The Murder of Gadder

My older sister Cathy had an imaginary friend named Gadder when she was three. Gadder lived at the Chevron gas station down at the corner, and he visited Cathy and kept her company while she was having her afternoon nap in a large closet space in the bedroom of our eldest sister Jane, fifteen (while I napped in the bedroom Cathy and I normally shared). A chain lock had been attached to the door so Cathy couldn't escape, but could be heard if she cried.

Our other older sister, Martha, nine, was fascinated by the idea of Gadder, and on Saturdays and Sundays she would sneak into Cathy's nap room and question her about Gadder. Was Gadder a he or a she? How old was he? What did she do? But Cathy couldn't, or wouldn't say.

One afternoon when Cathy and I were in our bedroom playing, Martha came in to see what we were up to, and bounded up onto Cathy's twin bed. "Where's Gadder?" she asked Cathy nonchalantly. Cathy pointed to a space on the floor. "He's there." Martha stood up, bounced, and then JUMPED off the bed... right onto Gadder, and Gadder died.