Countdown to Halloween: Creepypasta Edition

Day Nineteen: My Sister Is An Urban Legend

My sister is an urban legend.

I never liked those, growing up. Probably because of her. You ever notice how when someone tells an urban legend, it always starts out something like: "My brother's cousin had this girlfriend once who..."

Yeah. Sure he did.

I think that's why people find urban legends fun, though. Nothing bad ever happens to someone you know personally, of course. But it's still someone connected to you – a friend of a friend of a friend. That makes it real enough to be fun, but not so real as to be horrifying or tragic.

The thing is, though, urban legends have to start somewhere. And your dumb stories might not be so fun for the people who suffered the truth.

Most people don't even remember that I had an older sister, much less who my sister was.

Her name was Michelle, but everyone called her Missy. She liked baking a lot – we used to make cupcakes together. That's the strongest memory I have of her, and I hold on to it when times are tough. When people are talking – running their mouths without thinking twice. She always let me choose what color sprinkles to use. Isn't that nice?

She was really kind to me, for an older sister. Missy was a full twelve years older than me. I was only six when she died.

Missy had this best friend, see. Ava. Ava was nice, too, and when she came over she and Missy would let me play with them, at least for a bit. They never treated me like a nuisance. My memories of Ava are scarce – in my mind, I see flashes of black hair and I can hear her laugh. She had a very distinct laugh, the kind that makes you happy just to hear.

Anyway. Ava got sick when she was in high school. Leukaemia. She was sick for a while and then she died. I saw her once or twice in the hospital when she was still feeling okay. I wasn't allowed to see her at the very end, though.

But Missy went to see her every day.

The day Ava died, Missy promised to keep seeing her every day, no matter what. And she kept her promise.

After Ava's death, Missy used to drive to the cemetery every day after school. It was her senior year of high school and she should have been out partying with friends, getting into all sorts of dumb trouble. But she wasn't. Instead, she spent every afternoon just sitting at Ava's grave. My parents encouraged it at first, but eventually they grew worried.

"This isn't healthy," my mother told my father one night. They were whispering, but not quietly enough. I suppose they hadn't realized that I was hiding at the top of the stairs hanging onto every word.

"It's not good for her. She's torturing herself over this. I think we should talk to her." My father was a man of few words, so each word he used was important. I knew that there would be no more daily cemetery visits once they'd talked to Missy and that made me relieved. I, too, was worried about my precious big sister.

Unfortunately, they never had the chance.

That night, Missy was late coming home from the cemetery. My parents were worried enough when the knock came at the door. Missy never knocked. When we saw the police officer standing there, asking for Michelle Turner's parents, we all knew what had happened.

The details came later.

It was dark and slippery out. I remember that it was winter, then, and ice was beginning to form on the roads – that was probably why my parents were so worried. Anyway. They think a deer ran in front of our old Ford and that's why Missy swerved. She lost control and rolled the car into a ditch just outside the cemetery.

They assured us that it was instant and she didn't feel any pain.

My parents buried Missy next to Ava. I begged them not to – at the time, I couldn't explain why exactly that felt wrong. Now I know. It's because she should be buried with us, when the time comes. But my parents felt this was what Missy would want. Ava's family agreed, so that's where my sister is buried. Next to her best friend in Sandwood Cemetery.