In This Town, The Punishments Are Worse Than the Crime [Part 2]

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/gore-and-grit on 2024-11-16 11:28:24+00:00.

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By the time dinner rolls around, my excitement has fully kicked in. The nerves are gone—no more worrying about Charlie or whether I’ll get caught. I can't wait to tell my parents about what happened today. It feels like the kind of thing they'll be proud of.

“So,” Dad says, spearing a piece of steak with his fork, “What did we learn in school today?” 

I grin, finally letting it out. “Charlie came to our classroom!”

“Did he now?” Dad raises an eyebrow, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth. “Did you look at him? Talk to him?”

“Nope!” I say proudly, puffing out my chest. “He tried real hard to trick me, too. He came right up to my desk, but I didn't say a word.”

“Good job, buddy,” Dad says, giving me a high five. He smiles, but it's a tired kind of smile. “Proud of you.” I slap his hand, going for more macaroni. I chew for a second, then I remember. 

“Oh, but Alice sneezed and said thank you. He got her.” 

No one says anything for a moment, nothing but chewing and the sound of forks and knives scraping plates. Mom takes a sip of water and then places her glass back on the wooden table before speaking. 

“That poor girl. Didn’t her parents teach her anything?” Mom sighs, shaking her head as she cuts into her food. “They probably coddled her too much.”

Dad nods. “She should’ve known better.”

Mom sighs again, then smiles at me. “It's unfortunate, but the rules are the rules for a reason. You did good today, sweetie.”

I nod along, feeling more certain now. Alice deserved it. She should have known better. She broke the rules. 

I imagine Alice won’t be herself anymore. I’ve never met anyone who’s gotten caught by Charlie and lived. They usually never come back to school, I doubt they even leave their homes. But I picture she’ll be the way he left her forever. She’ll be like the dolls my sister used to have—the super creepy ones where the eyes were supposed to blink but sometimes one got stuck, so it just stared at you, even when you shook it around and tried to force it closed with your fingers.

“Speaking of,” Dad leans back in his chair, “did they ever find that girl's body? The one who broke Rule Two?”

“No,” Mom passes the salad, which I avoid. “But it's no surprise. Hopefully, the next one's smarter.”

“Nothing interesting happen to you?” I ask Jamie, my sister, who's been extra quiet today. She just shrugs, pushing around her food. 

“We saw something strange today too.” Dad begins, pulling Mom into a story about flickering street lights and his annoying boss. But dinner feels strange. Not just because of Charlie—Charlie days are always weird—but because of Jamie. 

She’s barely said a word the whole meal which is so unlike her. Normally, she’d be cracking wise about Dad's jokes, even though she swears they’re bad, but I think they're hilarious. Or she’d make fun of me for putting ketchup on everything. She should be flicking peas at me and acting like she knows everything about everything. But tonight? She’s barely touched her food, just staring at it like she’s forgotten what a fork is for. Her lips are pressed tight, eyes fixed on her plate as if she’s trying to remember the last time she was hungry—or when food seemingly stopped being something she cared about.

Mom doesn’t notice—or if she does, she doesn’t say anything. Dad doesn’t either. They keep talking about their day, about some boring teacher meeting, the men in white stopping by, the talking trees—random town stuff. Maybe they think it’s just a bad mood. Jamie’s been like that lately—distant, kind of moody. I thought it was because she’s a teenager and that’s just how teenagers are supposed to act. But tonight feels different. 

Dad goes on about some strange noise outside the garage, then rambles about the streetlights flickering in a pattern he swears is unusual. I’m not really listening, though. I can’t take my eyes off Jamie—she’s still staring at her plate, not a word leaving her lips. She won’t look at me—won’t look at anyone. Her face is pale, eyes puffy the same way mine get when I cry. But Jamie never cries. 

Dinner is quiet, even though we’re all talking. The clatter of forks against plates fills the gaps where real conversation should be. But my eyes keep darting back to Jamie. I can't shake the feeling that she knows something I don’t—like she’s holding a secret just under the surface, waiting to crack it open.

Then, suddenly, the scrape of chair legs grates against the floor, sharp enough to make me jump. Jamie pushes her chair back with a force that makes everyone at the table flinch. She stands up abruptly. “May I be excused?” she asks, her voice tight.

A pause follows, thick and uncomfortable. Mom and Dad blink at her, confusion flickering between them like they’re trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

“...Of course you can, just… just make sure to clear your plate before you go,” Mom finally manages, her voice softer now, almost apologetic.

Jamie nods stiffly and turns away, leaving the room without another word. I track her movement, the hollow thud of her footsteps fading down the hall. The conversation awkwardly picks back up, but I’m still staring at her empty chair, wondering what I missed.

I didn’t know what would happen next, how could I? But I wish I had, I wish could have done it all differently.

After dinner, I head upstairs, my feet dragging as I go. I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when I hear something. A voice. Muffled, but…Jamie’s.

She’s on the phone. Her voice is quiet, but not quiet enough to keep me from hearing. Not when the house is this still. I spit out the toothpaste, my ears straining to catch what she’s saying. It’s faint through the wall, but I can hear it, and there’s something in her voice that sends a chill down my spine.

She sounds scared.

I press my ear against the wall, the one connected to her room, my heart pounding in my chest. I can barely make out the words.

“I don’t know what to do,” Jamie whispers, her voice cracking. “I… I didn’t mean to. I thought it would be okay if no one found out.”

My hands are shaking now. What is she talking about?

I crack the bathroom door open and walk into the hallway, coming to a halt right outside her bedroom door. I hear a soft sniffle. It’s not like her to cry, not unless something really bad happened. Maybe she got in trouble or Mom and Dad yelled at her after dinner for not finishing her homework. I pad across the hall, careful not to make the floor creak under my feet as I creep closer. Her door’s open, just enough to see the edge of her desk and her shadow moving behind it.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says, her voice trembling. “I swear, I didn’t tell anyone. I just… I don’t want them to know, okay?” She pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other end of the phone. “I know. I know I messed up, but if they were going to punish me, it would’ve happened by now—I, I mean they would’ve done something by now. Maybe…maybe it won’t happen. Maybe if I just don’t say anything…”

I push the door open just a little more, holding my breath. I can hear her crying softly now, the way someone cries when they don’t want anyone else to hear them. Something in my chest tightens. Jamie’s tough. Way tougher than me. Jamie never cries.

I knock on the door, peaking my head in. “Jamie?”

She jumps, turning to face me, her eyes wide. Her face is streaked with tears, her hands trembling as she holds her phone to her ear. “I—I’ll call you back.” She says quietly, into the phone, and then she hangs up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. For a second, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, but then her expression softens into something sad. Tired, like the way Dad smiled at dinner. “Robbie… What are you doing up?”

“Can I come in?”

There’s a long pause, and I almost think she’s going to say no, but then she whispers, “Yeah.”

I shuffle in, feeling awkward. “I heard you talking… Who were you talking to?”

She shakes her head quickly, forcing a weak smile. “No one. Just a friend. It’s nothing.” I don’t believe her. I can see it in her eyes. She’s lying.

I step further into her room. The lights are low, casting long shadows on the walls. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, her phone clutched in her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. She looks up at me, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, she whispers, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“What happened?” I ask, my hands cold with fear. I feel like I already know.

Her lip quivers, and she shakes her head. “I… I broke a rule.”

My heart stops. The room feels like it’s spinning for a second. My legs feel weak, like they’re made of jelly, like how I felt in class but if the boat hit a hurricane, and for a second, I don’t know what to say. The rules are the rules for a reason. Everyone knows that. She knows that.  I feel like my chest is tightening, like I can’t get a full breath.

“Which…which one?” I manage to get out, my voice barely more than a croak.

She gets up from her bed and comes over to me, kneeling down so we’re eye to eye. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

I swallow hard. “Which rule?” I ask again, because we both know it’s not fine. Nothing is ever fine when it comes to the rules.

She looks away, wringing her hands together. “It was Rule Four,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I—I went outside after dark by myself…but I didn’t go far! Just to get my charger from the car.”

My blood turns to ice. I can’t move. I...

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