The Twelfth Child

This story contains themes of childhood abuse, emotional and psychological manipulation, gaslighting, traumatic memories, grief, death, child endangerment, and disturbing supernatural events.

The last time Bobbi Petersen saw her grandmother alive, the old woman called her by the wrong name.

It wasn't unusual.

For as long as Bobbi could remember, her grandmother had occasionally called her Loria. Sometimes it happened when she was tired. Sometimes when she was distracted. Once, when Bobbi was sixteen, it happened in the middle of an argument, and her grandmother had become so furious when corrected that she refused to speak to her for three days.

Bobbi had always assumed Loria was someone her grandmother had known.

A childhood friend, perhaps.

A sister.

Someone who had died.

She had never asked.

There were certain questions you learned not to ask in her grandmother's house.

The last visit had been on a Thursday afternoon in October. Rain tapped against the kitchen windows, and the house smelled of furniture polish, boiled cabbage, and the lavender soap her grandmother had used for as long as Bobbi could remember.

Her grandmother sat at the kitchen table wearing a pale blue cardigan. She had grown terribly thin during the previous six months. Her wrists looked almost delicate beneath the sleeves, and the skin around her eyes had taken on the translucent quality of old paper.

But her mind was still sharp.

Painfully sharp.

"You're wearing your hair differently," she'd said.

Bobbi touched the loose strands around her face.

"I cut it last week."

"I don't like it."

"I know."

"It makes your face look longer."

Bobbi had smiled.

"You said that last time."

"Then why did you do it again?"

There had been no good answer to that.

Her grandmother poured tea into two cups, although the doctor had recently warned her about the tremor in her right hand.

She spilled a little onto the saucer.

Bobbi reached for a napkin.

"Leave it."

"Grandma, it's spilling onto the table."

"I said leave it."

Bobbi withdrew her hand.

The old woman watched her for several seconds.

Then she smiled.

"There. That's better."

Bobbi remembered feeling eight years old again.

She hated that feeling.

At twenty-three, she had her own apartment, her own job, and a life that no longer revolved around anticipating the moods of an elderly woman. Yet somehow, sitting at that kitchen table, she still found herself waiting for permission to speak.

Her grandmother lifted her teacup.

"You look so much like her."

Bobbi looked up.

"Like who?"

The old woman's expression softened.

For a moment, she seemed almost happy.

"Loria."

There it was again.

Bobbi set down her cup.

"Grandma, who is Loria?"

The change was immediate.

Her grandmother's fingers tightened around the porcelain handle. The little smile disappeared, and something colder settled into her face.

"What did you say?"

"I asked who Loria was."

"I heard you."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

The old woman stared at her.

Outside, the rain grew heavier.

"Some things," her grandmother said eventually, "are better left where they belong."

"Where's that?"

"Buried."

Bobbi had laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because she'd been uncomfortable, and laughter had always been the quickest way to make her grandmother less angry.

But the old woman didn't laugh.

Instead, she reached across the table and took Bobbi's hand.

Her fingers were surprisingly strong.

"Listen to me, sweetheart."

Bobbi looked at her.

"If you ever find something that makes you question what you remember, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Remember that I loved you."

Bobbi frowned.

"Of course I know that."

"Promise me."

"Grandma—"

"Promise."

The grip tightened.

Bobbi winced.

"I promise."

Her grandmother released her.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the old woman looked toward the kitchen doorway.

Her face went pale.

"Loria?"

Bobbi turned.

There was no one there.

"Grandma?"

The old woman kept staring.

Her lips moved.

Bobbi couldn't hear what she said.

"Grandma, are you okay?"

The old woman looked back at her.

For the first time in Bobbi's life, she saw something in her grandmother's eyes that she had never expected.

Fear.

Not confusion.

Not sadness.

Fear.

"Go home," her grandmother whispered.

"What?"

"Please."

"You're scaring me."

The old woman's gaze drifted toward the doorway again.

"She's getting impatient."

Bobbi followed her eyes.

The kitchen was empty.

"Who's getting impatient?"

Her grandmother began to cry.

Quietly.

Without changing her expression.

Tears simply slipped down her cheeks and disappeared into the wrinkles around her mouth.

"Go home, Bobbi."

So Bobbi had gone.

Three days later, her grandmother was dead.

The funeral was held on a Monday.

There were fourteen people in attendance.

Bobbi counted them twice.

She wasn't sure why.

Perhaps because she had expected more.

Her grandmother had lived in Willow Creek for nearly seventy years. She had volunteered at the church, donated clothes to the women's shelter, and baked pies for families whenever someone died.

People had always spoken highly of her.

Such a generous woman.

Such a kind soul.

Always thinking of others.

Bobbi had heard those words so often that she sometimes wondered whether everyone was talking about the same person.

The grandmother they remembered had brought casseroles to grieving neighbors.

The grandmother Bobbi remembered had once locked her in a bedroom for six hours because she refused to wear a yellow dress.

Both things were true.

That was what made remembering her so difficult.

The minister spoke about devotion, sacrifice, and the importance of family.

Bobbi stood beside the casket, staring at the arrangement of white lilies.

Her grandmother had hated lilies.

She said they smelled like hospitals.

Bobbi had mentioned this to the funeral director, but the flowers had arrived anyway.

She wondered whether anyone else knew.

After the service, a woman approached her near the cemetery gates.

She was elderly, with carefully curled gray hair and a brown coat that looked too heavy for the weather.

"You must be Bobbi."

"Yes."

The woman smiled.

"I'm Mrs. Hensley. I knew your grandmother when we were girls."

Bobbi shook her hand.

"It's nice to meet you."

Mrs. Hensley studied her face.

The smile faded.

"Oh, my."

Bobbi waited.

The woman raised a hand toward her mouth.

"You really do look like her."

Bobbi felt something tighten in her stomach.

"Like my grandmother?"

Mrs. Hensley blinked.

Then she smiled again.

"Of course, dear."

But she looked away too quickly.

Bobbi knew that expression.

She'd seen it on relatives when she was little. On neighbors who stopped talking when she entered a room. On her grandmother whenever someone mentioned the house on Willow Creek Road.

"Mrs. Hensley?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know someone named Loria?"

The woman's face changed.

It was subtle.

A tightening around the mouth.

A sudden stillness.

But Bobbi noticed.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"My grandmother used to call me that."

Mrs. Hensley looked toward the cemetery.

For a moment, Bobbi thought she might walk away without answering.

Instead, the woman leaned closer.

"Your grandmother was a very troubled woman, Bobbi."

Bobbi said nothing.

"People forget that."

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Hensley glanced behind her.

The other mourners were gathering near their cars.

"Grief can make people do terrible things."

Bobbi felt cold despite the afternoon sun.

"Did something happen to Loria?"

Mrs. Hensley opened her mouth.

Then stopped.

Her eyes moved past Bobbi's shoulder.

Whatever she saw made her expression collapse.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"Please."

"I'm sorry."

"Mrs. Hensley—"

But the woman was already walking away.

Bobbi turned to see what had frightened her.

A little girl stood near the far end of the cemetery.

She wore a yellow dress.

Her dark hair fell to her shoulders.

She was standing beside a headstone, watching the mourners leave.

Bobbi couldn't see her face clearly.

Something about the girl bothered her.

Not her clothing.

Not the fact that she appeared to be alone.

It was the way she stood.

Her hands were folded neatly in front of her.

Her feet were pressed together.

Her shoulders were pulled back.

Bobbi recognized the posture.

Her grandmother had taught her to stand that way.

Good girls don't slouch.

The girl turned.

For one brief moment, Bobbi thought she saw her own face.

Then a car passed along the cemetery road.

When it was gone, the child had disappeared.

The wooden box arrived that evening.

It was delivered by her grandmother's attorney, a thin, exhausted-looking man named Tony Xu.

He stood in the doorway of Bobbi's apartment holding the box beneath one arm.

"Your grandmother left specific instructions," he said.

Bobbi stepped aside.

"Would you like to come in?"

"No, thank you."

He handed her the box.

It was small, made of dark wood, with a brass clasp and scratches along the edges.

"She wanted you to receive this after the funeral."

"What's inside?"

"I don't know."

Bobbi looked at him.

"You're her attorney."

"Yes."

"And she didn't tell you?"

"No."

He hesitated.

"She was quite insistent that I not open it."

Something in his voice made Bobbi look up.

"Did she say why?"

Xu adjusted his glasses.

"She said it belonged to you."

Bobbi frowned.

"I've never seen it before."

He gave a tired smile.

"That's what I told her."

"And?"

The attorney looked uncomfortable.

"She said you'd forgotten."

Bobbi stared at him.

He cleared his throat.

"There's one more thing."

"What?"

"She asked me to tell you that she was sorry."

Bobbi looked down at the box.

"For what?"

"She didn't say."

Xu started toward the elevator.

Then stopped.

"Miss Petersen?"

"Yes?"

He seemed to reconsider whatever he had been about to say.

Finally, he asked, "Did your grandmother ever tell you about the fire?"

Bobbi felt her stomach tighten.

"The fire on Willow Creek Road?"

He nodded.

"Only that it was an accident."

Xu studied her for a moment.

"Right."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Mr. Xu."

He pressed the elevator button.

"Your grandmother was very concerned about that house during her final weeks."

"Why?"

"I couldn't tell you."

The elevator doors opened.

Xu stepped inside.

Before the doors closed, he said something Bobbi would remember for the rest of her life.

"Whatever you find in that box, don't assume she told you the truth about it."

Bobbi waited until eleven that night before opening the box.

She told herself she had been busy.

There were sympathy cards to read, phone calls to return, and a sink full of dishes she'd been ignoring since Saturday.

But the truth was simpler.

She didn't want to know what was inside.

The box sat on her coffee table while she moved around the apartment, pretending not to look at it.

At ten thirty, she poured a glass of wine.

At ten forty-five, she turned off the television.

At eleven, she sat down.

The brass clasp opened with a faint click.

Inside were three objects.

A silver key.

An old photograph.

And a folded sheet of paper.

Bobbi picked up the photograph first.

It showed a large Victorian house surrounded by trees.

The photograph was faded, but she could make out the steep roof, the narrow windows, and the wraparound porch.

A crooked iron gate stood at the beginning of a dirt path.

She recognized the house immediately.

Everyone in Willow Creek knew it.

The Petersen house.

Eleven people had died there twenty-seven years earlier.

Ten children and one adult, according to the newspaper accounts.

The fire had started shortly after midnight. Investigators blamed faulty wiring. The building had been abandoned ever since.

Her grandmother had always forbidden Bobbi from going near it.

When Bobbi was nine, she'd ridden her bicycle down Willow Creek Road with two friends.

They hadn't even reached the gate before her grandmother appeared in her car.

Bobbi remembered the tires skidding against the gravel.

The driver's door opening.

Her grandmother walking toward her with an expression so terrible that Bobbi dropped her bicycle.

She hadn't screamed.

That was what Bobbi remembered most clearly.

Her grandmother had spoken very quietly.

If you ever come back here, I will know.

Bobbi had believed her.

She still wasn't entirely sure she didn't.

She turned the photograph over.

Written on the back in faded blue ink were four words.

Before we lost everything.

Bobbi stared at the handwriting.

It was her grandmother's.

She placed the photograph on the table and unfolded the note.

The paper was yellowed and brittle.

The message was short.

Bobbi,

I should have told you years ago.

There are things I did that cannot be forgiven, and things I allowed to happen because I was too frightened to stop them.

The truth is in the room beneath the stairs.

You must go there before someone else does.

And whatever you hear, whatever you remember, please understand that I was trying to bring her home.

I'm sorry.

Grandma.

Bobbi read it three times.

Then she read it again.

The words seemed to rearrange themselves each time.

Things I did.

Things I allowed to happen.

Trying to bring her home.

She looked at the silver key.

It was old, with an elaborate handle and a dark stain near the teeth.

She rubbed the stain with her thumb.

It didn't come off.

Bobbi set it down.

She wasn't going to the house.

That much was certain.

Whatever secrets her grandmother had kept were hers to carry into the grave.

Bobbi had spent most of her life trying to escape the weight of that woman's expectations.

She wasn't about to let a dead woman start controlling her again.

She folded the note.

Closed the box.

And went to bed.

At 2:17 a.m., Bobbi woke to the sound of someone calling her name.

Not loudly.

Not urgently.

A woman's voice.

Soft and familiar.

"Loria."

Bobbi opened her eyes.

Her bedroom was dark.

For several seconds, she lay still, listening.

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

She checked her phone.

2:17.

She sat up.

"Hello?"

No answer.

Bobbi waited.

Then she laughed quietly at herself.

A dream.

Of course it had been a dream.

She'd buried her grandmother that afternoon. She'd spent the evening looking through things the old woman had left behind.

It was perfectly reasonable that she might dream about her.

She lay back down.

Closed her eyes.

And heard the voice again.

"Loria."

This time it came from the hallway.

Bobbi's eyes opened.

Her bedroom door was ajar.

She always slept with it closed.

She was certain of that.

A thin strip of darkness separated the door from its frame.

Bobbi stared at it.

"Who's there?"

Silence.

Then a sound.

A soft scrape.

Like a bare foot moving across the floor.

Bobbi reached for her phone.

The screen illuminated her hands.

She opened the flashlight.

The beam struck the bedroom door.

Nothing.

She got out of bed.

The floor was cold beneath her feet.

She crossed the room and pushed the door open.

The hallway was empty.

The front door was locked.

The windows were closed.

Everything was exactly as it should have been.

Except for the smell.

Lavender.

Her grandmother's soap.

Bobbi stood in the hallway, breathing slowly.

It was faint.

Almost imaginary.

She checked the bathroom.

The kitchen.

The living room.

Nothing.

Then she noticed the wooden box.

It was open.

Bobbi stopped.

She had closed it.

She remembered closing it.

She remembered hearing the brass clasp click.

Now the lid stood upright.

The photograph lay on the coffee table.

But it wasn't where she'd left it.

It had been turned over.

The faded handwriting faced upward.

Before we lost everything.

Bobbi stared.

Then she noticed something else.

There was writing beneath the original inscription.

Smaller letters.

So faint she hadn't noticed them earlier.

She leaned closer.

Five words.

She was always the prettiest.

Bobbi felt an unpleasant tightening in her chest.

She knew those words.

Her grandmother had said them when Bobbi was little.

Usually while brushing her hair.

Sometimes while dressing her.

Once, when Bobbi had been crying because she wanted to wear jeans instead of the yellow dress laid out on her bed.

She was always the prettiest.

Bobbi could remember the brush pulling through her hair.

The smell of lavender.

Her grandmother's fingers pressing against her scalp.

And then something else.

A memory she hadn't thought about in years.

She was sitting on the edge of a narrow bed.

Her feet didn't touch the floor.

She was wearing a yellow dress.

Her grandmother stood in front of her holding a photograph.

"Look carefully, sweetheart."

Bobbi looked.

A little girl smiled from the picture.

Dark hair.

Brown eyes.

A yellow dress.

"Who is that?" her grandmother asked.

Bobbi hesitated.

She knew the answer she was supposed to give.

But she didn't want to.

"That's not me."

Her grandmother's smile disappeared.

"Look again."

Bobbi shook her head.

"That's not me, Grandma."

A hand struck her cheek.

Not hard enough to knock her over.

Hard enough to make her understand.

Her grandmother crouched in front of her.

"Don't you ever say that again."

Bobbi began to cry.

The old woman wiped away her tears with a handkerchief.

"There," she whispered. "That's better."

Then she held up the photograph again.

"Now. Who is this?"

Bobbi looked at the little girl.

And answered.

"Me."

Bobbi stumbled backward from the coffee table.

Her breathing had become shallow.

She pressed a hand against her cheek.

It didn't hurt.

Of course it didn't.

That had happened years ago.

If it had happened at all.

She couldn't remember being slapped.

Not really.

She remembered her grandmother being strict.

She remembered punishments.

She remembered yellow dresses and photographs and being told to sit still.

But a slap?

Surely she would remember something like that.

Continues at https://editor.reedsy.com/s/uFim9PE