Sammie

Sammie

A Story by Camille Corbett
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A scary story.

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Sammie

Nichole Corbett

It had never occurred to me that my neighbor could be mad. Most certainly not mad enough to lock a seven year old in his cupboard for two weeks. In fact, I hardly thought him mad enough to mix plaids, but there you go. My assumptions have been shot down and told to lay head first in a puddle. Because he did both, though I do think the second occurrence was just due to apathy and not madness. Though if I were my mother, I would lump any sort of apathy of one’s appearance to tacit madness.

This story starts out like most unfortunate ones do, on a rainy day. My brother Sam and I were playing checkers in my room and, like always, he was attempting to cheat. Eventually, I got sick of fending off my brother’s attempts of besting me and I told him to leave me alone and do whatever seven year Satan-incarnates do.

Once he left, I took advantage of my time alone and settled down for a nap. I figured it wouldn’t last very long for my brother had taken to waking me up recently, but sleep is sleep, and due to piles of homework I’d been receiving, I most certainly haven’t been getting enough of it.

So I slept. An hour passed. Then another. And another. Hours kept passing until my rest has surpassed the bounds of a siesta. When I finally woke up, it was not to the poking of miniature digits, but to my mother shaking me violently and shrieking, “Where’s Sam?” As you can imagine, I was exceedingly startled and grumbled something about Satan worship, engendering another cry from my hysterical mother. The second set of hysterics coming from my mother awakened me and I pulled myself from her claws. “What do you mean where’s Sam?” I uttered, slowly tasting the concept of my brother gone. Without being commanded to, my mouth uttered the sentence once again, this time with a higher pitch, “What do you mean where’s Sam?” Startled at my reaction, or maybe just crashing from the high of terror, my mother took me into her arms and rocked me, whispering in my ear, repeatedly, “He’s gone, honey, he’s gone.”
Police came. Amber Alert. We were questioned. Relatives were called. Vigils occurred, by candlelight and obscure reasoning. Tears flowed. Anger rushed. Backs were patted. Condolences were made. And eventually, everything came back together...without my brother here to fill his place. Emptiness. Grief. Alone. Then life.
Three months later and life became normal. Or at least as normal as it could possibly get without Sam running around the house in his power ranger outfit. The leaves began to fall. Flowers that thrived when Sam was alive, died. Everything was the same, but all different.
Two months after the six month mark, my neighbor vanished. He vanished but the signs of his evil were riddle throughout the abandoned residence. Bones of children, masks, video tapes, living, emaciated, crying children-all locked in a hidden door inside a cupboard that had rich bottles of jam, boxes of cookies, canned meats and vegetables, lined the door, obstructing it from view.

Disgusting, repulsive, horrific; all were words I heard in the news. Never once did I hear Sam. Yes,  there was obviously a connection, but that was it. Darkness ensued.

Ten days later. A connection was made. It failed. This time the wound was more bearable, the skin of my hope had a scar thicker than before.

Then, not two days afterward, Sam. Broken, shaking, frightened, but alive. Alive but not llively, alive but emotionally dead. He was gone. The slave trade had broken my sweet brother and made him into a living corpse. Dead in every other plane but reality. Dead.

© 2010 Camille Corbett


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Featured Review

Kind of...plain, wouldn't you say? I'm actually surprised at this. Normally, you never disappoint. Vague in description; too vague. Short sentences are only good when you allow the iceberg theory to carry the prose, but here it's lacking real spirit. The rhythm is off, I dunno. This is experimental writing and it seems you want to be overwhelming but it sort of slides off like a cardboard box flattened but cant seem to gain any momentum down a dry hill. Too many rocks, love. Too many rocks.

Posted 10 Years Ago


2 of 2 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

Kind of...plain, wouldn't you say? I'm actually surprised at this. Normally, you never disappoint. Vague in description; too vague. Short sentences are only good when you allow the iceberg theory to carry the prose, but here it's lacking real spirit. The rhythm is off, I dunno. This is experimental writing and it seems you want to be overwhelming but it sort of slides off like a cardboard box flattened but cant seem to gain any momentum down a dry hill. Too many rocks, love. Too many rocks.

Posted 10 Years Ago


2 of 2 people found this review constructive.


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Added on October 21, 2010
Last Updated on October 21, 2010

Author

Camille Corbett
Camille Corbett

Marietta, GA



About
I'm a 21 year old Fulbright ETA writing to kill the time and find my sanity. I have been gone for a while. But I have returned, so watch out for some new stories. more..

Writing