Pearl Maiden

### My sister, radiant and mesmerizing, never stopped being the center of attention—even when she was pregnant. Our parents worked tirelessly to find men for her, never complaining, never resting. I watched as one scrawny, pale man after another left our house with glowing faces and renewed energy. The villagers called her the luck of the town, the one who brought fortune to anyone who shared her bed. But one day, I followed her to the river in the hills and saw something moving beneath the water where she bathed. My sister, Clara, was the jewel of Pearl Creek Village. She was known far and wide for her beauty, her alluring charm, and the way she did… absolutely nothing all day but lie in bed. Even pregnancy didn’t slow her down. Strange muffled sounds often came from her room—moans, groans, and the occasional gasp. People said Clara was the “Pearl of Fortune.” Sleep with her, they claimed, and your luck would change overnight. Our parents didn’t mind the rumors. In fact, they encouraged it, happily taking the money that inevitably followed. A few days ago, however, Clara had slipped and miscarried. Our parents were devastated. They doted on her even more, cooking meat broth every day to “restore her health.” “Still in bed, you lazy brat? Get up and make soup for your sister!” I barely had time to register the sound of my mother’s broom swishing through the air before it smacked down on my back, sending a sharp sting through me. I bolted upright, all traces of sleep gone, and scrambled to the kitchen under her harsh glare. Unlike Clara, who was pale, flawless, and angelic, I was a walking nightmare. My face was a disaster. A twisted nose, a crooked mouth, and an uneven patch of scars covered my left cheek. The right side was even worse—a dark birthmark stretched across it, thick with coarse black hair. The villagers called me “Toad,” saying I was uglier than the slimiest creature in the swamp. When I was born, my parents had wanted to drown me in a chamber pot, but they’d decided to keep me around because I was healthy enough to work. Now, I stood on a stool, stirring a pot of meat broth until the rich, savory aroma filled the air. My stomach growled loudly—I hadn’t eaten all day. But when I was done, my mother snatched the pot away, not sparing me a single drop. “Take this to your sister,” she barked. When I entered Clara’s room, she was sprawled across the bed, her eyes closed, her body writhing slightly as if she were in a dream. The moment she smelled the broth, her eyes snapped open, and she lunged for the bowl. She drank greedily, swallowing mouthful after mouthful, the oil glistening on her lips as it slid down her chin. Watching her eat, I couldn’t help but gulp, my stomach twisting with hunger. Halfway through the bowl, Clara paused and looked at me with a strange smile. “Want some?” she asked sweetly, a rare show of generosity. I nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!” For once, she handed me the bowl. “Here,” she said, smirking. “You look so pitiful—I’ll let you have a taste.” My hands trembled as I brought the bowl to my lips, taking a deep sip of the broth. And then I froze. The broth, which smelled so rich and delicious, tasted like rot—thick with an overwhelming stench of decay. Before I could even understand what was happening, Clara let out a piercing scream. “Mom! Toad stole my broth! She drank it!” My mother stormed in before I could explain, her hand flying across my face with a force that sent me reeling. “That broth is for your sister! You think you deserve it? Get outside and do your chores!” Clara laughed hysterically, her slender waist twisting as she clutched her stomach in mock pain. “Mom,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet, “when are you bringing me my next man? I’m feeling better, you know.” My mother stroked her hair lovingly. “Don’t worry, dear. Once you’re pregnant again, the men will come flocking back.” I clutched my stinging cheek, tears streaming down my face, and stumbled outside to pull weeds. It was nearly sunset by the time I finished my chores. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to the house, only to find my father squatting in the backyard, gnawing on bones. The bones were leftovers from Clara’s broth. Nearby, my mother was scrubbing clothes, muttering to herself. “Good thing this baby didn’t go to waste,” she sighed. “Clara’s body is recovering so well—she’ll be ready to conceive again in no time.” “Clara’s a blessing,” my father agreed, cracking another bone between his teeth. “Even if she’s just our little fortune pearl, she’s worth her weight in money.” Once they went inside, curiosity got the better of me. I crept toward the pile of discarded bones. At first, I didn’t see anything unusual. But then my eyes landed on something that made my stomach drop. Lying among the scraps was a skull—not fully formed, but unmistakably human. I staggered back, my heart hammering in my chest. It was the remains of Clara’s unborn child. 2 My parents always made me cook the meat, never letting me look too closely at it. But now, the thought of that broth—its nauseating stench—made me shiver. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My parents’ words kept replaying in my mind, and my cheek, still swollen from the slap, throbbed painfully. Unable to bear it, I got up in the dark to find some ointment. That’s when I noticed something strange: my sister, Clara, who never left her bed, was gone. Curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to follow her. I crept through the shadows, watching as Clara made her way to the river behind the hills. She slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the water. Holding my breath, I crouched low and peeked through the bushes. Clara was waist-deep in the river, her bare back partially exposed above the surface. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling heavily. She looked… in pain, but there was something else too—a strange, almost blissful expression on her face. My eyes widened in horror. Something thick and eel-like, as large as a man’s arm, was writhing in her lap, coiling and twisting against her body. “Ah!” Clara let out a sharp gasp, her voice breaking through the quiet night. I froze, my mind racing. I knew there were eels in the river. They liked dark, murky places, preferring the shadows and filth. But this—this was something else entirely. A chill ran down my spine as I instinctively rubbed my arms, feeling as though I’d been in that water myself. I couldn’t watch any longer. Shaking, I crouched lower and began to sneak away. But just as I thought I was safe, a hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. I screamed, spinning around, only to find my father standing behind me. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it sent a shiver through me. “Little Lizzy,” he said, his tone eerily calm, “what did you see?” My heart thudded in my chest as I stammered out a lie, saying I’d gone to use the outhouse and noticed Clara’s door was open, so I went to look for her. “She’s at the river,” I added. “She looked like she wasn’t feeling well…” My father’s expression turned strange, his lips curling into a half-smile. “You’re too young to understand,” he said, his voice almost condescending. “What your sister’s going through… it’s just part of growing up. It’s what makes her a woman.” He patted my head, his words heavy with meaning I didn’t understand, and sent me back toward the house. But instead of going inside, I doubled back. Something wasn’t right. Hiding in the shadows once again, I watched as my father crouched in the bushes by the river, his eyes fixed on Clara. His gaze was intense, hungry. That night, I didn’t dare sleep. I lay in bed, feigning rest, my ears straining for any sound. And then I heard it. The soft creak of footsteps, careful and quiet. My father was sneaking into Clara’s room. A month later, Clara started vomiting. She was showing all the signs of pregnancy. My mother wasted no time calling the town’s only healer, Dr. Samuel, to check her. Sure enough, Clara was pregnant again. My parents were overjoyed. “Thank the heavens,” my mother exclaimed, practically glowing with pride. “We’ve got another one on the way!” Clara, too, couldn’t stop smiling. She leaned against the bedpost, her voice saccharine and teasing. “Mom, does that mean I’ll get a man tonight? It’s been over a month, and I’m starving.” “Of course, sweetheart,” my mother cooed. “I’ll let them know right away. The Pearl of Fortune is ready again.” Their laughter filled the house, but I couldn’t stay. My chest felt tight, and I needed to get away from their sickening celebration. Dr. Samuel was the only person in Hollow Creek who had ever been kind to me. He wasn’t like the others. Young, clean-cut, and soft-spoken, he didn’t treat me like a monster. He’d even taught me how to read and write when no one else would bother. As he was leaving, he caught my arm. “Lizzy,” he said in a low, urgent voice, his usual calm replaced with tension. “Let me check something.” He took my wrist and pressed his fingers to it, feeling my pulse. His brow furrowed deeply. “Lizzy,” he said again, his voice more serious this time, “you need to listen to me carefully.” I nodded, my heart pounding. “They’ve been lying to you. All of them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you… when you come of age, when your body changes, don’t tell anyone. Don’t let them know.” My eyes widened, confusion and fear swirling in my chest. “Why?” “Because they’ll give you something to drink. They’ll say it’s medicine, but it’s not. Whatever you do, don’t drink it. If you do, something terrible will happen.” 3 I didn’t understand Dr. Samuel’s warning, but the fear in his voice made me shiver. “What… what do you mean?” I asked, my voice trembling. He opened his mouth to explain, but before he could say another word, my mother’s sharp voice called me from inside the house. Samuel hesitated, then sighed and left quickly. After Clara got pregnant again, she became even lazier, leaving every chore to me. She didn’t lift a finger, not even to pour herself a glass of water. Every morning, I had to cook her meat broth and wash her, while at night, her room filled with those strange, lilting sounds again. But tonight, the noises were different. The usual soft, drawn-out hums turned into something lower, guttural—almost like the whimpering of a wounded animal. The village chief came by that night. He was well past sixty, but when he left, his face was ruddy, his step light, as though years had been lifted from his shoulders. In the yard, I overheard him whispering with a few other men. “That was the last night. I’ll miss her, though. My wife’s never been so… lively.” “True,” another man said with a chuckle. “But we have to think about the future. The entire village depends on her.” Their words sent a chill through me. Something was wrong. What were they planning? Did Clara know? The next morning, when I brought Clara her broth, I finally worked up the courage to warn her. “Clara,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “stop bringing men into your room. They’re going to hurt you. I think—” Before I could finish, she snatched the bowl from my hands and slammed it against my face. The scalding liquid splashed across my skin, and the bowl left a red, swollen mark where it hit me. “You jealous little toad,” she sneered, laughing as I stumbled back, clutching my burning cheek. “What do you know? You don’t even have a man. You just can’t stand that they all want me.” She clapped her hands, laughing so hard she doubled over, her snake-like waist twisting with glee. I swallowed my anger, my voice low and cold. “Fine. I’ll go tell Mom to bring you another man.” For three months, my parents kept collecting money from the men who came to Clara’s room. But instead of looking happy, their expressions grew heavier each day, darkened by something they wouldn’t talk about. And Clara… something wasn’t right with her either. At only four months pregnant, her belly was already as large as if she were full-term. Veins, dark and swollen, twisted under her pale, thin skin, writhing like worms. One morning, I was jolted awake by screams from Clara’s room. She was in labor. It didn’t make sense—normal women carried their babies for nine months, maybe eight at the least. But Clara was only four months in. The entire village had gathered outside our house, their faces tense with anticipation. “God bless her,” someone whispered. “May she bring fortune to us all.” “We’ve waited so long,” another murmured. “This has to be it.” Hours dragged on, and Clara’s screams grew weaker and weaker. Finally, my mother emerged, her face drenched in sweat, her hands covered in blood. She carried a heavy basket in her arms. She looked down at it and spat. “Another useless one.” The villagers craned their necks for a look. But when they saw what was inside, their faces fell, and they quickly dispersed, muttering under their breath. Curiosity got the better of me. Once everyone was gone, I crept closer to the basket. Inside, wrapped in a thin, translucent membrane, was a creature that wasn’t human. It had no arms or legs, just a stubby, misshapen body. Two pitch-black eyes, slitted and unblinking, stared out from its face, with no eyelids to close them. Gills flared on its sides, opening and closing with each shallow breath. I froze, my blood running cold. It wasn’t a baby. It was a monster. Clara bled out later that day. No matter what my mother did, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. She died before sunset. But what shocked me most wasn’t her death—it was the village’s reaction. The same people who once called her their “Pearl of Fortune” now acted as though she’d never existed. They didn’t mourn her. They didn’t even come to pay their respects. The next morning, smoke rose from every chimney, carrying the mouthwatering scent of roasted meat. Only the village chief came to our house. “Such a shame,” he said, standing before Clara’s altar. He even squeezed out a few tears. “She was one of a kind.” As he turned to leave, his gaze landed on me, crouched in the corner, burning paper for the dead. His eyes narrowed, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. “Lizzy’s sixteen now, isn’t she?” I didn’t dare lie. I nodded stiffly. The chief’s smile widened. Later that evening, I saw him talking to my parents in hushed tones. “She’ll do just fine,” I heard him say through the thin wooden door. “Better than the last one. She’ll bring us everything we need.” They talked until dusk. After Clara’s death, my parents’ attitude toward me shifted. They were… kind. For the first time in my life, they treated me with warmth, as though I were something precious. But I didn’t trust it. A few weeks later, I was washing clothes by the river when I felt a sudden heat between my legs. Looking down, I saw a smear of sticky, red liquid staining my underclothes. Panic surged through me. “Mom! Mom, what’s happening to me?” When my mother saw the blood, her face lit up with joy. “Don’t be scared, Lizzy,” she said, beaming. “You’re a woman now.” I felt sick, my stomach cramping as she carried me home on her back. That night, she made me a bowl of thick, bitter-smelling broth and brought it to my bedside. For the first time, she was gentle with me, her voice soft and sweet as she coaxed me to drink. “Be a good girl, Lizzy. Drink this, and the pain will go away.” Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to me like this. I reached for the bowl, my hands trembling. But just as I was about to take a sip, Dr. Samuel’s voice echoed in my mind: “Whatever you do, don’t drink it. If you do, something terrible will happen.” I froze, the bowl inches from my lips. 4 I turned my head away, refusing to drink the bitter concoction. My teeth clenched as I shook my head in defiance. But my mother wasn’t having it. Her expression darkened, and she grabbed my jaw with surprising strength, forcing my mouth open. She poured the hot, thick liquid down my throat, ignoring my muffled protests. “Be a good girl,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “By tomorrow morning, you’ll be a grown woman.” When she finally left, I scrambled to the corner and tried to gag myself, desperate to throw it all up. But no matter how hard I tried, the medicine refused to come back up. Terror gripped me, and I spent the entire night curled up in my bed, trembling as I waited for the unspeakable horror Dr. Samuel had warned me about. But nothing happened. The next morning, I cautiously approached the mirror—and froze. The scars that had marred my face for as long as I could remember were gone. The dark, hairy birthmark that had covered the right side of my face? Vanished. In its place was smooth, porcelain skin—soft, flawless, and glowing. My cheeks looked so delicate, they seemed like they might bruise if touched too hard. I was… beautiful. Even more beautiful than Clara had been. I stood in stunned silence, pulling off my clothes. The tight, restricting bandages I’d always worn fell to the floor, revealing my figure. My chest, once flattened beneath layers of cloth, was now full, pale, and unrestrained. For the first time in my sixteen years, I saw my true self. When I finally stepped out of my room, my parents were cooking breakfast. The moment my father saw me, he couldn’t help himself—his hand reached out and pinched my arm, as though testing if I was real. I flinched away, but my mother’s reaction was far different. Her face lit up with joy. “See? Didn’t I tell you?” she cried, clapping her hands. “Look at you now—you’re the most beautiful girl in the whole village!” My heart pounded as her words sank in. The most beautiful girl in the village. For the first time, I wouldn’t have to hear people call me “Toad.” With my newfound beauty, everything changed. The villagers, who used to mock and avoid me, treated me with reverence. Even my parents seemed to see me in a new light. “Lizzy’s got that good fortune about her,” someone said. “She’s even better than Clara was!” “She’ll make a fine Pearl of Fortune,” another villager added. “She’ll bring blessings to all of us!” But every time someone said those words, Clara’s screams echoed in my mind. I couldn’t forget the way she’d died, and the thought of following in her footsteps filled me with dread. My mother must have sensed my fear because she pulled me aside one afternoon. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone soft and reassuring. “Your sister just wasn’t as lucky as you. You’re different. You’re our family’s only hope now.” For three days, my mother personally supervised me as I drank the herbal medicine. By the fourth day, she seemed satisfied that I was obedient and left me alone with the steaming bowl. “Finish it all,” she said, patting my head before heading out to do chores. But this time, I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. I stared at the bowl in my hands, the bitter aroma filling my nose. All my life, I’d dreamed of shedding my ugly skin, of finally being seen as something other than a monster. But now that I had it… Was this really a blessing? That afternoon, Dr. Samuel found me by the river, washing clothes. When he saw me, he froze, his eyes widening in shock. “You…” he whispered. “What have they done to you?” I avoided his gaze, my heart heavy with doubt. Grabbing my bucket, I tried to walk away. “You lied to me!” I shot back over my shoulder. “You said something terrible would happen, but nothing has! I’m fine!” “Lizzy, stop!” he called after me, his voice filled with urgency. I paused, my fists tightening around the bucket handle. “You’re not fine,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “What you’re experiencing… it’s all a lie. A trap to pull you in.” I turned to face him, my chest tight with frustration. “What are you talking about?” Samuel hesitated, his expression pained. “If you drink the medicine for seven days, you’ll lose control of yourself completely. Your mind, your will—it’ll all be gone. You’ll become nothing more than a tool for the men in this village.” His voice dropped lower. “Do you remember the river behind the hills? The thing you saw there? That’s what killed your sister.” The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. Clara, half-submerged in the water. The massive eel-like creature writhing against her body. The strange mix of pain and ecstasy on her face. I shuddered, my skin crawling. But who was telling the truth—Samuel or my parents? That night, I decided to test it for myself. When my mother gave me the fourth bowl of medicine, I pretended to drink it but secretly poured it out. By morning, I noticed something strange: a faint shadow of the birthmark had reappeared on my cheek. That evening, I crept down the hallway, pressing myself against the wall as I approached my parents’ room. The light was still on, and their voices drifted through the thin wooden door. “…The full moon’s almost here,” my father was saying, excitement clear in his tone. “It’s time to offer Lizzy to the River God.”

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