Itook the gun with me and waited in the forest, like a wild animal. I stared at my watch, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. When it’d be Christmas Day. A few minutes later, in the cold, unforgiving darkness—the clock struck midnight.
I got up, my legs sore, my body aching, my head pounding…but I marched on, through the snow, using the trees as leverage to keep myself up. I knew that this was the end, but I didn’t care. I had been forever changed, and I knew the person responsible.
After all of these horrible, traumatic days—after all of the people I had murdered in cold blood…I knew the truth, I only needed to confirm it. Everything I had blocked out, in my mind, concerning the dark truth surrounding my family’s massacre—would come to light.
I had to face it, after 20 years.
I had no other choice.
After a good while of stalking forward, braving the howling winds that seemed to slice at my face—I walked through an opening, out of the forest, that led to an open, snow-covered field.
There it was—the abandoned white church. It sat quietly in the heavy winter snow. Its white paint was faded, blending inwith the world around it. Snow piled up against the cracked wooden doors, and icicles hung from the roof. The windows were broken and covered in frost. A leaning tower stood tall and strong, a giant wooden cross coated in ice.
I dared to walk over to it, my heart pounding in my ears. When I reached the entrance, I took a deep, cold breath. I pushed open the heavy doors as they screeched and whined.
When I stepped inside, layers of snow covered the empty, dusted floor and the long abandoned pews. It was dark and quiet inside. As I walked forward quietly, the sounds of my footsteps echoed over the massive overhead arch of the building.
Stained, decorative panes of glass reflected the specks of moonlight creeping in. I didn’t see him at first, but when my eyes adjusted to the darkness—there he was. A lone, shadowy figure at the end of the great hall, standing in front of a headless ceramic statute, a sharp, curved weapon in hand.
I pulled out the gun and kept it at my side—prepared for the worst. As I got closer, I saw a half-frozen, zombified man, who looked just like me. It was like staring into a dark mirror. I gasped and stopped dead in my tracks.
I couldn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it, but it was the dark, horrible truth.
The man stepped forward, the light from the moon illuminating his face more clearly. He was dressed in all black—a tattered sweatshirt clung tightly around his thin frame, and ripped cargo pants hung loose around his legs. The half-torn boots he had on seemedto fuse with his veiny, frosted feet—his frozen toes peeking out of them.
“Hello brother,” he said in a haunting voice.
I gasped quietly, that voice—it brought back so many memories. I already knew who it was. It was unmistakable. My gut felt like it had an iron belt constricting it, crushing me so hard the air was being sucked out of me.
“Lincoln…it’s you. You’re alive.”
It was my twin brother.
After so many years of believing he was dead…he wasn’t, he was alive—standing in front of me, like an undead corpse from our dark past.
He nodded slowly. “I’ve been playing a long game of revenge, brother.”
I shuddered, a cold spear rushing down my spine, my limbs trembling…I couldn’t believe it. Lincoln, my twin brother, had been the one.
He abducted Angela.
“Why? Why do all of this? Why…why abduct Angela? Why mutilate her? Why, Lincoln? Why?” I asked softly, confused as to why my own brother wanted to torment me with such a horribly twisted game.
Lincoln rose the hatchet in his hand and pointed it at me angrily. “Because you abandoned me! All those years ago! I know the truth.”
I shook my head, not sure what he was referringto. “What are you talking about?”
Lincoln rested the hatchet on his shoulder. “When I…killed our foster parents. I asked you to come with me. You didn’t listen. We could’ve protected each other—while on the run from the police. We could’ve met here. I told you, the abandoned white church, but no…you left me to die!”
I remembered it all. The memories I had blocked out, what had truly happened that day—20 years ago. I now knew the truth. Colton Kilhouser was my brother, Lincoln Frost.
He was the one who had murdered our foster parents. My mind conjured a dark figure to explain the events that had been told to me—over and over again.
That Colton Kilhouser had killed my family and that Lincoln was dead. Colton never existed, it was a name—an alias…to hide the tragic truth.
The voice I had been hearing was his, all along. Fragments of my shattered memory coming back to haunt me.
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You killed our foster parents. I was terrified of you. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t leave with you that day.”
