Horror Club: Shut In

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I come from a family of three children. My father, a manager at an early software development studio, was our primary caretaker after my mother died when I was eight. My older sister, seven years older than me, ended up raising me while my father worked the late nights necessary to meet his deadlines.

My older brother, a year younger than my sister, I barely saw after my mother died. He locked himself in his room and never came out. Looking back I don't know exactly why my father allowed him to live like that. Perhaps the pressure of being a single father of three made the problem easier to just ignore.

At the beginning of the day, before going to work, my father would leave a care package by his door with food and fresh clothing. From time to time I'd see my brother's hand poke out from a crack in the doorway to grab the brown bag that held his rations for the day, quick and careful not to be seen. When I was young I just accepted it as the new normal.

Sometimes, when I was particularly bored, I'd sit outside his room and listen to him play his video games. It was all old nintendo games; he never got anything new to play with, so that seemed to be how he spent most of his time. I'd never heard of him complaining though, so I guess he was satisfied. These days it's hard to imagine not being able to download a new game on the fly when I get tired of an old one.

My sister left home as soon as she graduated high school. I don't blame her, it was never a cheery house to live in. When she left I became my brother's keeper. It wasn't difficult; my father made all the meals, I just had to package them up for the next day. Once a week I'd do his laundry with mine and set it out for the week. I was ten when my sister left, so once again that became my new normal.

As a teenager I began to question the situation a bit more. I also just got tired of taking care of him, being a teenager that generally hated any sense of routine that I didn't set myself. Still, despite a couple of arguments with my father on the matter, I kept up with my brother's upkeep. I figured by that point there wasn't much helping my brother if he wouldn't come out himself.

I started working after high school and helped out with the bills. After a decade the company my father worked for finally went under, so he needed the help while he looked for work; a task that seemed to take forever. Shortly after I turned 19 my father hung himself. I immediately fell into depression.

I stopped showing up for work even after my bereavement days were spent, barely ate and stopped taking care of my brother. I guess to his credit he managed a full week before I heard the pounding from his door.

I had enough. I stormed over to the room and tried to get in only to find the door locked. The pounding stopped as soon as I tried jiggling the door handle, so I pounded back.

"Jake, we need to talk." My voice was just short of shouting. The fact that after all this my brother stubbornly refused to leave his room left me angry.

No response. I futilely tried to use the door handle again, but it would not budge. I tried kicking the door in only to find that's a lot harder to do than it looks like in movies.

I went to the garage to find something with some weight behind it. A sledge hammer would have been perfect, but my father worked in management not construction. I eventually found his toolkit and grabbed the regular hammer he had for work around the house.

It took a couple of swings, I was never very coordinated, but I finally hit the doorknob hard enough for it to crash to the floor. One more kick and the door swung open with a crash.

Immediately I found my brother running at my, knife in hand and ready to attack. I barely dodged the knife before swinging my fist into his jawbone. There was a moment of shock as I tried to process what just happened. My brother was now lying on the floor silent. Breathing, but silent. I had apparently lucked out and managed to knock him unconscious with that first hit.

I hadn't seen my brother in 11 years. His skin was leathery, his hair already peppered grey and black. Though only twenty-five, he had aged to the point where he looked like he was in his late forties. There was a deep scar over his right eye that I couldn't fathom how he had gotten locked up in his room.

It was when I noticed the bones in the corner of the room, picked clean, that I realized that this was not my brother.