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As a kid, my baby sister would enjoy thinking up ways to terrify me. Sometimes, she would jump out from the shadows, screaming. Other times, she would hide under the bed, and her hand would snake out and grab my foot. Occasionally, she would enlist friends to chase me through the woods. I hated how she tormented me. "You love it really," she used to say, smiling at me over her breakfast cornflakes after I had related another tale of humiliation to Mum in the hope that she would get Sandra to stop.
"Leave your big brother alone," Mum would say, half-heartedly, whilst chewing on a piece of toast. "And you," the crust pulled from her mouth and now waving in my direction. "You need to stop telling tales and grow a pair."
After Sandra died, I missed her torments. And then, one night she came back.
And that's when the trouble started.