the foot of Eliza’s bed where she lay, hidden except for her face. Her forehead was red and wet, her dark hair matted against it. I touched it. It was so hot. She was breathing quickly.

The man from the city is downstairs. He and dad talk about how much a “daguerreotype photograph” costs. Mother and I are in Eliza’s and my room. She is brushing Eliza’s hair. I put the flowers we picked today around her. I don’t like looking at her.

I’ve seen a dead person before. I was at my Uncle Jed’s burial. He was killed by two men who robbed his house. He ran after them and they shot him dead. But even with those little holes in his cheek and the black circles under his eyes, I could tell there was something certain, definite about him. Eliza didn’t have that. She very well could have been alive, except for that stillness.

It was the stillness which scared me. All the signs of her sleeping were there, save for the gentle up-and-down motion of her chest, and the light whistle of air from her nostrils. When you see a behavior so many times, you begin to expect all the signs to be present. Seeing such a vital few missing was disconcerting. My mind tries to make sense of it, but the effort brings on a slow, tired, nauseous feeling. I want to leave the room.

“Catherine, are you ready?” Dad’s voice echoes from downstairs.

“We are.” Mom’s voice breaks and doesn’t carry.