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Monsters were real, and they wore masks of burlap and broken men. I wondered if I’d ever see the sun again, or if I’d spend the rest of my life singing lullabies to the dark.

Chapter 3

House Of Horrors

Starla

PAST: AGED 15

I shouldn’t have gotten up for a glass of water. If I didn’t, maybe I wouldn’t have heard the screams. Maybe I could still be in bed, blind to the horrors of my father.

I always knew there was something sinister about him. I never thought he’d do this.

He didn’t hear me come down the stairs. The woman screaming drowned out my footsteps. By the time I was at the bottom of the steps, I couldn’t unsee the horror in front of me.

My father was on top of a woman, she was naked. There were bruises and cuts all over her body. There was a strip of tape over her eyes, and her hands were tied together. My father was fucking her.

“Please! Please stop—I’ll do anything, just stop!” The woman cried out helplessly, trying to kick him away. My father slapped her across the face and held her down harder. He put his hand on her throat.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking skank.” He kept ramming into her until he finally released himself. He ripped the tape off of her face. Her eyes were wide with terror, tears leaked out of the corners. “Let me go, please, I won’t tell a soul,” she whispered, her voice almost gone.

He shook his head, then rubbed his hands over her tits. “Such a shame to have to dispose of this perfect body.” He gripped her throat with both hands, pressing down until her face turned red, then purple, until her mouth opened but nothing came out.

Her legs jerked, and her feet slammed against the floor over and over. The sound was worse than screaming. My father didn’t flinch. He just squeezed harder, his eyes empty, jaw clenched. He looked at her like she was a piece of meat, not a person.

I wanted to run. I should have run. But I stood there, half-hidden behind the wall, my body frozen. My lungs wouldn’t work properly, and my brain wouldn’t connect to my body.

The woman’s arms stopped flailing. My father kept squeezing. Her body went still. There was a snap, and I realized it was her neck breaking. Her head lolled to the side, her mouth open, eyes wide and staring at nothing.

My father let go, shook his hands out, wiped them on his pants like she had dirtied him.

I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from making any noise. Nausea overcame too fast. My lungs burned. A scream itched to escape my throat, and my fingers trembled, needing to scratch at my skin. Please, let this be a nightmare. But it was real. It was all real. My father killed her and I watched him do it.

The worst part? He got off on it. The whole time he was choking her, he was rubbing his dick against her core.

He stared down at the corpse, breathing heavy, sweat running down his face. He mumbled something, too quiet to catch. Then he stood, went to a shelf along the wall, and picked up a knife.

He didn’t look at the woman’s face again. He pushed her onto a tarp, arms and legs flopping like she was nothing but a broken doll.

His hand gripped the knife, and he began to cut. He ran the knife down her stomach, split her open, pulled her apart like he’d done it a thousand times. I heard the sound of flesh parting, the wet slap of organs and blood against plastic. I thought I’d pass out. I grabbed the wall to steady myself, nails digging into the old wood.

I couldn’t look away, why couldn’t I look away? Go, Starla, just RUN! My legs were overcome with a numb sensation.

He cut away chunks of skin and muscle, moving with a patience that made me want to vomit. He peeled her like fruit, layer by layer. Her body stopped looking human after a while. Just blood and bone, meat and gristle.

When he was done, he dragged a metal pot from the corner. He set it on a portable burner, poured something thick and caustic inside. The smell hit a second later. My eyes watered.

He lifted the pieces of flesh, dropped them into the bubbling liquid. I heard the hiss, saw steam rise. Bits of her skin curled and blackened, shriveling away until nothing was left but the bones. He used tongs to pull them out, one at a time, laying them out on another tarp to cool.

I saw the woman’s skull, empty eye sockets staring up at the ceiling. I saw her hands, stripped clean, fingers twisted. My father hummed as he worked, the same tune my mother would sing when she was folding laundry. I pressed my fist harder against my mouth, biting until I tasted blood.

After everything had cooled, my father pried up a loose floorboard in the corner. He scooped the bones up, cradling them against his chest like a child. He laid them beneath the boards, then hammered the wood back into place. He sat there for a minute, breathing hard, staring at the floor.

I backed up, shaking, desperate to get away before he saw me. My legs barely worked. I hurried up the stairs, hands numb, heart slamming against my ribs so loud I thought he’d hear me.

I made it to my room, and locked the door. I dove under the blankets and pressed my face into the pillow so no sound would escape. I stayed awake all night, listening for footsteps, for the creak of the stairs. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. The terror. The way she fought, and the way she finally stopped fighting. I saw her eyes staring at me in the dark.

I didn’t sleep again for a long time after that. I never drank water at night. I never forgot what he did, or what I let happen.