The Second Sister
Part 1
Step into the basement...
I’m thrilled to unveil Part 1 of The Second Sister as part of the “Small and Scary | Big and Beastly” event, hosted by
. This dark dark tale, was inspired by the “Small and Scary” prompt. The chilling conclusion (Part 2) will materialize on my Substack, Ink & Shadows, following the event post. I sincerely hope this first installment sends a shiver down your spine! Don’t forget to explore the other wonderfully creepy creations from fellow authors at the official event page.
The shrill ring of her phone yanked Lily from the depths of a reality TV marathon. She fumbled for the remote, pausing on a freeze-frame of manufactured outrage before glancing at the caller ID. Mom. Probably calling to ensure she’d paid her electricity bill this month—the kind of reminder that made Lily feel twelve again, not like someone who’d been managing her own finances for the better part of a decade.
“Hey, Mom,” Lily answered.
“Lily. I have some… news.” Her mother’s voice was flat, direct. No preamble. “It’s your Aunt Beatrice. She passed away.”
Lily blinked. Aunt Beatrice. Old Aunt Beelzebub. The news landed with a dull thud rather than a shock. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Okay.”
“Yes,” her mother continued with a sigh. “In her sleep, apparently. The neighbor noticed the newspapers piling up in the yard and called the police. Now, regarding arrangements, your father and I are just about to board our cruise ship and will not be able to return to Baltimore for another two weeks.”
Lily’s internal alarm for impending chore began to blare. “Meaning...?”
“Meaning you’ll need to handle it. The funeral director, the lawyer. And the house, obviously. Someone needs to sort through her things.” It wasn’t a request; it was a statement of logistics.
“Her things?” Lily pictured rooms overflowing with dusty doilies and used Kleenex crammed into every nook and cranny. “Mom, Beatrice and I barely knew each other. And you haven’t spoken to her in...” Lily trailed off, realizing she didn’t even know how long it had been. Years, certainly. Decades, maybe.
“Nevertheless, there’s no one else readily available,” her mother said, her voice devoid of sympathy for Lily’s implied complaint. “We’re relying on you to manage the initial stages. Her lawyer, Mr. Markham, has already reached out, and I gave him your information. We can deal with the complexities when we return.”
Lily let out a quiet breath. “Really, Mom. Like I have nothing better to do?” It felt less like an agreement and more like an assigned, unpleasant duty.
“History aside, she is family, Lily,” her mother replied, her tone shifting almost imperceptibly, a slight tightening. “We’ll call you in a day or so to see how things are progressing. Try to… just stick to what’s strictly necessary, okay? Use whatever services Mr. Markham suggests. There’s no need for you to go… delving too deeply into Beatrice’s personal effects. Some things in that old house are probably best left exactly as they are.” There was a click as her mother ended the call, no “thanks or goodbye” exchanged.
Lily tossed her phone onto the cushion beside her and stared blankly at the frozen face on the television screen. Aunt Beelzebub. Gone. And now, apparently, her problem.
A slow, mirthless smile stretched her lips.
“Ding, dong, the witch is dead,” she sang to the empty room.
The address her mother had texted was on a narrow, tree-lined street in a part of Baltimore Lily couldn’t recall ever visiting. She parked her car at the curb in front of a two-story house that sagged slightly, as if weary of its own existence. The paint, once probably a cheerful yellow, was now a peeling, grimy mustard.
As Lily reluctantly stepped out of her car, a faint, cloyingly sweet undertone in the air hit her, making her stomach clench. Oh god, she thought, a wave of nausea washing over her, please don’t let the smell be overwhelming. How long had the old crone been festering in there? The polite euphemism “passed away” suddenly felt grossly inadequate.
A man in a suit that looked like it had seen too many long days was stepping away from the porch, his expression carefully neutral—the kind that could mask anything from mild boredom to profound disgust. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“Ms. Hayes?” he asked, his voice even. “David Markham. I spoke with your mother. My condolences.” He gestured vaguely toward the house. “The police and coroner have completed their work; the house has been aired. It should be… manageable now.”
Lily just nodded, the word manageable doing little to soothe her apprehension.
Mr. Markham held out a small ring of keys. “Front, back, and this funky one is for the basement door. It’s locked. I’d advise caution if you go down there. I only took a quick glance and decided against it. The stairs looked unstable, and I doubt they’ve been used in years.”
Lily took the keys. Cold metal. “Right.”
“Harrison & Sons Funeral Services will contact you,” he continued, already taking a step back towards the curb. “My office handles the estate filings. You’ll need to sort the personal effects.” He pressed a business card into her hand. “Appraisers, clearance services on the back. Anything you need. You might consider a professional cleaner first.”
“Thanks,” Lily managed.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” With a final, brief nod, Mr. Markham retreated to his sedan and drove off, leaving Lily alone on the cracked pathway, facing the grim-looking house.
The silence that descended was heavy, broken only by the rustle of dead leaves. She took a shallow breath through her mouth, steeling herself, and turned to the front door. Time to face the legacy—and whatever lingered—of Aunt Beelzebub.
Lily stood before the front door, a knot of trepidation tightening in her chest. The thought of what lay beyond—the sheer oppressive weight of her aunt’s existence—made her hesitate. Steeling herself, she reached for the knob and pushed. The heavy door protested with a reluctant, gritty scrape against the frame, the sound echoing hollowly into the house.
A wave of stale air washed over her, thick with the commingled scents of dust, old paper, something vaguely medicinal, and a surprisingly strong, cloying perfume. Is that lilac? Beneath it all, thankfully almost masked, was the fainter, sweeter trace she’d been dreading. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was, as Mr. Markham had so clinically put it, manageable.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. Heavy, faded floral curtains were drawn tight against the Baltimore afternoon, allowing only slivers of mote-filled light to penetrate. The living room, directly off the small entryway, was a museum of accumulated possessions. Lily’s lips twitched. Early Century Hoarder… with a minor in Creepy Doll Studies.
Every surface—the scarred mahogany coffee table, the doily-draped end tables, the hulking walnut credenza—was laden. Time-worn dolls and figurines with chipped smiles, many depicting infants, stood sentinel next to stacks of old magazines and what looked like candy wrappers. A grandfather clock stood silent in one corner, its hands frozen at half-past three, like it had simply given up, maybe even years ago. The floral-patterned sofa, shrouded in a clear plastic cover that crackled when she brushed past it, looked like it hadn’t been sat on in years. The air was still, heavy, and a fine layer of dust coated everything. The only exception was a well-used rocker, positioned just a few feet from the television screen it directly faced.
Lily stared at the rocker, picturing a small, hunched figure parked there, scowling at the flickering screen. She’d likely have been muttering or barking at the news, some slow-witted game show contestant, or any other perceived offender. A palpable air of dissatisfaction seemed to emanate from the worn fabric, leaving Lily with an odd mix of pity and distaste.
A quick, grim tour of the rest of the main floor confirmed her initial impressions. The kitchen beyond was a time capsule of faded linoleum and grime-caked Formica, the air holding the faint, sour ghost of old coffee. The dining room table was invisible beneath stacks of yellowed newspapers and unopened junk mail. Upstairs, two small bedrooms offered more of the same: musty beds, dressers laden with trinkets and old, discolored perfume bottles, and closets crammed with clothes that smelled faintly of lilac and dust. Everything was coated in the same undisturbed layer of grime and neglect.
It was clear there was nothing of obvious monetary value, no hidden treasures tucked away in drawers, nothing that screamed “cherished heirloom.” Instead, as Lily moved from one silent room to the next, an unexpected and unsettling realization began to dawn. This wasn’t just the aftermath of neglect; it was the pervasive atmosphere left by a profoundly defeated spirit. The quiet wasn’t peaceful; it was heavy, saturated with a long-held surrender that seemed to cling to the faded wallpaper and the threadbare carpets.
For the first time, the image of Beatrice, not Beelzebub, flickered, accompanied by an unwelcome pang of pity.
Pity? Lily mentally recoiled, giving her head a slight shake. For the woman her own mother had practically disowned, the one whose name was only ever uttered in hushed, disapproving whispers? For Aunt Beelzebub? No! She had a job to do, and wallowing in secondhand sorrow wasn’t part of it.
Lily shook off her unwelcome sentimentality. She had to admit: the oppressive house, the cloying smell, and the sheer weight of the task were indeed getting to her. Yet this only solidified her resolve.
And this, she thought, grimly surveying the monument to her aunt’s depressing detritus, was exactly it. Using those estate liquidators Mr. Markham had on his list? No one had to twist her arm; it had been her immediate, non-negotiable plan from the moment her mother had dumped this whole mess in her lap. This was always a job for professionals, not for her.
The sheer volume of… stuff. The dust, the silence, that lingering ghost of lilac—it was overwhelming. No wonder Mom sounded so hesitant on the phone, Lily mused, a flicker of cynical understanding crossing her mind. Maybe she had actually been over here sometime in the last decade and had a peek at the state of Beelzebub’s hoard. Probably pictured me getting crushed under an avalanche of creepy dolls!
The liquidators could haul every last bit of it away, burn it for all she cared. There was clearly nothing of obvious value here, nothing worth another minute of her time in this suffocating tomb. Her job was to secure the house and make that call. That was it.
She clutched the ring of keys Mr. Markham had given her and turned, making a decisive beeline for the front door, for fresh air, for a definitive escape.
Her hand was on the doorknob, ready to pull it open and leave this whole sorry mess behind, when her gaze fell on the keys in her other hand. The ordinary ones for the front and back doors, and then… the “funky” one. The tarnished brass key for the basement, the one Mr. Markham had specifically warned her about. “Stairs…unstable…doubt they’ve been used in years.”
Every rational instinct, every fiber of her being that had just resolved to outsource this nightmare, screamed at her to leave. It was probably just full of more junk, cobwebs, and who knew what horrors of damp and decay. Probably even spiders! But as she looked at that odd key, a strange, unwelcome curiosity stirred within her, a nagging little whisper that cut through her resolve. What if there was something down there? Something different? It was a stupid thought, a reckless one, completely at odds with her decision moments before. She had no logical reason to go down there, every reason not to.
And yet…
It was the “doubt they've been used” part that snagged her. If her aunt hadn’t been down there, then whatever was there hadn’t been curated by the same defeated spirit that permeated the rest of the house. It was a slim chance, a ridiculous one, but it was there. What if…?
This is how people die in horror movies, a dry, internal voice commented. “Let’s just check out the creepy basement no one has been in for years!” Idiots.
Lily let out a frustrated sigh, the sound swallowed by the oppressive stillness. Her resolution to flee was wavering, battered by this sudden, illogical curiosity. She looked back at the front door, so close, promising escape. Then, her gaze was drawn, almost against her will, toward the basement door.
Fine. The thought was sharp, almost a dare to herself. One quick look. Five minutes. If it’s just more junk and spiders the size of teacups, I’m out, and the liquidators can deal with the subterranean horrors as well.
The tarnished brass key slid into the lock with a grating sound, as if the tumblers themselves were coated in decades of disuse.
She took a breath, held it, and turned the key. It resisted, then gave with a stubborn click. Gripping the cool metal of the latch, Lily pulled.
The door protested with a long, agonizing creak. A mournful groan that seemed to echo deep in her bones.
Of course, it creaks, she thought, a wry, exasperated twist to her mental voice. Why wouldn’t it? Probably a contractual obligation for creepy old basements everywhere.
The air that billowed up from the opening was different from the rest of the house—cooler, damp, and earthy. Mingled with the scent of wet earth was a faint, smoky aroma that pricked at her nostrils. A darkness yawned beyond the threshold, a blackness that seemed to absorb the already meager light of the room behind her.
Lily fumbled for her phone, switching on its flashlight. The sudden beam cut a swath through the oppressive black, illuminating the top of a narrow, rickety-looking wooden staircase. There was no light switch apparent, no friendly pull-cord, just the gaping maw leading down. Charming. Positively inviting.
“Okay, Beatrice, let’s see what secrets you’ve got in your dungeon,” she muttered, more to bolster her own courage than anything else.
She tested the first step with a tentative foot. It groaned alarmingly under her slight weight, a distinct wobble accompanying the sound. Mr. Markham hadn’t been exaggerating. “Unstable” is one word for it. “Death trap” is another. Gripping the rough, splintery wall for non-existent support, Lily began her descent, each step a careful negotiation. The beam of her phone danced around, illuminating thick cobwebs hanging from the low joists above, some brushing against her hair, making her shudder.
Finally, her feet touched a cold, uneven concrete floor. She swept the phone light around. The basement was larger than she’d expected, but crammed. The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth and mildew, but underneath it, stronger now, was that peculiar, pervasive scent of old smoke—not like a fireplace, but more like burned leaves. Stacks of unidentifiable objects draped in dusty tarpaulins loomed like shadowy beasts. And yes, more dolls. Several were propped against a damp-stained wall, their glassy eyes glinting in the narrow beam, each staring straight through her as if judging her unwelcome intrusion. Their painted smiles looked even more sinister in the gloom.
Her phone’s beam swept across more shadowed heaps, then snagged on something that made her breath catch. Tucked into a deeper alcove, almost reverently set apart from the surrounding junk, was what looked like a grotesque, abandoned nursery. A stained highchair listed to one side, and open boxes overflowed with yellowed gowns and tiny, hand-knitted booties. But it was the crib that dominated the space, an ornate wooden antique with peeling white paint. Unlike the other debris, it wasn’t haphazardly covered. Instead, a layer of thin, almost translucent gauze was draped carefully over the top, hinting at a deliberate, careful preservation. It seemed to ripple faintly as Lily’s light passed over it.
Baby things? Here? Aunt Beelzebub? The thought was jarring, almost nauseating in this context. Her mother had been adamant: Beatrice had never married, never had children. Was this some kind of weird fetish? Lily’s lips twitched with a grimace. Given the museum of creepy dolls upstairs, it’s probably just the prize of her collection under there. A shrine to the Queen Mother of all creepy dolls, no doubt. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought but decided some mysteries were best left undisturbed, especially if they involved more of her aunt’s unsettling collection. Her eyes continued their sweep of the basement, dismissing the covered crib for now.
Turning away from the nursery, her light fell on a large, dome-topped trunk tucked away in a corner, half-hidden by a moldy canvas sheet. It looked older than anything else, its dark wood bound with tarnished brass. Curiosity urged her forward.
After a struggle with the rusty clasp, the lid creaked open. The first layer was a jumble of musty, meaningless rags—some with faded characters and symbols she could not decipher. Placing these aside, she uncovered a faded black dress, like something from a Victorian funeral. Creepy! Beneath this, she found an assortment of half-melted candles, some thick and white, others slender and black, and a collection of small, unmarked earthenware jars, their contents a mystery she had no desire to investigate.
She was about to give up, the oppressive atmosphere of the basement starting to truly get to her, when her fingers brushed against something near the bottom of the trunk. Lily pulled it out. It was a small, rectangular package, tied with a faded silk ribbon.
With a growing sense of unease, she fumbled with the knot, her phone precariously balanced on the edge of the trunk to free both hands. The ribbon finally gave way. She unfolded the cloth.
Inside, nestled together, were two items. The first was a photograph, faded and stiff with age, its corners slightly softened from handling. Lily pulled it free from the cloth wrapping, turning it over in her fingers. She angled it to catch the unsteady beam of her phone, the light cutting through the basement gloom to illuminate the aged surface. As the details of the scene swam into focus under the stark light, her breath hitched sharply in her throat.
It wasn’t a formal portrait, but something far more intimate and immediate. Her mother, looking tired but undeniably radiant, was propped up against pillows in what was clearly a hospital bed. Cradled tenderly in her arms, swaddled in identical receiving blankets and tiny matching caps, were two tiny infants. Her father stood beside the bed, his arm around her mother’s shoulders, his face alight with a beaming, almost tearful joy as he gazed down at the newborns.
One of the babies was unmistakably, shockingly, her. It was the hair—a thick, unruly shock of jet-black hair spilling from the edge of her cap, exactly as her mother had so often recounted Lily being born with. She’d seen other baby pictures of herself with that same defiant tuft. But… the other infant, held just as lovingly—possessing an identical tiny face with the same delicate features—was crowned with a soft, almost luminous halo of golden blonde hair. An identical twin in form and feature, yet so strikingly different in this one aspect. A sister? One she never knew existed, had never heard a single whisper about, captured here in a frozen moment of what looked like pure, unadulterated family bliss.
Her mind reeled. What the actual fuck?
Her gaze dropped to the second item from the package: a dark wooden box, intricately carved with a swirling floral pattern. She lifted its lid. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, were three antique hat pins, their heads ornate—one a deep amethyst crystal, another a pearl, the third a jet-black orb. They were beautiful, in a severe, old-fashioned way.
Almost involuntarily, she reached out and touched the sharp point of the jet-black pin. “Ow!” She snatched her hand back, sucking at the tiny bead of blood on her fingertip. “Seriously? I hope you have good insurance, Beatrice. Probably gonna get tetanus… or the plague!” She glared at the offending pin. The whole discovery—the bizarre photo, these malevolent pins, the nursery—was deeply unsettling.
Done! she decided. This basement was a bust, just like the rest of the house; creepy, depressing, and full of junk. Time to go. The liquidators could deal with whatever horrors lurked in these shadows.
She started to turn and head for the stairs, for fresh air, for sanity. But then, an image of the gauze-covered crib flashed in her mind. Her earlier thought about it being a shrine to the “Queen Mother of all creepy dolls” returned, but now, tinged with a new angle. That crib was set apart, treated differently. What if the doll under that gauze wasn’t just some random piece of porcelain junk? If her aunt had prized it that much, maybe, just maybe, it was actually valuable. An antique, a rare collectible? It was a stupid, long-shot thought, probably just her wanting to find something to make this whole sordid trip worthwhile. But the image of that carefully draped gauze pulled at her.
One last look, she told herself, a strange mix of distaste and that unwelcome curiosity stirring again. If it’s just another nightmare doll, I’m out. But if it’s something actually worth something…
Her feet, seemingly acting on their own volition despite her rising tide of unease, carried her back toward that unsettling nursery alcove. The air here felt colder, deader. The faint, acrid scent of burned herbs was more pronounced. The gauze over the antique crib seemed almost to glow faintly in the beam of her phone, its gentle drape looking less like a dust cover and more like a burial shroud.
Okay, Lily, Moment of Truth, she thought, trying for a bravado she didn’t feel. Is it a priceless antique doll destined for Sotheby’s, or just another one of Beelzebub’s nightmare fuel specials? She reached out a hesitant hand, her fingers brushing against the disturbingly soft gauze mesh. It was old, delicate, and clung to her skin momentarily.
Taking a shallow breath that did little to calm the sudden hammering in her chest, she gripped the edge of the fabric. Like a band-aid. Just rip it off.
With a quick tug, she pulled the gauze away.
The Second Sister - Part Two… available here.
WhAt?! Holy cow this is phenomenal! You have perfected the mic drop ending and I am SO invested!
Certified creepy.