2:00 a.m. I found my sister, Sarah, in the basement of our house, even though she was supposed to be with her husband, Brian, in London. She was wearing a red satin slip dress, her body bruised and bound in chains, with red-stained bandages wrapped tightly around her legs. Seeing me, Sarah looked desperate and mouthed, “Watch out for Mom and Dad!” I wanted to ask her what happened, but footsteps echoed above us. Someone was moving around upstairs. I didn’t know what it meant, but my instincts told me to hide, fast. I slipped into an old cabinet just as someone descended the stairs. Peeking through the crack, I saw Dad, Charles. He was holding a plate piled high with yesterday’s leftovers—food that looked as unappetizing as it did cold. The second Sarah saw him, she began shaking with fear. Dad grabbed her chin with his thumb crease and forced her mouth open, shoving spoonfuls of the food inside. She gagged, her face twisting in pain until she vomited. He just stood there, watching in silence, then began force-feeding her again, waiting until she finished every last bite before he gave her a smug smile. Then he set the plate aside and reached into his pocket, pulling out a paring knife. Loosening the red-stained bandages around her legs, he revealed a sight that made my stomach drop—her once-smooth legs were now swollen, bruised, and some areas were oozing. Dad pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. If I remembered correctly, those glasses were Sarah’s graduation gift to him. I knew exactly what he was about to do before he even started. Holding that knife, the one I’d used to slice apples, he began cutting into her legs, slicing away chunks of flesh. The metallic smell of blood and rotting flesh filled the room. I clenched my lips tightly, desperate to keep silent. Dad’s gaze suddenly snapped toward my hiding place. I stilled, heart hammering, until his eyes finally drifted away. He gathered up the meat he’d just sliced and left. When the room fell silent, I shakily climbed out of the cabinet. My legs felt like jelly, barely holding me up. I crawled to my sister’s side, horrified by the state she was in. Her legs were wrapped in fresh bandages, but they’d already soaked through with blood. How could Dad do this? To his own daughter? Sarah and I had never shared the same father. My mom married Charles when I was little. Sarah had always been the perfect daughter. She never liked my mom initially but gradually grew warmer to her, so I thought we were all moving toward something good. But now, Sarah was whispering that my mother had killed her own mother. That both of our mothers were murderers. She warned me to stay away from them. I don’t remember making it back to my room. Lying there, I told myself, over and over, that it was only a dream—that Sarah and Brian were still in London.
In the morning, I came downstairs to find Mom busy in the kitchen. Dad sat at the table, reading the paper, his face calm and content as sunlight filtered through the window. I slid into the seat across from him, eyeing the big breakfast spread. Finally, I asked, “Dad… where’s Sarah?” He frowned, reaching over to feel my forehead. His face softened with an odd, almost amused expression. “Are you feeling alright, sweetheart? Sarah and Brian moved to London two years ago. You remember—you cried when they left.” Yes. That was right. I remembered watching them board the plane. Was it really just a nightmare? Mom came in, setting down a bowl of steaming beef broth, spooning a generous portion into my bowl. She told me to eat it all up. The smell was savory, but as I stared at it, the nausea crept in. Mom noticed my hesitation. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” “No, I like it. Thanks, Mom,” I mumbled, stirring the broth slowly, lifting a slice of meat from the bowl. The memory of my dream hit me, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I leaned over and threw up. Mom rushed over, patting my back, alarmed. “Honey, do you need to go to the hospital?” Everything seemed normal, but something felt terribly wrong. Mom never used to be this doting. My mind went back to Sarah in the cellar. I glanced at Dad, horrified. “What’s gotten into you this morning?” he asked, looking mildly amused. No. This wasn’t like him at all. My dad had never cared much for me before, never even looked in my direction. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister was hidden beneath this facade. If what I saw was real, then the man I called Dad had locked his daughter in the cellar, cut pieces of her flesh, and served it to me as beef broth. I couldn’t handle it. Gripping my thumb crease under the table, I forced myself to calm down. After a deep breath, I said, “I didn’t sleep well. I’m going back upstairs to rest.”
I reached the stairway corner, just out of sight of the living room, before dashing to the cellar. But when I reached it, there was nothing—just the same old cluttered furniture. The bed Sarah had been lying on was empty, occupied only by a teddy bear, her gift to me on my eighteenth birthday. There was no sign of Sarah. No red-stained bandages. It must have been a dream. I leaned against the wardrobe, breathing heavily. But something didn’t add up. It felt too real. Then, in the corner of the cabinet, I spotted a small button—one from my pajamas. I really had hidden in there last night. “Lily, what are you doing down here?” I whipped around. Dad was behind me, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the dim light. Swallowing down my panic, I clutched the teddy bear and stammered, “I…I missed Sarah and wanted to find the teddy bear she gave me.” It was the best excuse I could come up with. Dad’s expression was cold and calculating, like a snake watching its prey. He looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Take what you need and leave. There’s no reason to be down here.” I forced a smile, hugging the bear as I walked out, making a show of mumbling, “She could’ve at least called after all this time.” Dad trailed behind me at a steady distance. I could almost feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. “She just got there, Lily,” he said in an even tone. “She’s busy. Don’t bother her with calls.” Why hadn’t I thought to call her? I went back to my room, pulled out my phone, and dialed her number. “Sorry, your account is suspended due to lack of payment.” What? She’d filled my account with credit before she left. Confused and scared, I checked the Wi-Fi and saw it was disabled, and my phone had no signal. I was trapped—no way to call for help, no way to reach Brian.
Ever since that morning, I felt more and more drained each day, my energy sapped. And every day, Mom brought me another bowl of beef broth. Each time I looked at the meat in the broth, I thought of Sarah, and the nausea returned. I couldn’t drink it. But for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself lifting the spoon. Mom’s voice coaxed me to drink, and I did, helpless to resist. Once I finished, Mom seemed pleased. She set down the bowl and helped me to the cellar. There was Sarah again, lying on the bed, more of her body wrapped in red-stained bandages. Mom placed a stool near the bed and sat me down. Slowly, she unwrapped the bandages, revealing new gashes where her flesh had been cut. She muttered, “My sweet girl doesn’t like beef broth, so let’s make some sliced cold cut.” She took out a knife and, with a chilling calm, said, “A friend gave Dad this fish just a few days ago—so tender, so fresh.” Then she sliced into Sarah’s flesh as Sarah’s wide, terrified eyes looked on. “Sweetheart, here’s your favorite—sliced cold cut.” I stared in horror as she brought the bloody meat toward my mouth, forcing me to chew, to swallow. Sarah looked back at me, her eyes filled with disbelief, anger, and finally, despair. Inside, I screamed, No, I can’t do this! This is my sister! But no one heard me.
“No!” I shot up in bed, drenched in sweat. A calm, gentle voice brought me back. “Did you have a nightmare, dear?” I looked up. It was Dr. Alice Morgan, her face compassionate and kind. I took in my surroundings, realizing I was in a hospital room. Dr. Morgan explained, “You had a fever and were unconscious for days. Your mom’s been here the whole time. They just stepped out for a meal.” But the memory of that night clung to me, so vivid I couldn’t let it go. Still uneasy, I borrowed her phone to call Sarah’s number. This time, the call went through. But all I heard was the muffled noise of a crowded room. No voice replied, no matter how many times I shouted. Dr. Morgan smiled, interpreting my confusion. “Sounds like they’re somewhere noisy—a karaoke bar, maybe, or a downtown pub. It’d be hard for anyone to hear you over that.” I glanced away, feeling foolish. I had never set foot in a bar or a karaoke place, so I had no idea what it was like. “Why…why can’t I hear her voice at all?” Dr. Morgan chuckled gently. “The noise on her end is probably drowning you out. She’s likely having a good time and can’t hear her phone at all.” I wanted to press further, but at that moment, Mom returned. She entered quietly, her gaze soft but unreadable, and settled in the chair beside my bed. She brought a thermos with her, the kind she always carried, and set it down. Opening it, she said with a kind smile, “I know how much you like your sliced cold cuts, but since you’re not well, let’s stick with some beef broth for now, alright?” My stomach twisted as I watched the steam rise from the bowl of beef broth she handed me. The presentation was pleasant, the aroma rich and inviting, but I hesitated, feeling unease bubble up inside me. Mom noticed and said, “Sweetie, what’s the matter? You want me to feed you? You’re old enough to eat on your own—you’ll have to do that when you’re married, after all.” I barely registered her words. I focused instead on the bowl inching closer to my mouth. My panic flared, and before I realized it, I’d shoved the bowl away, spilling the hot broth all over her hand. She flinched but remained calm, the red marks on her hand showing through. I quickly grabbed some tissues and started wiping her hand, my voice rushing with apologies. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to. I…I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Mom gave me a small smile, patting my hand reassuringly. “It’s alright, honey. No harm done. I just didn’t hold it tight enough.” But as she gathered herself, her soothing words somehow felt hollow. Another nightmare?
Lately, the nightmares had become almost constant. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrible was following me, threatening me. I decided I had to do something drastic—I needed to find a way to protect myself. I told Mom and Dad that I was going up Red Ridge to pray at the Mountain Chapel. They surprised me by offering to come along, saying they wanted to support me. I’d never had so much attention from both of them, and though I was nervous, a part of me felt warm, like maybe everything would be alright. We set out that afternoon, and by the time we neared the chapel, the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The shadows lengthened, and the chill in the air grew. As we neared a cliffside path, I spotted an old man sitting by the edge, wearing a ragged fisherman’s hat and holding a fishing pole as if he were casting into the sky itself. Trying to lighten the mood, I nudged Dad and joked, “Look at that old man, fishing right off a cliff!” Dad looked in the direction I was pointing, his brow creasing. “What old man? There’s nothing there but rocks.” I blinked. Rocks? But I could clearly see the man, still there on the cliff’s edge, turning his head slowly until it felt like his gaze met mine.
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