I wake up the next morning to the comforting aroma of Mom's cooking enveloping me.
The scent of homemade meatloaf, green beans, fresh rolls, and mashed potatoes with brown gravy fills the house, a familiar, almost nostalgic comfort.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, savoring the warmth of it, trying to push away the lingering unease from the day before. It's a small slice of normalcy in a life that's been anything but.
I don't remember much about my birth parents. They vanished without a trace, leaving no bodies, no clues. The last people to see them were our neighbors, and even they only remember fragments.
It was as if my childhood itself had become a haze—coming and going in fleeting glimpses, memories fading like whispers just beyond reach.
Things haven't been the same since Dad left.
*******
The past:
When I turned ten, Miss Cassie, who had been our nanny, became my sole guardian. She was the only constant in my life after my parents disappeared.
Before that, I had spent between the ages of five and nine being shuffled between families who saw me as a burden rather than a child.
I lived in houses that were too clean, too cold—-where I was expected to be quiet, obedient, invisible.
I don't remember much about the early ones.
But the last foster home? I remember everything.
The meals were the worst.
I sat at the far end of the table, silent, waiting. My stomach growled, but I knew better than to ask for food before I'd earned it.
The rules were simple:
Homework must be perfect.
No mistakes.
No second chances.
Many nights, I went to bed hungry, the growling in my stomach a reminder that I was never enough.
The house was spotless, the kind of pristine that felt staged rather than lived in. But it never felt like home. It never felt safe.
At the dinner table, the silence was cold, unforgiving.
I was a ghost in someone else's life—-expected to sit, to obey, but never to exist.
One night, while I was changing into my pajamas, Miss Cassie noticed bruises on my arms and back.
Her eyes widened in horror, but she quickly masked it with a calm demeanor.
"Monkey, how did you get these bruises?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
I hesitated, fear knotting in my stomach. "I fell down the stairs," I lied, knowing it was the explanation my foster parents always insisted I use.
Miss Cassie didn't believe me.
Her gaze sharpened as she gently took my hand. "We need to talk to someone about this."
The next day, while my foster parents were out shopping, she called DHS.
The DHS investigation was a whirlwind. Caseworkers arrived, asking questions and taking pictures.
My foster parents tensed up, their faces forced into polite masks as they endured the scrutiny.
Mrs. Reed, a kind caseworker with soft eyes, walked through the house, snapping pictures of every room. When she found my tiny, windowless room in the basement, she called her partner, Mr. Stone, to join her.
The tension between my foster parents was palpable. Their knuckles went white as they gripped each other's hands, their bodies stiff.
Mrs. Reed and Mr. Stone exchanged looks, their murmurs barely audible through the thin walls.
When they returned, they asked my foster parents to wait outside. I could hear the rising pitch of their voices as the caseworkers spoke to my foster parents.
"....not suitable for a child…"
".....unacceptable living conditions…"
Mrs. Reed kneels in front of me, her eyes soft but searching.
"Sarah, honey, can you tell me about your room? Is this where you sleep every night?"
I hesitate.
If I say yes, will they believe me?
If I say no, will I be punished?
My foster parents' warning echoes in my head—"Be good, don't cause trouble."
My fingers tighten around the hem of my sweater. My voice is barely a whisper. "Yes, ma'am."
"And these bruises, honey, how did you get them?" Her eyes searched mine, pleading for the truth.
I picked at the frayed edges of my torn sweater, trying not to look at her. "Sometimes… sometimes they get mad if I don't do everything right."
Miss Cassie sat beside me, her hand on my back, offering silent support.
And just like that—-it was over.
I wasn't allowed to stay there anymore.
My foster parents were arrested. The caseworkers quickly, placing me in Miss Cassie's care until the investigation was complete.
They arranged for us to stay at a hotel for the next few nights while they continued to investigate.
For the first time in years, I felt safe.
She took me for ice cream, let me watch cartoons until midnight.
But beneath it all, she was worried.
I saw it in the way she watched me when she thought I wasn't looking.
I heard it in her voice when she talked in hushed tones on the phone with my caseworkers.
Eventually, DHS decided I wouldn't be going back. A judge ruled in our favor.
And just like that—-Miss Cassie became the mother I had lost all those years ago.
I clung to her, grateful for the safety she provided.
But no matter how much I tried to forget…..the past still followed me.
Miss Cassie used to speak in hushed tones about my birth parents when I was older.
Explaining how they had hired her to care for me while they lived their lives.
But the more she spoke, the more gaps appeared in the story.
Why did they leave me?
Why did no one know where they went?
Why did their names barely exist in any official records?
The details were always just out of reach.
Like a puzzle with missing pieces.
A year after becoming my guardian, Miss Cassie started dating.
I was skeptical at first, unsure of whether I wanted to risk disrupting the fragile stability I had finally found.
But then she met Ryan—a kind man who treated us both with love and respect. He had a warm smile and a patient demeanor that gradually won me over.
They encouraged me to call them Mom and Dad, and though it felt strange at first, it gradually became second nature. For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged.
When I turned twelve, they sat me down in the living room, the soft afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.
I could tell they were nervous. Mom held my hand, her eyes full of hope and love.
"Monkey," she began softly, "Ryan and I have been talking, and we wanted to ask you something important."
She glanced at Ryan, who nodded encouragingly.
"We'd like to officially adopt you… if you're okay with that," Ryan said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "You're already our daughter in every way that matters, but we want to make it official."
My heart swelled with emotion. Tears pricked my eyes as I looked at them—these two people who had become my world. "Yes," I whispered, then more firmly, "yes, I would love that."
They hugged me tightly, and for the first time, I felt a sense of completeness I had never known.
Later that year, Mom and Dad had a baby, and I got my first little sister. I remember holding her for the first time, her tiny fingers gripping mine. I was so happy that I would get to teach her everything I knew. Life was perfect.
But perfection is fragile.
Ryan's behavior had always been somewhat enigmatic, but the more time passed, the more peculiar it became.
During certain times of the year, particularly around the summer solstice, he would retreat into his study for hours.
I once overheard him arguing with Mom, his voice rising in intensity. "It's not just about us anymore," he had said, his tone heavy with frustration. "There are things beyond our control."
I tried to brush it off as stress from work, but as I observed him, his strange habits became harder to ignore. His sudden absences, his frequent but vague references to "family matters," and the uneasy glances he exchanged with Mom all added to the growing tension.
One day, I managed to catch a glimpse of Ryan's locked cabinet while he was distracted. Inside, I saw a collection of objects that seemed out of place—antique-looking trinkets, old books with faded titles, and strange symbols etched into the surfaces.
Each object hums with a quiet, electric energy. My breath catches as my gaze lands on one in particular—a rune-like symbol, carved deep into the surface of a small, metal pendant.
The longer I looked at it, the more uneasy I felt, like something inside me remembers it. The hairs on my arms rise. My stomach clenches. It's irrational, but I swore I heard a whisper—so faint, so distant, I couldn't tell if it was real or imagined.
The next time Ryan left for one of his mysterious errands, I couldn't resist the urge to investigate. I waited until he was gone and approached the locked cabinet.
My hands trembled as I tried to see through the gaps in the cabinet's doors. My heart pounded with each creak of the wood, the sense of intrusion making me anxious.
I wanted to understand what Ryan was hiding, but the cabinet remained a fortress of secrets, its contents tantalizingly out of reach.
Later, when I asked Ryan about the artifacts, he brushed it off with a forced smile. "Just some old family things," he said, but his eyes darted away, avoiding mine. The evasiveness in his response only deepened my suspicion, making me more determined to uncover the truth behind his secrets.
I sensed that there was something deeper, something more complex than I could grasp. I didn't understand why their relationship, which had seemed so perfect, had deteriorated so quickly.
Eventually, Mom and I left. We packed our bags and moved to a small apartment on the other side of town.
We wanted to take my sister with us, but Ryan threatened to take Mom to court if she tried. He was adamant that she stay with him, using the courts and the threat of a drawn-out custody battle to keep us apart. Mom, fearing she might lose both of us, reluctantly agreed to leave my sister behind.
At first, we saw my sister regularly. She would visit on weekends, and we would spend hours playing and catching up. But as time went on, the visits became less frequent. Ryan made excuses, citing his busy schedule or my sister's activities.
By the time I was fourteen, we had stopped seeing her altogether. It was as if she had been erased from our lives.
The loss of my sister was a constant ache in our hearts. We missed her terribly and worried about her every day. The perfect family I had once known had shattered, leaving behind only fragments of what used to be.
Through it all, I tried to hold onto the memories of those brief, happy years, hoping that one day, we might find our way back to each other.
On my sixteenth birthday, Mom took me to the doctor to figure out why I hadn't started my period.
The sterile smell of the clinic made me anxious as I sat in the examination room, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
After a series of uncomfortable tests, the doctor returned with a serious expression.
"Sarah, it appears that your ovaries haven't matured. This is quite rare for someone your age," he said, glancing at the chart before looking at my mom.
Mom nodded knowingly. "It runs in her birth family. Sarah's birth mother and aunt struggled to have children naturally. When they decided to have kids, they had to do it differently, but I've never been told the details," she explained.
The doctors accepted her explanation without further question, moving on to the next steps in testing.
When we got home, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I had read through the hospital reports from my birth before and didn't recall anything about my birth mother struggling to have kids.
Determined to find answers, I went to the basement where Mom kept a box of old records and documents related to my birth parents.
As I sifted through yellowed papers and faded photographs, one particular document caught my eye. It was a thick, official-looking file, bound with a leather cover. I carefully opened it, my curiosity piqued.
The contents were a mix of legal documents, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes. My eyes were drawn to an article with the headline:
"Mysterious Disappearance of Prominent Local Family: The Dark Secrets They Left Behind"
The article is old, the edges of the paper frayed and yellowing. My fingers tremble slightly as I skim the words, my pulse quickening with each unfamiliar phrase. "Ethereal figures." "Ancient lineage." "Otherworldly."
My vision tunnels. My breath turns shallow. The room suddenly feels too small, like the walls are pressing in. My hands tighten around the paper as I reread the words, trying to convince myself I'm imagining things. But I'm not.
"Unexplained phenomena surrounding the family's estate, including sightings of ethereal figures," the article noted. I paused, my eyes lingering on those words. Ethereal figures? The term felt foreign, almost otherworldly.
It painted a picture of something beyond the realm of my understanding, something that belonged in myth or legend rather than reality.
The sensation of unease grew, knotting in my stomach. My birth parents had been surrounded by whispers of the supernatural, but this felt more concrete, like a piece of a puzzle I couldn't quite fit.
"Witnesses reported odd occurrences on the property, such as sudden temperature drops, unusual lights, and unexplained sounds," another section read. The vivid descriptions seemed to blur the line between reality and the fantastical.
My mind raced back to the empty house I had dreamt about so many times, its' cold silence, and the eerie atmosphere. Was there a connection between those dreams and these reports? The thought made my pulse quicken.
I turned the page, my fingers trembling slightly. A handwritten note by a private investigator detailed:
"Signs of an ancient and possibly forbidden lineage, with strange symbols and rituals linked to the family."
Ancient lineage. The term echoed in my mind, stirring up a whirlwind of questions. What did this lineage entail? And why was it described as forbidden?
The sense of mystery surrounding my birth parents grew thicker, like a fog obscuring the truth. The symbols mentioned in the note reminded me of the rune-like symbol I had glimpsed in Ryan's study. Was there a deeper connection?
The more I read, the more the sense of the extraordinary gnawed at me. The article's references to "otherworldly influences" and the investigator's notes about "unusual auras" seemed to echo the nightmares that plagued my sleep. The pieces of my past, fragmented and elusive, were now tainted with an almost sinister aura.
I felt a cold sweat on the back of my neck as if something unseen was watching me, just out of reach.
Placing the documents back in the box, I felt an uneasy weight settle over me. The fragments of my past were now tinged with a deeper mystery, and the shadows of my nightmares seemed to merge with the unsettling details I had uncovered. The hidden layers of my history were just beyond my grasp, shrouded in darkness and secrecy.
The more I tried to understand, the more the truth seemed to slip away, leaving me with a growing sense of fear and curiosity that I couldn't ignore.
******
I get dressed in a beautiful navy blue sundress and head downstairs.
"Mom, that smells wonderful," I say, stifling a groan.
"It will be ready by the time you get home, sweetie," Mom giggles and kisses me on the head before turning back to her cooking.
"I'm heading to school now. Can't wait for dinner! Love you!" I rush out the door, hoping the day flies by.
*******
I sit in class, but my mind is nowhere near here.
The voices around me blur—-whispers, laughter, the scratch of pencils on paper. Mr. Stetson drones on about some formula I can't bring myself to care about, but his words slip past me, meaningless.
My fingers grip the edge of my notebook, but I haven't written a single thing.
Instead, my thoughts spin.
The flashback I had this morning. The symbols, The article about my birth parents.
It's like a puzzle missing too many pieces—-just out of reach, just beyond understanding.
I stare down at my notes, my handwriting trailing off mid-sentence. I don't remember what I was even trying to write.
I can't shake the feeling that I'm forgetting something important.
"Sarah?"
A voice breaks through the haze.
I blink, and suddenly, Justin is right in front of me.
He waves a hand near my face, his head tilted. The classroom is empty.
I tense. When did the bell ring? When did everyone leave?
"Earth to Sarah." His voice is lighter than his expression. He's watching me too carefully.
Heat creeps up my neck. "Sorry, I was just…." I fumble for words. "Distracted."
Justin leans against the desk next to mine, arms crossed, his dark eyes studying me.
"I get it," he says after a pause. "You seem….off today."
There's something careful in his tone, like he's testing my reaction.
"I've just got a lot on my mind."
He doesn't look convinced. "Anything I can do?"
I glance up, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, I almost forget what we are talking about—because there's something unreadable in his expression.
A mix of concern, curiosity….and something else.
"It's nothing. Just...personal stuff."
His blue eyes soften, but he doesn't push.
I appreciate that.
Even if a part of me wishes he would.
"Maybe we can go to the library later and work on our project? It might help take your mind off things." Justin's voice is casual, but there's something in his eyes—a quiet observation.
I force a smile. "That would be great, actually."
It's not a lie. A distraction is exactly what I need.
*********
By the time I get home, the weight in my chest has eased some.
I almost expect mom to be in the Kitchen, humming while she cleans, but the house is too quiet.
A note is taped to the door.
"Sorry, Monkey, I had to go to the store to get a few things. Left dinner on the counter for you.
I love you to the moon and back"
I run my fingers over the ink, something tightening in my throat.
She always knows when I need reassurance—-but what if she needs it too?
I step inside, setting my bag down. The air smells like warmth and familiarity, but the unease from earlier clings to me.
Dinner sits untouched on the counter. I should eat. But my stomach is a tangled knot of exhaustion and something heavier.
Instead, I retreat to my room.
My phone buzzes.
Justin.
"Hey Sarah, I can't meet up today. Nat needs a ride to cheerleading
practice and our parents can't take her. Can we meet Saturday instead?"
I exhale, tossing my phone onto my nightstand.
I should be relieved—no strange encounters today, no cryptic warnings from Natalia.
Just a normal night.
So why does it feel like something is waiting?