After our yearly island getaway, we returned home, tanned and relaxed, ready to unwind in our cozy house. But as soon as we stepped through the door, a sickening smell hit us. My heart sank. The walls were covered in raw eggs. Drips of yellow goo hung from the ceiling, and shattered eggshells littered the floor like confetti.
“What the hell?” my husband, Mark, muttered, his voice tight with disbelief.
I couldn’t speak. I just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the mess. This wasn’t just some prank; this was personal.
Then, I saw it—a crumpled piece of paper, taped to the fridge. I walked over, my hand trembling as I unfolded it. The note read:
“This is for what you took from me before Christmas.”
I stared at it, confusion clouding my thoughts. What had we taken? Before Christmas? We hadn’t been involved in anything strange, had we?
“Who could’ve done this?” Mark asked, his voice steady but clearly rattled.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I’m going to find out.”
I walked to the hallway, where our security camera footage was stored. Mark followed me, his brow furrowed. I pulled up the footage, fast-forwarding through the days we were gone. The timestamp stopped at the night before we left.
There it was—clear as day. A person, cloaked in a dark hoodie, approached our house under the cover of darkness. They quickly made their way to the front door, then to the side of the house, and began hurling eggs at the walls, smiling the entire time.
But what stunned me wasn’t just the vandalism—it was the identity of the person.
My heart dropped into my stomach. It was my own sister, Hannah.
I couldn’t breathe.
Why? Why would she do this to us?
I turned to Mark, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s Hannah.”
He blinked, eyes wide in disbelief. “Your sister? But… why?”
I didn’t know. But I was about to find out. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had happened before Christmas was worse than I’d ever imagined.
