Page 5 of Little Stranger

Apologizing over and over again for not saving him, I was rushed to the emergency room, and a week later, the Vizes introduced themselves and said they’d make sure I never knew what it felt like to go hungry again.

They kept their word.

Even though I’m scared of my dad, I love him. He’s heavy handed with Malachi and swears like a sailor, but he’s trying to be calmer, better. He no longer consumes alcohol and keeps himself busy. I can’t say Malachi receives the same treatment from him as I do. The only reason my brother is still under this roof is because Mom and I love him, and he’s a part of our family regardless.

Said brother walks into the kitchen behind me, his shoulder brushing mine, then ruffles his hair as he stares into the refrigerator and grabs an orange juice. His eyes slide to Mom then to me, and something shines in his eyes.

I did go to my friend’s house the other night, but I snuck out when everyone fell asleep, and instead of climbing in my own window, I climbed right into Malachi’s.

But that’s a normal thing siblings do, right?

4

Olivia—Aged 18

“IthinkIhateyou.”

Malachi looks offended as we walk out of the store he just bought his arachnid from. The box with holes is hugged to his chest while I unlock my car and grimace when he places the cardboard box in the back seat.

It trembles a little, and I shake my head. “There’s nothinkingabout it; I do hate you. If you take it back, I won’t revoke the big-brother card.”

Stop being scared.

“No. Fuck you. Why, out of all the cute little animals in there, did you buy a tarantula? When you told me you wanted to get a pet, I thought you meant a kitten or a damn dog!”

My brother narrows his eyes at me, so I roll mine and turn on the engine, heading for home. Our parents will still be out—they have some sort of meeting about a new foster kid who could potentially be living here soon.

I hope it’s not another brother—I adore Malachi, but he’s a lot of work sometimes, especially with his possessiveness. It started to show more when I was sixteen and went out for sleepovers, girls’ days, or even to the gym. Every time, without fail, he’d blow up my phone with messages, because obviously he can’t call, since he still doesn’t talk.

Once, when me and Abbi got drunk at her parents’ house and I called him, I slurred every word and sent him my location before losing my phone, and he hunted for me on his motorbike for hours.

When he was forced to give up and come home, he found me asleep in his bed. I woke in the morning with my head on his chest—awfully tangled in his limbs—and the little devil on my shoulder told me to stay, but I knew it was wrong, so I snuck out and went to my own room.

Imagine another one of him in the house? I would go insane. I love him, I really do, but I have strange thoughts about him sometimes. When my fingers slip between my thighs or when I’m kissing someone else, it’s shameless how many times his face has been at the forefront of my mind when I find my orgasm.

Then I’d have to sit down for breakfast or dinner or supper with him, our parents too, and pretend I didn’t just get off to the thought of my brother.

“I need to get gas,” I say when I notice my tank is close to empty. I turn into the closest station and glance at the box over my shoulder and wonder if he’ll notice if I accidentally leave it on the roof of someone else’s car.

Spiders give me chills. Small ones that run across your room floor, dangle from the ceiling, or casually chill on your face while you sleep are bad enough, but the hairy thing in that box isn’t just a little spider—it’s red and black and hairy and looks like it might eat me.

Rain patters down, making puddles on the ground as I fight with the handle and the gas cap—Malachi ends up twisting it off for me and sits on the hood while I fill up the tank. Arms crossed, he stares at me, and I narrow my eyes. “What?”

You don’t have your lip gloss on.

I rub my lips together—they’re stained red from the lipstick I bought a few days ago. “I like this one better.”

I disagree. You look like a hooker.

I slap his arm, and he silently laughs.

“Mom wants me to find a boyfriend because apparently I need a man to look after me.” I roll my eyes. “She said they’ll partner me up with that weirdo Parker.”

Malachi’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching.You’re only eighteen.

I laugh. “Tell her that!” Twisting on the gas cap, I pat his shoulder. “Count yourself lucky Dad thinks men are power, or you’d be forced into marriage at a young age too.”

He snatches my wrist before I can pull away then drops it to sign a reply.No,you aren’t getting married.

---