Blair Bathory

Sometimes the past crashes every celebration and it's not a welcome guest. Like in this story inspired by Anonymous. We were nine the summer my aunt married a stranger. That's what my friend Zia called him, a stranger. Because he was tall, smelled like bleach, and laughed too hard at his own jokes. It was my aunt's second marriage, and she wanted it to be perfect. The venue?

Sometimes the past crashes every celebration and it's not a welcome guest. Like in this story inspired by Anonymous. We were nine the summer my aunt married a stranger. That's what my friend Zia called him, a stranger. Because he was tall, smelled like bleach, and laughed too hard at his own jokes. It was my aunt's second marriage, and she wanted it to be perfect. The venue?

Our family's old pool house, long abandoned since Zia's dad died. Zia and I were practically sisters. Her parents and mine had been inseparable. And when her father drowned in the pool five years earlier, our families cracked but didn't shatter. We promised to stay close. She said it over and over. The moon couldn't separate us, Hallie. I never understood it, but she whispered it like a vow.

Our family's old pool house, long abandoned since Zia's dad died. Zia and I were practically sisters. Her parents and mine had been inseparable. And when her father drowned in the pool five years earlier, our families cracked but didn't shatter. We promised to stay close. She said it over and over. The moon couldn't separate us, Hallie. I never understood it, but she whispered it like a vow.

Our family's old pool house, long abandoned since Zia's dad died. Zia and I were practically sisters. Her parents and mine had been inseparable. And when her father drowned in the pool five years earlier, our families cracked but didn't shatter. We promised to stay close. She said it over and over. The moon couldn't separate us, Hallie. I never understood it, but she whispered it like a vow.

One that felt older than us, passed down through something darker than memory. He barely spoke, always looking half there, with shadows under his eyes that never seemed to fade. That night, he agreed without looking up from his phone. Their mother found the old key to the pool house and handed it over with shaky hands. "'Be careful,' she muttered. "'It's not a place for celebration anymore.'

One that felt older than us, passed down through something darker than memory. He barely spoke, always looking half there, with shadows under his eyes that never seemed to fade. That night, he agreed without looking up from his phone. Their mother found the old key to the pool house and handed it over with shaky hands. "'Be careful,' she muttered. "'It's not a place for celebration anymore.'

One that felt older than us, passed down through something darker than memory. He barely spoke, always looking half there, with shadows under his eyes that never seemed to fade. That night, he agreed without looking up from his phone. Their mother found the old key to the pool house and handed it over with shaky hands. "'Be careful,' she muttered. "'It's not a place for celebration anymore.'

Her voice caught on the word celebration like it burned to say it." We set up around 10 p.m., hanging string lights that flickered unevenly and blowing up floaties that squeaked like something protesting. The air was thick, muggy, and smelled like wet stone and chemicals. By 11, the place buzzed with laughter and music, but something about the pool was weird. Too still, too black.

Her voice caught on the word celebration like it burned to say it." We set up around 10 p.m., hanging string lights that flickered unevenly and blowing up floaties that squeaked like something protesting. The air was thick, muggy, and smelled like wet stone and chemicals. By 11, the place buzzed with laughter and music, but something about the pool was weird. Too still, too black.

Her voice caught on the word celebration like it burned to say it." We set up around 10 p.m., hanging string lights that flickered unevenly and blowing up floaties that squeaked like something protesting. The air was thick, muggy, and smelled like wet stone and chemicals. By 11, the place buzzed with laughter and music, but something about the pool was weird. Too still, too black.

It looked bottomless. Guests came and went, and by 2 a.m., everyone was gone but us. I told Zia I was tired. Her eyes glistened under the moonlight. The moon can't separate us, she said again. Her voice had an edge that gave me goosebumps. I smiled anyway, thinking it was sweet, trying not to show how unsettled I felt. At 4.03 a.m., I awoke with a start. The house was too quiet.

It looked bottomless. Guests came and went, and by 2 a.m., everyone was gone but us. I told Zia I was tired. Her eyes glistened under the moonlight. The moon can't separate us, she said again. Her voice had an edge that gave me goosebumps. I smiled anyway, thinking it was sweet, trying not to show how unsettled I felt. At 4.03 a.m., I awoke with a start. The house was too quiet.

It looked bottomless. Guests came and went, and by 2 a.m., everyone was gone but us. I told Zia I was tired. Her eyes glistened under the moonlight. The moon can't separate us, she said again. Her voice had an edge that gave me goosebumps. I smiled anyway, thinking it was sweet, trying not to show how unsettled I felt. At 4.03 a.m., I awoke with a start. The house was too quiet.

The fan in the corner had stopped spinning. Zia wasn't in her sleeping bag. I crept outside. The pool shimmered, still, and black. At first, I thought she was floating, just floating. But then I saw the blood. It ran in the red threads from her body into the water, a slow dissolve, like ink. Her body lay half-submerged, chest split open, ribs cracked like broken wings.

The fan in the corner had stopped spinning. Zia wasn't in her sleeping bag. I crept outside. The pool shimmered, still, and black. At first, I thought she was floating, just floating. But then I saw the blood. It ran in the red threads from her body into the water, a slow dissolve, like ink. Her body lay half-submerged, chest split open, ribs cracked like broken wings.

The fan in the corner had stopped spinning. Zia wasn't in her sleeping bag. I crept outside. The pool shimmered, still, and black. At first, I thought she was floating, just floating. But then I saw the blood. It ran in the red threads from her body into the water, a slow dissolve, like ink. Her body lay half-submerged, chest split open, ribs cracked like broken wings.

Her mouth hung open like she had died mid-screen. On the wall behind her, written in blood, were the words, ''You broke the promise, Hayley.'' They said it was a break-in, a tragedy, a sick coincidence. But they never found who did it, and I knew. I knew I had left her alone. I broke the promise.'' Fourteen years later, I returned for another wedding. Aunt Mariko, again. Husband number three.

Her mouth hung open like she had died mid-screen. On the wall behind her, written in blood, were the words, ''You broke the promise, Hayley.'' They said it was a break-in, a tragedy, a sick coincidence. But they never found who did it, and I knew. I knew I had left her alone. I broke the promise.'' Fourteen years later, I returned for another wedding. Aunt Mariko, again. Husband number three.

Her mouth hung open like she had died mid-screen. On the wall behind her, written in blood, were the words, ''You broke the promise, Hayley.'' They said it was a break-in, a tragedy, a sick coincidence. But they never found who did it, and I knew. I knew I had left her alone. I broke the promise.'' Fourteen years later, I returned for another wedding. Aunt Mariko, again. Husband number three.