Every August My Family Drove My Sister To The Lake. This Year They Took Me Instead.

Every August, the narrator’s older sister Irene drove north with their parents to a lake. This year, the narrator went instead. Irene stayed home. The narrator didn’t understand why, and their parents wouldn’t explain. “It’s your turn now,” their mother said. The narrator sat in the back seat, where Irene always sat, and watched the empty space beside them. The car went north for hours, past farms and gas stations, until the pavement turned to gravel and the trees closed in. The narrator’s phone lost service. They tried calling Irene. She didn’t answer.

The cabin and the clocks

The cabin belonged to Drew, a relative the narrator barely knew. It smelled like old wood and cooked food. Inside, clocks covered the walls—one above the kitchen doorway, one on a shelf, another near the hall. They all showed different times, each about forty minutes ahead, but none agreed with each other. When the narrator reached up and set one clock to the correct time, Drew crossed the room and moved the hands back. “The clocks have to stay that way,” he said. He didn’t explain why. He also told the narrator to stay away from the dock, especially on the full moon night. “I don’t care what you hear,” he said. The narrator asked what they might hear. Drew didn’t answer.