It was an unusually cold summer night, when he came for my newborn sister. The ocean waves were furious despite the calm sky, reaching so high I was afraid they would reach over the cliffs and somehow drag our house into the depths, never to be seen again. I sat up in bed, shakily reaching into my bedside drawer for some matches. Ever since I was a little girl, I was absolutely terrified of the dark. No matter how much my mother would soothe me with lullabies and comfort and promises that all was safe, I refused to sleep until at least one candle was lit.  

And for some reason, despite no longer being that scared little girl and the fact that the sky was the brightest it could ever be at night, I longed for the light of the candle more than ever. My hands were shaking with such ferocity; the first match I lit almost fell to the floor. I willed my hand to remain still and set the wick of the candle alight. But I felt no comfort. I felt no warmth. Desperate for any sensation or feeling of comfort, I even set my palm to the flame, letting it burn. But there was no pain. That was gone too. That was when the thought finally struck me. Something else was absent too. Something important. The sounds of my newborn sister's cries.  

The realization hit me like a wave of freezing water. The candle dropped from my hands and hit the carpet with a silent thud. But I paid it no mind. That stupid annoying baby had been screaming and crying nonstop for hours now. When mother held her, she would coo and smile and attempt to grab at her dress. When father rocked her back and forth, she would close her eyes and instantly fall asleep. But yet when I, her own big sister tried the same thing she squirmed and struggled like the mere act of me touching her caused her pain. I knew nothing of babies and everything I learned about them had been against my will. But even I knew it wasn't normal for them to suddenly go completely silent. Something was very wrong.  

I wish I could say that it was the genuine worry for my precious baby sister that made me ignore my lifelong crippling fear of darkness and run full speed to her room. Or maybe that the thought of something terrible happening to her made me realize that somewhere deep deep inside I had truly loved her all along. It was the thought of the disapproving, accusing eyes of my mother that made my heartbeat faster and faster. I could almost hear the inflection of her voice as she would look at me in despair and wail: “What did you do, Emmeline?” As I merely imagined hearing those words again my feet picked up their speed. A shiver ran down my spine. 

I could not bear to hear those words again. I would rather spend an eternity in cursed darkness walking barefoot on paths of shattered glass. I was shaking more violently than before. This time father would not defend me. He would not cradle my hair and say: “Shes just a little girl, darling.” I reach her room and slow myself down by gripping on the doorframe. And as I steady my breathing and resolve and look up, all thoughts of the past vanish. For there he stands, holding her in his arms.  

The first thing that hits me about him is the smell. That awful terrible horrible rotten smell. It permeates my nose, and I gag so harshly I nearly fall over. I hate this overwhelming stench of death. The man turns to face me his pure white eyes, leering at me. He lowers my baby sister back into the crib gently, despite the fact that she must already be dead. “It is not yet your turn.” As he opens his mouth to speak those words, his jaw bones crack and flecks of rotten old flesh and skin fall to the floor. His voice so deep, it feels like the whole room is rumbling like its being enveloped by an earthquake.  If I was a brave pure hearted girl, I would have begged for him to bring my sister back. But all I can think about is how furious mother will be with me. So, I kneel and beg for myself instead. 

I crawl towards him like an abused dog seeking for a treat from its master. I grasp onto the fabric of his ragged cloak and cling to it, ignoring the buzzing of the flies around him and the maggots crawling on his rotting grey feet. I'm shaking, whether it's from fear or the freezing cold I cannot tell. Tears fall and I completely lose my composure. Manners and etiquette completely forgotten, I wail and blubber, snot and tears falling onto the floor.  

He does not react in the slightest. My desperation and tears seem to mean nothing to him. But he doesn't shame me either. Nor does he scold me. He simply tugs his cloak free from my grasp and picks up my baby sister again. He cradles her to his chest and holds her close. He whispers things into her ear and then lays her back down. “Bury her deep into earth and she will lie safe in the dirt's embrace.” He instructs me, reaching down to grasp my chin so he can force me to look into his eyes. His hand is almost skeletal and stiff, but his touch is firm. I try to read his expression, but his lips are almost nonexistent, and every other facial feature is gone due to rot or bugs. His voice is wheezing and his jaw loose and its clear every word and movement is a struggle.  

“Your time will come. You too will reach eternal safety in the dirt. So do not weep. Do not despair. Your mother will not harm you there.” With those parting words, he disappears and so does the cold. But I still feel the sensation of his fingers grasping my chin and the gaze of his dead eyes. I stand up, no longer shaking and look at the fresh corpse of my sister. She looks peaceful and clean, almost like a porcelain doll. It might just be my imagination, but it looks like she's smiling. I take her and gently rock her back and forth. The sun is starting to rise, and the waves have calmed down. Time to go and lay her to rest one last time.