When the Closet Worked Its Magic

By Ithaka O.

The closet swallowed his little sister. It really did. And yet, a year later, after it spat her back out, Elmer Warde must lie: I imagined it. I am insane.

 

This, after people suspected him of kidnapping his own sister.

And after they accused him of trying to murder her.

 

This is the ironic aftermath of a horror story that gets "solved": the loved ones of the missing person (now missing no more) face a fallout. Elmer's only hope of staying in touch with his little sister seems to be the insanity defense.

 

But must he settle for a sort-of-happy ending, or can he hope for a happy ending?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imaginarium Kim
• Release date: Oct 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781637931035

Ithaka O.

https://ithakaonmymind.com/

Book preview

1

What matters isn’t your sanity on paper, but Darla’s well-being.

I repeat, what matters isn’t your sanity on paper, but Darla’s well-being.

Did that sink in? What matters—

Never mind. This wasn’t doing any good. From years of living early adulthood like any normal American of the 21st century who dabbled in self-improvement audiobooks and Youtube videos about productivity tips, I’d figured addressing myself as you and creating an imaginary I, who knows better than me how to lead my life, might help me see crystal-clearly what was necessary.

But it didn’t. I was about to lie that I was insane, and I didn’t like the idea.

Ever heard of the insanity defense? That. That was what my lawyer recommended we go for. And for that, I needed to admit, on record, that I’d merely imagined the closet swallowing my little sister and then spitting her back out.

I’d asked him, If I’m supposed to be insane, shouldn’t I tell them the truth?

What truth?

That the closet really did swallow her and that was why she went missing for a year. Then it spat her back out.

He’d slowly shaken his head, which had been impressive to watch. Usually when you did that, your shoulder muscles moved in rhythm with your head at least a tiny bit, because obviously a head is connected to the body. And therefore, even if you were to shake your head, how would your shoulders remain completely immobile? But with him it was different. He was double my age, with a paunch so massive and taut I wondered if he hid something in there just like our closet had kept secret about its evil magic all those years, waiting for our parents to die in a car crash and for me to graduate from college and get a job so it could predict my work schedule, and then swallow my little sister Darla, who was only seven.

Anyway, because of that paunch, when my lawyer shook his head, all the rest of his muscles stayed remarkably still. It was like no body part cooperated with any other body part. It really looked like he meant it when he signaled Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Give them something to work with, he’d said. You don’t seem insane. You held down a job for months. You never even got into a fight with a coworker.

Really? Nobody told you I punched my boss in the face? Funny, cause remember how they told you I stole their lunch from the fridge and obliterated the water cooler?

Stuff like that doesn’t matter. That’s all it is: stuff. That’s useless in court, both for and against you. So come up with an explanation: drug abuse, childhood trauma, stuff along those lines.

You’re telling me to lie.

Son, you’re telling me an evil closet swallowed your sister, then spat her back out. I don’t think I’m asking you to lie. Figure out why you went insane and tell them that.

Folks, this was the aftermath. Ever seen one of those movies where a closet that scares a kid to death is, in fact, a closet that should scare anybody to death? But all the grown-ups tell the kid to grow up, so the kid tries to sleep through the night, but the closet keeps making a noise, so the kid approaches the closet, then it swallows it?

That kid was Darla.

For days, weeks, and months, Darla remained trapped in the closet. And me, as the only grown-up left to her, of course tried to find her. Well, no, let me back up a little. At first I became the suspect in her kidnapping and couldn’t do much. Then my lawyer cleared me of that. Then came something worse: they suspected me of her murder. But of course, there was no proof. I kept telling them, Darla is in the closet. It was the closet that took her. The God damn closet!!!

They investigated the closet. Not that they believed my story, but they did think that maybe, there’s a secret path connecting from the closet to a serial killer’s house or something.

But nope, there wasn’t one. The closet hadn’t come with the house and was completely detachable from Darla’s bedroom wall. The thing was something my parents had found at a flea market. God, I never knew why they wanted to buy other people’s ancient crap that not even those other people knew the origin of. They were the kind of people who named their kids after their great-grandparents. That was how Darla came to be Darla and me Elmer. Darla was okay, but Elmer? Come on. The name hit its peak sometime in the 1880s or 1900s and saw a steady decline ever since. It’s not the name a twenty-four-year-old wants to live with. (Sorry, everyone still alive named Elmer, but that’s what I think. At least I’m speaking from experience.)

The police went through other places in our house: