My family locked me in the basement to give birth. Days later, they returned to find a dark red liquid seeping from the door. As my mother screamed, a voice whispered behind her, “Looking for me?”

consumed by a primal, unadulterated panic. I launched my battered body up the wooden staircase in the pitch black, hurling my fists against the immovable oak door until the skin over my knuckles split and wept warm blood. I shrieked for my mother, for my father, begging them to end this deranged theatrical performance. But the house above remained continue reading …