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?”

to the paint supplies, locating a heavy, rusted pry bar. Approaching the basement door, I dropped to my knees and jammed the flattened iron tip into the minuscule gap between the bottom of the oak door and the threshold. I threw my entire body weight onto the bar. The wood groaned, protesting the invasion. I worked for six agonizing hours, pausing continue reading …