Everything changed the night Sarah disappeared. She was– is my big sister.

We were only kids when it happened. 9 and 12. That night, Sarah crept into my bedroom, woke me up, and explained how we were going to prank my dad, as revenge for the caramel covered onions, he tricked us with earlier.

Sarah decided, since dad always woke first to have his morning coffee before work, we would switch the sugar out with salt. Mom promised to film his reaction. All she needed was for me to act as a lookout.

We crept through the hall, pass our parents’ bedroom, and down the stairs. As a kid, this felt like a real life, secret mission. Sarah was always taking me on adventures or crazy stunts. It’s part of why I loved her so much.

I don’t know how it happened. Maybe Sarah wasn’t paying attention or was too busy talking to me. She couldn’t have seen what I saw and kept walking. I froze when I saw what was on the other side of the kitchen door. It was pitch black. Between the nightlight by the backdoor, and the old streetlight, the kitchen was never dark.

But it wasn’t just that it was dark. It was like it was wrong. It looked and felt wrong.

Sarah walked into it. She vanished. Then she screamed in a way I never imagined possible and now can never forget no matter how hard I try.

My big sister was in trouble. I ran towards it despite feeling sick and repulsed. I reached in. It was warm, uncomfortably humid, and reeked of the sea. I thought I could hear water. I felt Sarah’s hand and tried to pull. It was slippery, she was bigger, and I wasn’t strong enough.

Then I yelled the last thing I ever said to Sarah. I told her to hang on and let me turn on the light. She begged me not to. Said she was slipping. But I still did it. I still ran for the light. And just like that the kitchen door was back to normal. My parents came running down when I began repeatedly calling Sarah’s name.

The officers taking my statement stared at me with sympathy and confusion. Madeline– mom– snapped at some point. They had to pull her off as she shook me, hysterically begging me to tell the truth, begging me to help everyone find my sister. Our relationship died that night. A slow painful death. Mom went to her grave quietly resenting me because she believed I failed to help.

I went to therapy for a long time. No one believed me. It was called a trauma response. Outside of dad, I don’t talk to many other people, and I keep a low profile at work. Some nights, when he drinks himself asleep, I sit alone downstairs, carefully flicking the light switch on & off, watching that doorway closely, hoping the dark fills it just right again.