Whispers of the Past

When I was nine, my grandma moved in. My baby sister had just been born.

Suddenly, all the attention was on her. <break time="1.0s" /> My parents had the baby.

Grandma had me. Or at least… that’s how I remember it. She’d smile at me. Lean close to my

ear. And whisper. <break time="1.0s" /> “Give her a squeeze,” she’d say. Her voice… wrong.

Too low. Too excited. Her fingers twisted like claws. Her eyes never left

my baby sister’s face. Then she pressed a sharp brooch into my hand.

“For Emma,” she rasped. “Prick her. Right in the eye.” <break time="1.0s" /> At night,

I’d wake to creaking floorboards. Someone sneaking down the hall. I’d see my grandma.