Part Three: In Which the imaginary friend becomes all too real
During my time cleaning up the kitchen, Sarah would sit around and talk to her imaginary friend, whom she called "Harriet". It was a bit unnerving, as there was no one there, but she still talked as if there was.
"How are you today? Me too. I'm cold. Are you lonely? Really? So am I. What room was yours? No way! That's my room too! Did you have any siblings? They died? That's sad. I have too sisters. Their names are Jessie and Lila."
"Uh…Sarah? Who're you talking to?"
"Harriet."
"Who's Harriet?"
"This was her house. She used to live here. She used to live in the attic. "Well, that was strange, but I paid no mind to it because overall, Sarah had become stranger and stranger each day after we moved here. She had a strange fascination with the year 1893. And the attic. She was obsessed with the attic.
Two days after the strange happenings, I was dusting out the crevices in the kitchen. There, by the window hidden behind a cupboard, I found a little door. It was only about six inches wide, with a little doorknob and was painted the same faded yellow as the rest of the kitchen. I decided to open the door; I figured I would eventually, so why not now? As I did, dust was freed into the air, and I struggled to breathe. When I finally got back to my senses, I could see the contains of the hidden door. A single faded photograph. There was a stern looking man and a malicious looking young girl, about the age of five or six. She was wearing a while pinafore, with dark stockings and brown lace-up boots. Her hair was untidy, blonde hairs were scattered in all directions. She looked like a servant, even though the man standing next to her was impeccably dressed. They were obviously father and daughter. The only finery that she wore was a blood-red flower necklace on her thin neck. I turned to the back of it and attached to the picture was a yellow newspaper article out of a local newspaper. I could only make out one paragraph, which read:
"This picture was taken only days before Mr. Nathaniel Watson's daughter was murdered and he disappeared without a trace. Police were called in after neighbors stated that they had not seen Mr. Watson in a week. Detectives found the murdered girl's body in the attic, and officials say she was strangled to death. The Detectives presume that the father, a famed and rich doctor of upper New York, was the culprit. However, due to his disappearance, there cannot be any trial until he is either found or captured. The girls name was--."
And that's where the rip in the newspaper was. I heard the kitchen door slam, and I hoped that it wasn't mom or dad. Sarah walked in, with no expression on her face, and stood behind me, looking intently at the picture.
"That's Harriet." She whispered, and then walked away.
I was stunned. How could Sarah possibly know this girls name? I had to find out. I sprinted after Sarah, who was walking towards the woods.
"Sarah, how did you know that this is Harriet?" I stammered as I reached my sister.
"Because I am Harriet. Harriet is me." She replied, her eyes gazing at something that I couldn't see.
"Sarah," I commanded as I shook her, "Harriet isn't real! She doesn't exist! Stop living in your little fantasy world, and admit that you made her up."
Suddenly, Sarah's eyes turned dark, like the sky before a hurricane. She spoke in icy, angry tones.
"Harriet says she doesn't like you. She doesn't like how you don't think she's real. Harriet doesn't want you in this house anymore, Jessie. Harriet wants you to suffer like the way she suffered. Harriet wants you to feel pain. Harriet wants you to die." Then I felt a small pair of invisible hands close around my neck, and everything went black.