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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/disco-dingus on 2024-05-26 16:37:59+00:00.

It all started the day we found Charlie’s sister in the barn.

Erica had returned to our little town from the city to celebrate her 27th birthday. She was sporting a nose ring and had choppy black hair. She had brought her boyfriend Blake with her, with his long black hair and dark wayfarers. Charlie and I were 14 at the time and thought they looked like rock stars.

Their parents had arranged a party on the grounds of their property. Charlie and I had our first taste of alcohol that night and coughed our guts up when Erica and Blake let us take drags of their cigarettes.

“I love you, Chaz,” said Erica, her arms around Charlie and me. “You too, Glen. Promise me you boys will do whatever makes you happy.”

We had no idea it was her way of saying goodbye.

The next day, there was confusion in the house when Erica and Blake were nowhere to be seen. They’d spent the night in her old bedroom. I’d spent the night on Charlie’s bedroom floor.

“Did you see your sister leave?” asked his mom. We hadn’t. She wasn’t answering her cell either.

Later that day, Charlie and I went to the barn to look for Erica. When we opened the doors, we saw her lying in the arms of Blake on a bed of straw. We put it down to too much vodka.

“We found them,” yelled Charlie. “Wake up, sleepy heads!” As we got closer, we saw an empty bottle of vodka, along with a small empty pot for high-strength sleeping pills, the kind for prescription only.

“Erica,” said Charlie, shaking his sister. She was out cold. “Glen, she’s not breathing!”

Blake started to stir like he was in pain.

“Mr and Mrs Morgan!!” I screamed, running out of the barn.

Erica and Blake were rushed to the hospital. As feared, Erica was dead at the scene. Blake had his stomach pumped and was put in a ward to recover.

“She wanted this,” he managed through god knows what other drugs they had put him on.

“What the fuck do you mean,” said Erica’s dad, grabbing Blake by the front of his smock. He had to be escorted out in tears along with his wife. I sat with Charlie until my parents could come pick me up. We just stared at Blake, this guy who we had thought was so cool, pale with greasy black hair plastered to his face.

“She got in, dudes,” he said.

“”What did she get in?” said Charlie, close to tears. “My sister is dead.”

“But she’s with them now.” He looked up. “Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix…”

“Who are you talking about?” I said.

“Only the greatest to ever live. The 27 Club.” He stepped out of bed, wincing, pulling out the tubes in his arms. I still remember the trickles of blood running down his wrists.

“What the hell is The 27 Club?”

“Strictly members only,” he said. “No admittance to anyone even a day before or after turning 27. I turned two weeks ago, and we were saving it to go together. Forever 27 with the legends.”

He walked to the window. “Say, what floor are we on?”

I shrugged. “Sixth I think.”

He looked out and turned with a grin. “I bet she’s up there partying with Cobain as we speak.” He opened the window,

“Blake,“ said Charlie. “I think you should get back in bed.

“Forever 27 boys,” he said. “See you in a few years.”

He leapt from the window, making Charlie and I cry out in unison. We heard a gruesome thud as he hit something hard. When I braved a peek, he was face down on the roof of an ambulance.

After the events, Charlie became obsessed with “The 27 Club”. When we turned 16, he wanted to form a suicide pact. We would wait until we both turned 27, then end it together.

“These people meant nothing to you,” I said. “When did you ever talk about The Doors, or Jimi Handrix? And everyone has those fucking Nirvana T-Shirts. it means nothing!”

“It’s not just that, Glen,” he said. “It’s honoring my sister. You loved Erica too.”

“I did, but she had problems, Charlie. It’s not even a real club. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s not some amazing club where they’re all living it up in paradise. They're unfortunate coincidences. Plenty of other cool people have died at 26, or 28.”

Before I could react he pulled out a pen knife and sliced open my right palm. I screamed.

“Jesus, what the fuck Charlie!”

He did the same to himself, barely reacted to the pain, then gripped my hand in his.

“Forever 27. We’re bound by blood now, my brother.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” I said, leaving his house. My hand kept slipping on the handle bar of my bike until I got home to patch myself up.

Some years passed, and I’d kept my distance from Charlie. I started college and got a new circle of friends. I remember July 23rd 2011 like it was yesterday. I was 21. Even before Charlie texted me, I knew he would as soon as I heard the news.

Amy Winehouse is dead. She was 27.

The scar on my right palm began to ache. I wasn’t going to contribute to crazy, so I ignored him. I met with my girlfriend Lori and our group of friends for a night out. Of course, Winehouse was the topic of the evening. She had managed to become a cultural phenomenon in such a short amount of time, and her death was genuinely hard hitting. And what better way to celebrate the life of a tortured soul than by keeping the drinks flowing and partaking in the coke our friend Shane had scored.

“Are you guys familiar with the concept of the 27 club?” asked Lori. I swallowed my whisky and cleared my throat.

“Yeah, that’s an exclusive group of celebrities who croaked it at 27, right?” said Shane.

“Exactly,” she said. “Anyone who’s anyone is part of that club.” She held up a glass. “To Amy, and the 27 club!”

“Here here,” said Shane. “May she forever shoot up with my idol, Kurt Cobain, in that big club in the sky.”

“That’s a bit insensitive,” I said. “She literally died hours ago. Have some respect.”

“I’m respecting, buddy,” he said. “This is all for her.”

“Are you OK, Glen,” said Lori. My palm was burning. I ran a finger over the scar and held it up to them.

“I never told you how I got this,” I said. “My childhood best friend, Charlie. His sister killed herself when she was 27. Her boyfriend, too.”

“Shit,” said Shane.

“Charlie did this to me when we were 16. He cut my hand and made us blood brothers. He wanted me to make a suicide pact, that we would end it at 27.”

“Glen, I had no idea,” said Lori.

“I pushed it away,” I said. “I cut all ties with him. But he texted me today, funnily enough, on the day the 27 club gets a new member.”

“I feel awful,” said Shane. “If I’d known, I wouldn't have…”

“Look, it’s fine,” I said. “I’m all for celebrating life or death. I guess I’m just being sensitive. It kind of all came back.”

A few more years passed. Lori and I were married and had a baby boy, Jack. We lived in a house not a million miles away from where I grew up.

One week, I was feeling particularly agitated, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I realized what it was when I spoke to my mom on the phone.

“Will you be seeing Charlie for his birthday?” she asked. “I know you boys don’t see each other as much as you used to, but you were inseparable once upon a time. I hear it’s the big two-seven. He could probably use the support, what with… well, you know.”

“I’ll message him,” I said before saying goodbye. I didn’t want to be a prick, so I kept it polite.

Hey Charlie, I wish you a happy birthday. Maybe we can meet for a drink sometime soon. I’m only like two hours away from our old town. Love, Glen.

About an hour later, I got a notification.

Glen, my brother. Thank you for the birthday wishes. I hear you have a little one of your own now. Me too! Little Joseph. I would love to meet for a drink sometime. You stay in touch. Love, your friend Charlie.

What was most surprising about it was that he didn’t mention his age at all. There was no “I’m 27 now, and you know what that means…” Years of guilt hit me like a sledgehammer to the teeth. I had neglected who was once my most important friend due to an admittedly messed up experience, but clearly one he could have used more support with. I had abandoned him. The scar on my hand burned as if to remind me of the wrong I’d done to him.

A few days later, I reached out again. I suggested we meet at one of our old haunts, but he invited me to his home on account of watching his son. He was still based in our old town and had a nice but modest house.

“Courtesy of the ‘rents,” he said. Charlie’s parents had done rather well for themselves and owned several properties around town. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

There was a basket perched on a wooden frame, and out he pulled a baby wrapped in a blanket. His little eyes were half open.

“This is Joseph. Say hello to your uncle Glen.” He handed Joseph to me, who I awkwardly cradled in my arms until I found the right position.

“He’s the spit of you, Charlie,” I said, looking down at his cute little face. He reached up and grabbed my nose with his sharp baby nails. “Forgot how much that stings,” I said. “Jack is currently enjoying his terrible twos. He’s a bit of a handful for Lori and myself at times.”

“Come sit down,” he said. “How is the old ball and chain?”

I laughed. “She’s actually perfect. I can’t recall a single disagreement we had, other than what to name Jack. She wanted to name him Donald after her grandfather. That wasn’t going to happen.” He laughed. “Where’s your better half, anyway? I don’t think we ever met.”

He looked down. “Suzie. She’s no longer with us. It’s just little Joey and me.”

“Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t long after his birth. She just didn’t wake up one mornin...

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