Submitted for the May 2024 prompt: Gothic Sci-Fi

My stepfather told me the story of my conception long before I was old enough to conceive of it. The tale became a dark dream that replays every night.

 

A bleak alley, a beautiful woman — my mother — and a shadowy figure who attacks her from behind. She awakes, supine on the cobbles, her emerald cape pulled aside. She cannot see his face, the man whose foetid body pins her to the street, only the tattooed muscles of his arm as it delivers its cruel blows. He looms over her and within her, and in that moment, somehow, he makes me.

 

And my twin sister too, in a way.

 

* * *

 

“Hiya, Prim. Ye havin’ the usual tonicht?” the bartender at the Lasswade Arms asks.

 

“Aye, Angus.”

 

“Comin richt up, lass.”

 

I scroll my smartphone while waiting. A man is sitting alone at one of the tables. Tall, good-looking. A dockhand down from Leith, perhaps. We lock eyes for a moment, just as dinner arrives. After I’ve eaten he walks over and we get to talking. His name is Peter, from Berwick, and he’s surprisingly articulate, for a laborer.

 

“I work odd jobs in Edinburgh during the off-season,” he says. “Come April, I’ll be running seabird tours to the Isle of May. I’m an ornithologist.”

 

“Interesting,” I say. “My stepfather is a scientist, too. A geneticist from the University of Edinburgh.”

 

“No kidding? Does he live here in Lasswade?”

 

“Yep.” I point to the top of the crag above us. “Right up there.”

 

“The castle!?”

 

“Don’t get excited. It’s rented.”

 

“Are you a countess or something?”

 

“Hmph, no. My stepfather is working up there and I assist him. That’s all.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s not the one, Prim,” says a raspy voice from the shadows behind me. I stand on the stone balcony of our ancient dwelling, wearing my mother’s green cape and looking down toward the town; the misty North Sea wind blows a shock in my crimson hair. Peter trudges up the rocky brae toward Lasswade Castle.

 

“He could be the one,” I say. “Look at the tattoos.”

 

“Please don’t, Prim. Every sailor has tattoos. Besides, that poor man’s not old enough to be our real father. We’re nearly twenty years on.”

 

“Well, one of us is,” I say. “I invited him up for tea. To meet stepfather, of course.”

 

“And to meet me?” growls the voice.

 

“Let’s not frighten him just yet, Wee Sister.”

 

* * *

 

I pour tea and apologize for my stepfather’s absence. “He can’t leave his lab. I know you were keen to meet him, Peter.”

 

“I am disappointed, Prim, but I’m here to see you. I enjoyed our conversation at the pub,” he says, suppressing a shiver.

 

“That old Aga in the corner’s our only heat,” I explain. “But we do have electricity.” I point to the bare bulb glowing sadly in the ceiling.

 

“You said your stepfather was at UE. Would I have heard of him?”

 

“Dr. Wilmut Campbell. He was on the team that cloned Dolly the sheep. Remember?”

 

“Of course I do. That’s pretty damn impressive,” he says.

 

“Yep, he’s a great scientist. I wish he’d pay more attention to his real life, like my sister and me. And my mother, when she was alive.”

 

“Your mother’s passed? I’m so sorry, Prim.”

 

“I never knew her. She died birthing me.”

 

“Oh,” he says. We both sit quietly for a few moments.

 

After taking his last sip, Peter tries to break the dark mood. “So, you have an older sister,” he says. “Does she live here too?”

 

“Yes, though she’s younger than me. Not by much. We’re twins, kind of. But enough about me and my weird family. Let me show you around the castle.”

 

The sun has fallen toward the moors, so I pick up a small torch to help navigate the labyrinthine hallways of the medieval structure.

 

“Do you like living here?” he asks.

 

“Not at all,” I reply. “But Wee Sister needs me.”

 

He giggles at my term of endearment and asks, “Why do you call her that?”

 

“Oh, I’m afraid she wasn’t as lucky in the looks department. A bit stunted, she is. Would you like to meet her?”

 

I lead Peter through the timbered door at the end of the hall. The laboratory within also has a single bulb that does little to lighten the place but casts deep shadows into every corner. Stepfather sits in his wheelchair with his back to us, facing the one small window.

 

Peter says, “Oh, Professor Campbell. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

 

The old man doesn’t acknowledge us.

 

“He doesn’t talk much anymore,” croaks a voice from the darkness.

 

“Why hello, Wee Sister. I thought we’d find you in here.”

 

Peter turns toward the voice as I retrieve a familiar object from the green folds of my cape. When my sister steps into the light, Peter is shocked, but not in the way I’d expected.

 

“Prim,” he says, “my god, she’s — “

 

“Hideous? Misshapen? Ugly?”

 

“ — beautiful. Your sister’s gorgeous, Prim. Perfect. Why would you say that?”

 

“I’m my mother’s daughter,” I sneer. “She was the prettiest girl in all of Scotland. Wee Sister is entirely our stepfather’s work. She was made right here, in this laboratory.”

 

Peter, trying to take it all in, mumbles, “You mean… she’s a cl— “

 

“Prim, you can’t do this again,” screams my sister.“ He’s not the one! You’re deranged. It’s why father made me!”

 

Poor, misguided monster. I raise the thin blade of my stiletto behind Peter’s back, but the pistol in Wee Sister’s hand flashes first. The bullet punches me in the gut and I fall backward.

 

* * *

 

I awake, supine on the ancient wood floor, my mother’s cape pulled aside. A man who might be my real father kneels beside me. I cannot see his face, only the tattooed muscles of his arm as he pushes a bloody rag into the oozing wound in my stomach. He looms over me and within me, and in that moment, at long last, I find peace.