"LITTLE SISTER"
AKA; LADY IN WHITE & REST IN PIECES

No one pegged Benjamin Richter as a fool upon first glance, especially after slaughtering a significant amount of people in the summer of 1984.

However, he still made the mistake of coming back, like many victims and killers of the place did. After the gruesome murder of his wife, he could've walked away with his son and never looked back. Yet he came back, with Richard Ramirez' death on the brain.

Most people would warn him to stay away, so he didn't get caught with all the new press around Redwood, or even to keep all the bad energy out of his life. What they wouldn't consider is the spirits that still roamed the pine forest and worn trails, whispering revenge against Benjamin's name.

Word had got around about Mr. Jingle's return to his old hunting grounds — and there were enough of his victims lying around to orchestrate a capture.

His wrist was bound with rough rope so he couldn't run. He lied in the dirt of the woods, struggling against the knots, quickly noticing that he was now facing a number of his victims and the others picked up along the way — including Ray, Chet, Montana, and Xavier.

"You left this place." Montana pointed out. She was a sort of unelected leader amongst the group. "Willingly coming back makes you even more deranged than we thought." She razzed.

"He gave me no choice. You need to let me go. I came back here to kill Richard Ramirez." Jingles pleaded, his wrists scraping against the thick rope.

The crazy-haired blonde's eyebrows furrowed, "Why? He's already dead — I literally saw you murder him."

"You don't understand. He has darker powers on his side," Benjamin cried, "I need to kill him."

"Who the hell cares? This dick cut off my head!" Ray exclaimed, lurching forward to harm Jingles.

Montana scolded the man and gestured him back. She glared at the man lying in the dirt.

Something must have clicked in Benjamin's head, because he soon realized his victims weren't just victims anymore. Now they were souls, tied to the camp with so escape in sight.

After numerous shots at the man, blaming him for their deaths — and rightfully so — Montana explained their murder plan with a disturbing smirk on her face, and a small knife dangling between her fingers.

"Only two dead bodies recently got this place some press. An entire music festival viciously slaughtered?" She chuckled, hopping off the table seat, "Well, that'll draw every paranormal investigator and Ghostbuster wannabe in the world."

Jingle's furrowed his brows. He couldn't understand their pain. He almost envied them actually. "Don't you understand? You're away from the horrors of the world."

Chet scoffed, and put his head in his hands, "Not really. We're not alone in these woods," He explained, "There's a woman in a white nightgown, and she's always terrorizing us."

Xavier shrugged and stood taller on top of the picnic table, "No one knows who she is or why she hates us so much."

Jingle's sighed. His features fell in realization, and he mumbled, "I do. She's my mother."

Every ghost surrounding the man scoffed. Of course the crazy lady in white was his mother. It appeared everyone in their family were insane killers with no remorse.

Through a cracked voice, Benjamin then explained the story of his mother, and his brother, and the first massacre that really took place on Camp Redwood soil. How it was probably the start of the endless blood curse that graced the place s The ghosts shouldn't have been surprised that Mr. Jingle's came from a line of mommy issues.

He cried, "The only person she ever loved was my brother."

Tommy scoffed, making his presence known. Having ben shunned from the majority of the group since 1984, he was listening to the conversation from behind a bush.

His gaze darted around the group, silently judging any sympathetic looks offered to Jingle's. "Well that explains why you killed me and not my little sister."

Benjamin looked up at the brunette man as best he could from his position on the ground. He would recognize that face anywhere, and knew exactly who he was talking about.

He didn't remember many kills from that fateful night in 1984, having repressed most of the memories —but he couldn't forget Tommy's.

He remembered hearing crying through the dense woods, and heading directly to it. The animal part that had been activated in him was searching for his next kill — until he walked onto the scene.

Tommy Banks was leaning over a girl who was blonde, small, dressed inappropriately for the temperature, and crying. He stopped and stared at the scene for a while until he heard Tommy say the line: "No one's gonna miss daddy's little mistake."

He realized the pair were siblings, and by the sound of Olivia's cries, Tommy seemed to be favoured by their parents. A small part of of him sympathized with her, and the other part wanted Tommy dead. 

Since that kill he thought about that girl. He wondered if she survived the night. If Margaret got to her after he let her get away. It wasn't until years later, when he married his wife, filled a house, and had a son that he figured out where she ended up.

He'd been sitting on the couch watching the news when she showed up. With that same blonde hair, and a very faint barrel scar on her forehead. That's when he learned her name. When he learned about her life.

She was Olivia "Baby" Banks, daughter of a millionaire, and the youngest of three children. Teen magazines he saw in display cases named her the black sheep of the family.

Benjamin made many bad choices that fateful night, but he knew letting Olivia walk away was not one of them.

"Your sister's a good girl." Benjamin stated, "My wife used to watch her on television every night."

Tommy glared at the man, "You think you know her?She's not grateful you saved her. No matter what happens, she'll always be fucking miserable."

"Shut the hell up Tommy." Chet spit. He'd heard enough about his girlfriend from her brother over the years, and was always tired of it.

Ray stepped up to defend the girl as well. "You don't know your sister either," He pointed out.

The Bank's man clicked his tongue, chuckling mockingly at the group before he walked away, "She's really got all of you wrapped around your finger, huh? Well not me."

OCTOBER 31st, 1989

It had been a couple days since the original press conference, but I stuck around the camp.

Esther apparently needed more coverage on the actual festival, so I sent my sister home and snagged a couple motel rooms for Gary and I to finish up. Sarah was weary of leaving after I started crying at the conference, but I assured her it was fine. I just had to do one more broadcast and I could be rid of that place for good.

I sat in the corner of the diner by myself, chain-smoking a pack of Marlboros and people-watching those that came in. The place reeked of burnt eggs and butter, which wasn't the most pleasant smell, but I got through it. There weren't many diners around for me to be picky.

The festival didn't start until later so I was just killing time. Gary was probably back at his room cleaning cameras or whatever other techy things camera men did before a broadcast.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" A waitress said when I was about three cigarettes into the carton.

I glanced at her and pulled the tube from my mouth, blowing smoke from my nose shortly after.  "I don't want a refill, thanks."

I was referring to the coffee I hadn't even looked at since I ordered it. The woman giggled a bit then said in the most polite voice, "Oh, no. I was just coming to tell you about our smoking policy. One per customer, just keeps the place clean."

I huffed and put out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table with a very fake smile. The waitress thanked me and walked away to another table.

I didn't really see any purpose in hanging around after that, so I slung my bag over my shoulder slid out of the booth. I grabbed another cigarette from the pack and tucked it behind my ear for the road as I made my way to the door.

On the way, someone wondered, "Olivia Banks?"

I sighed, prepared to deal with a fan wanting to take a polaroid, or get an autograph, and turned to face the table I was passing.

My shoulders dropped as soon as I saw the people. Sitting across from each other was Brooke and Rita — both of which I had not seen in years, and one I thought was executed. Beside Rita was a reporter that I recognized from other jobs, and honestly loathed.

She was always so nosy whenever she spoke with me, always asking about my family.

"Olivia?" The writer repeated, "You remember me, right? I'm Stacey Phillips."

I did, but I tilted my head anyway, "Sounds familiar."

A frown came and went across her lips, but she didn't let it get to her. "Isn't her costume incredible?" She asked, gesturing to Brooke.

The glint in her eyes indicated she didn't think it was actually a costume. I shared a brisk look with Brooke, who was basically pleading me with her eyes.

"Not really," I shrugged, then heard Rita chuckle under her breath, "Can I help you, Darcy?"

"It's Stacey —"

"Sure," I smirked.

Stacey cleared her throat and re-straightened her shoulders. I couldn't say I didn't enjoy making her squirm, "I'm with the National Enquirer. I write books mostly, about serial killers. Why don't you join us? I'd love to have a first hand account in my book."

Join them? I worried Brooke might jump me if I got any closer. I never testified for her or showed any wish to. Which is what I was surprised she had that same pleading gaze when I glanced at her again.

I nodded my head. "Sure."

I slid in beside the brunette, who quickly made some room for me. The red leather seat chilled my bare arms, helping me ground myself — a tactic I learned in therapy.

Stacey seemed very pleased by my answer and started rambling on about her work, and the writing trends within the last two decades.

She explained how she was writing a story about Brooke and the 1984 murders — which is where I would come in, I guess. I sat uncomfortably the entire time, though I shouldn't have been surprised someone wanted to monetize my nightmare. Hell, Margaret had been doing it for years.

Brooke was bobbing her head awkwardly while the smile she had at the start slowly faded. Every few seconds or so, Rita would side glance the woman, and that's when I decided it was time to go.

As Stacey rambled, "I'm pretty sure the eighties are gonna be the end of the world as we know it —"

I interrupted, "Okay, cool. But, I gotta go."

"Us too," Brooke tacked on, the two of us sliding out of the booth. "Nice meeting you though."

Stacey glanced between the three of us longingly, but moved out of the booth so Rita could get out too.

"Hopefully we'll see you at the camp." Brooke smiled. I elbowed her subtly for saying that. I'd never see Stacey again if I could help it.

The three of us headed for the parking lot. The bell on the door chimed behind us, startling me a little. I took a deep breath and quickly regained myself.

While Rita and Brooke headed to their car, I removed the butt from behind my ear and pretended to split up from the group in case Stacey was watching. I glanced back, the tube dangling from my lips, and saw her through the window eating what was left on Brooke's plate.

I grimaced and headed for the car. My sneakers crunched against the gravel, signalling my arrival to Rita and Brooke, both of them staring at me through the windows while I hopped into the backseat.

I slammed the door and pointed an accusatory finger at the brunette, "How the fuck are you alive?"

She glared at me, — something I wasn't used to seeing from her — and spit back, "How come you never testified for me!"

"Honestly," I shrugged, "It was me or you, and I don't know you that well,"

Brooke scoffed, "You are so selfish —"

"Okay, okay," Rita interrupted, "We need to be on the same team if you still want to take down Margaret." She lowered her voice and scolded Brooke.

My nose scrunched, "What do you mean 'take down Margaret'"

The pair exchanged nervous glances, then both looked to me through the rearview mirror. I raised my brows expectantly, and twirled the cigarette between my fingers.

Brooke sighed and revealed, "Before I move on with my life, I have to killed Margaret. I have to make her pay for what she did to me, and to everyone else."

Okay. That was not something I expected from her. Out of all people I knew, I always thought she was the least inclined to murder. But they do say that prison changes a person. I could only imagine what it did to Brooke to change her that way.

"Look, Brooke, I'm sorry. And I don't say that a lot, if ever." I started. She was right, I was selfish, and I didn't even feel sorry about that part. I just felt sorry for her, all that she missed, and all that she had to go through to get to this point.

"But I won't be apart of this either." I stated, "I won't snitch — but I won't join."

Through the mirror I saw her nod. "I understand,"

I smiled a bit at her, "Good luck."

an
hi y'all. i hurt my hand punching a candy cane, it's a long story. 💪