Free The Backwoods by Edward Lee

and had sat a while looking up at the house she grew up in. The great wooden edifice went back to pre-Civil War days, and had been refurbished incrementally over the decades. It looked the part: a Virginia plantation house with a high, sloping roof and awnings, and a screened porch that defined the entire circumference of the lower level. A grand house. There were plenty of ghost stories dating back to the days of slavery, when previous owners often executed unruly workers and buried them around the foundation to fertilize the hedges and flower beds. It made for excited talk, but in the eighteen years Patricia had lived here, she’d never seen a ghost.
    She did now, though.
    The door knocker. It was an eyesore and it was just plain peculiar: an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. In those last two years here before college, the knocker’s expression had reflected her own.
    In truth, however, she had to admit that Judy had kept the place up beautifully, and were it not for the bad memories, Patricia would see the house as a gorgeous abode.
    It was just getting dark. I forgot, she thought. Another cicada season. They had so many varieties down here; there were more seasons with them than without. The unique sound in the dark, surrounding her on the porch. She’d looked forward to that sound as a child, but now the throbbing drone served only as another jolting memory.
    The summer she’d been raped had been a cicada season, too.
    Soft lights lit the front bay windows, but there was only Judy’s car in the court. She shouldn’t be alone. . . . It was too soon. Patricia’s younger sister was a Rock of Gibraltar when in her element, but she was also terribly codependent. With Dwayne gone—abusive as he’d been—Judy would be unstable, flighty, and off-track. She knows I’m coming today , Patricia thought. Knowing her sister as she did, it was surprising that Judy wasn’t pacing the foyer with the front door open.
    Can’t stand on the porch all night . . . Patricia winced, raising her hand to the unsightly knocker, but then saw that the door stood open a crack. The house is half-mine, she reminded herself, and stepped in.
    The pendulum clock ticked to her left, and to her right stood a long walnut table containing knickknacks and candles, centered by an old framed photo of their parents as newlyweds. For a moment she imagined her father frowning in the frame, as though he disapproved of her arrival. “Judy?” she called out. Only silence returned her call. The interior seemed smaller than she remembered, cramped. Pictures on the walls seemed to hang lower, and had the wallpaper been changed? Everything looks different, but I know Judy would never change a thing .
    She turned into the sitting room and stopped cold. A breath caught in her chest and wouldn’t come out.
    Judy lay slumped on the old scroll-footed sofa.
    “Judy? It’s me.”
    Her head tilted aside, her mouth agape. She looked pallid and years older. Patricia’s heart tightened up when she noticed an open bottle of pills on the old tea table next to the couch. She rushed forward, then sighed in relief. just a bottle of vitamins . . .
    But there was an irreducible instant when she’d believed that her sister was dead. She certainly looked it, lying there as if dropped amongst the tasseled pillows.
    Judy stirred in her sleep, mouthing something unintelligible, but then real words formed:
    “His head,” she whispered. “My God, his head . . .”
    Patricia leaned over and gave several firm nudges. “Judy, wake up, wake up. I’m here.”
    It was like looking at a countrified clone of herself; Patricia and Judy had near-identical faces, possessed similar figures and the same plenteous bosom. But Judy’s hair lacked the bright red fire of Patricia’s, and instead of being short and straight, it lay long and thick, with high bangs that their mother always called “kitchen-curtain