My father told me that there must not be fear in our village. Whether we are born as girls or boys or whomever we may choose to be and become, we must overcome our fears. I had yet to turn fifteen, but it matters not to my father, nothing ever did except for his face, his pride. Our village has no room for cowards. And no room for cowards, especially within Father’s family. Even the word itself would elicit the most rage-filled response. We wiped it from our vocabulary, at least the spoken.
He made the same speech during dinners now and then, his gaze boring into me, his booming voice reverberating through our hut, thudding against the drums of my ears. My eyes always flitted away—the intensity unbearable. His voice echoing within me rattled the skeleton beneath my skin.
My father’s eyes reflected the dancing flames in the fire pit behind me, both in heat and ferocity. I imagined the flames threatening to jump out and singe my hair and skin, shredding through tissue, eating at muscle, gnawing at bone, scorching. It was only, of course, my imagination. I feared too many things—my father could always tell. Yet he only offers unbearable silence rather than gentle guidance, as though to even deal with me was an insufferable thing.
But what did my father fear? I supposed he feared nothing, or at least, not anymore. He wouldn’t tell me even if I asked him. He always had his fists balled, as if clutching onto something he did not want others to see. And I couldn’t help but imagine that within his fingers, he held fears far greater than any of our own, smothered using shear will alone.
The longer he stared at me during dinner, the faster the heat crawled up my back, hot fingers caressing through fabric. I imagined the flames licking the tail of my shirt, eating through the material. I shifted in my seat, legs sticking to the wooden chair, sweat no doubt dripping onto the ground. When he looked down at his food, concentrating on the sliced chicken limb on the plate, immobilized by the stab of his fork, I felt the flames receding. Rather than burning ashes, I smelled garlic roasted chicken instead—a smell of comfort.
By the end of dinner, my back was slick with cold sweat, drying, and I struggled to peel my shirt from the damp skin before showering, with the water pressure turned low. Never baths for fear of drowning.
When I was younger, my father had watched me flounder within the center of a nearby lake, coughing liquid that was quickly filling my lungs. I’d only turned ten, having only celebrated a solemn birthday the week prior. It didn’t take long before my mother could bear it no longer, diving in fully clothed, weaving effortlessly as though she were a part of the water herself, while Father stood stiff, watching. She was someone who I thought was fearless. When my vision recovered, no longer dotted with black and white, she glowed like a saint as she whisked me from the water.
Visiting The Sisters was a rite of passage of sorts, and we couldn’t escape it if we wanted to remain in the village. Everyone brought their fears back with them to prove that they’d conquered them. There was a boy who brought back a tiger, slaughtered, on his shoulder, the teeth a necklace around his neck, still bloody. The daughter of one of my mother’s friends brought back a serpent wrapped around her body, its tongue absent from its mouth, hanging ajar. My brother never returned from his visit. Most believed he had conquered his fear of death by allowing death to take his life. Yet, my mother often hinted my brother was still alive somewhere.
“Geyuan, tomorrow you’ll visit The Sisters,” Father said.
The flames brushed the back of my neck. I felt my head bob up and down on its own accord. I wasn’t ready. But there was no such thing as readiness when facing one’s fears. The villagers said that The Sisters appeared differently to everyone who visited them, and you would not recognize your own fears until you met them for yourself, in person.
That night, as I lay awake in bed, I conjured a list of fears in my mind: drowning, death, disease, darkness, poison, pain. When the list grew too long, I purged the thoughts from my mind and squeezed my eyelids together hard, willing sleep to come. I wasn’t sure when I had fallen asleep, but when I woke, it was already afternoon.
At night, I would visit The Sisters.
The forest near our village always looked welcoming during the daytime, with beautiful rays of sunlight peeking through the foliage. At night, however, the trees seemed to cave into themselves, bending in grotesque angles, making it seem as if the forest was a large, dense mass of splintered darkness.
My father led me to the edge of the forest, then handed me a lantern and some matches. He told me to walk into the forest without hesitation and The Sisters would appear. But if I hesitated, I would become lost forever.
Is that what happened to my brother? Did he become lost?
I pushed the thought out of my mind. Instead, I heeded my father’s warning. I lit the torch and entered the forest.
My steps were slow but sure. I tried to drive what little confidence I had into the soles and balls of my feet. Regardless, this didn’t prepare me for the sight of The Sisters.
The Sisters looked like triplets, with pale skin and stitches sewn through their lips, bound and sealed from top to bottom. They carried sacks made of human skin on gnarled branches. The rope—made of strands of their own dark hair—crisscrossed the top of the sacks. Supposedly, the contents of the sacks were different for everyone.
One by one, they walked in a line toward me. Their heads seemed to float above their necks, their sunken eyes spinning under thin, veined eyelids. I feared they might open at any moment.
The Sister in the middle extended a hand toward me. My eyes wandered to her sharp, yellow nails, noticing her hands were made of quilted skin. Icy sweat rolled down my back and collected at the waistband of my pants, and my shirt clung to my skin and cooled far too fast, even with no breeze, only dense, constricting air. The fine hairs on my arms rose, almost in greeting.
When my hand met hers, it surprised me when I couldn’t feel the quilted cracks of her scarred skin. Her hand felt seamless, soft—almost fragile. Then her grip tightened, drowning out the remaining warmth of my body. She let go of my hand and moved deeper into the forest.
The others followed.
I could no longer hold up my quivering body, and I swayed, then fell. Crumpled dried leaves pooled around me.
“Come,” a voice whispered through the trees. It sounded like the scratching of fingernails on wood with the texture of fresh ashes.
I felt the blood freeze in my veins. I couldn’t move. But then I remembered my father’s words: do not hesitate.
I followed.
We halted in a clearing. The Sisters unraveled themselves and formed a semi-circle around me. My breath stalled at midnight, the moon mocking my inability to both inhale and exhale. My knees locked as I tried to stand taller. The Sisters were the same height as me, but they loomed over me, regardless.
One by one, they removed their sacks and held them out. The threads that sealed each sack shut slowly unraveled, as if pulled by invisible fingers. A musty scent drifted from each bag, and I resisted the urge to pinch my nose shut.
“Your fear . . . ” the first Sister said. Her voice croaked like a frog. Her eyes shifted up and down with inhuman speed.
Drowning? Death? Disease? Darkness? Poison? Pain?
The third Sister read my mind and said, “No, no . . . Not those . . . ”
Their hands moved closer, and with them came the bags.
“Your fear . . . ” said the second Sister.
My right hand hovered above each bag before I plunged into the second one and pulled out what was inside. I wanted to scream, but I knew I mustn’t.
The Sisters then disappeared, one by one, in the order they arrived. They left me cowering on the ground, clutching my fear to my chest.
It was morning when I awoke. The sun rose above the treetops and felt warm on my back—reminding me of the heat from the fireplace back home during our dinners. A familiar feeling.
My footsteps were slow on my walk back home, as if my feet moved through molasses slathered on the ground. As I walked, I held my fear in one hand, though I still dared not look at it.
But the closer I drew to the village, the less afraid I became.
The entire village gathered around the arched entrance. High walls stretched around the village for protection. Everyone was waiting for my return.
I saw many hands raise above heads, blocking the sun from squinting eyes. Necks craned forward to see what I held in my hands.
When I reached the crowd, everyone bowed to me in greeting—everyone except my father. He stood his ground with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin tilted upward.
We looked alike today.
I walked up to my father and dropped my fear on the ground between us. Whispers echoed around me. Then the villagers took several steps back, each step more hesitant than the next. But not my mother; she stayed close by with an unrecognizable expression on her face.
The villagers all stared wide-eyed at my fear: my father’s lifeless eyes staring up into the sky, attached to a disembodied head.
I met my father’s gaze. I could feel the rage dancing in his eyes, escaping and clawing towards me. But I smiled a wicked smile upon realizing my father feared fire. He would never sit near the fireplace. I always took the spot instead of him, even though it was the head of the table.
I also realized that this was not a village devoid of fear, it was a village filled with people who hid their fears. The girl who brought back the serpent, and the boy who returned with the tiger—they both left the village for trade. But I understood now they left because the village would only hold them back.
My eyes wandered to my mother, and I noticed her unending strength. How did I not realize that she had only stayed to guide her children after overcoming her own fears? My father had no choice but to stay. He had failed the test. The Sisters’ whispers were revealing.
I turned away from both my father and the fear of my father. And as I walked away from the village, I felt the heat disappear behind me.
My brother, I realized, was not dead.
Without a backward glance, I sprinted into the forest in search of The Sisters, knowing my brother would be there.
When I approached the Sisters, they no longer looked as frightening as they did before. Did they ever? Or was it merely the preconceived notions driven into my mind by my father? They were still chilling, but not as terrifying as the others who hide their true selves. Not like my father. I think of the time my father let me drown, the hatred and fear in his eyes. Water. He was also afraid of water.
My brother now stood behind The Sisters with the girl and the boy from the village. They each held out their hands towards me. I walked towards them without hesitation. The Sisters dissipated into the air as I walked through them, leaving the village behind me.
Originally published in Woodland Terrors, edited by Aric Sundquist.
