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Bloodlines
I remember the day I found out I was adopted. It wasn’t during some heartfelt family conversation or a slip of the tongue. It was an accident—a terrible, life-altering accident.
I’d always felt a little different from my family, the Varners. They were quiet, too quiet, their smiles always strained. Our house was a creaky, sprawling Victorian, its corners perpetually dark no matter how many lights we turned on. Still, they were kind enough, if not warm. "We're just not touchy-feely people," my mother, Gloria, used to say. I thought that was normal. Until I turned seventeen.
The day started like any other. I was rifling through the attic, looking for old photos for a school project. The room was stifling, thick with dust and cobwebs. A trunk in the corner caught my eye, its leather peeling and brass hinges tarnished. Inside, I expected to find moth-eaten clothes or forgotten knick-knacks. Instead, I found a stack of yellowed papers, tied together with a fraying red ribbon.
The first page was my birth certificate—or so I thought. It listed my name, birth date, and a hospital I’d never heard of. But the parents listed weren’t Gloria and Harold Varner. My stomach churned. Digging deeper, I found adoption papers. Signed. Dated. Witnessed. I wasn’t just adopted; I had been purchased.
My heart pounded as I flipped through more documents: letters written in a strange, spidery handwriting that mentioned things like "the family curse" and "blood debt." There were even photos—old black-and-white images of people who looked unsettlingly like my parents, but from decades, even centuries ago.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Panicked, I shoved the papers back into the trunk and slammed the lid. Gloria appeared at the attic door, her pale face illuminated by the dim light bulb.
"Find anything interesting?" she asked, her voice calm but her eyes drilling into me.
"No," I lied, wiping my dusty hands on my jeans.
Her gaze lingered for a moment before she smiled. "Good. Dinner's ready."
I barely ate that night. My mind raced with questions. Who were these people? Why had they adopted me? And what was the "blood debt"?
That night, I waited until the house was silent. Then I crept back to the attic. This time, I read every page in that trunk. The letters revealed that the Varners weren’t just a family—they were a lineage of something... unnatural. They owed their wealth and long lives to a ritual. A ritual that required a "new vessel" every generation.
The last page hit me like a punch to the gut: "Subject must be between 17-18 years old. The ceremony will take place on the first blood moon after the vessel comes of age."
I checked the calendar. The blood moon was tomorrow.
---
The next day, I pretended everything was normal. Gloria and Harold acted normal too, but there was an unusual energy in the air, like they were vibrating with excitement. That night, they told me they wanted to celebrate my upcoming birthday with a "special family dinner."
The dining room was decked out with candles and strange, twisted decorations I’d never seen before. At the center of the table was a goblet filled with a thick, dark liquid that didn’t look like wine. Harold handed me a glass.
"To our legacy," he said, smiling.
I excused myself to the bathroom, but instead of going upstairs, I ran to the front door. It was locked. So were all the windows. My parents weren’t in the dining room when I turned back—they were behind me.
"You weren’t supposed to find out this way," Gloria said, her tone almost regretful.
Harold grabbed me, dragging me toward the basement door. I screamed, but the walls of the house seemed to swallow the sound. As we descended into the basement, the air grew colder, heavy with the scent of iron and decay. The room was filled with symbols painted on the walls, strange tools, and an altar.
"You’ll thank us one day," Gloria whispered. "You’re part of something greater than yourself now."
I fought with everything I had, kicking and clawing. I managed to knock over a candle, setting the edge of one curtain ablaze. In the chaos, I broke free and ran. The fire spread quickly, licking up the wooden walls. I didn’t stop running until I reached the woods outside.
I watched from the treeline as the house burned, the flames roaring higher and higher. For a moment, I thought I heard screams—human, but... something else, too. And then, silence.
---
Now, months later, I live under a new name, in a new city. But sometimes, I see things out of the corner of my eye: a shadow that doesn’t belong, a flicker of movement in the mirror. And I swear I hear Gloria’s voice in my dreams, whispering, "You can’t run from family."
Because even though the house burned down, I know they’re not gone. Not really. And I’m afraid they’re coming back—for me.
#entertainment
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I remember the day I found out I was adopted. It wasn’t during some heartfelt family conversation or a slip of the tongue. It was an accident—a terrible, life-altering accident.
I’d always felt a little different from my family, the Varners. They were quiet, too quiet, their smiles always strained. Our house was a creaky, sprawling Victorian, its corners perpetually dark no matter how many lights we turned on. Still, they were kind enough, if not warm. "We're just not touchy-feely people," my mother, Gloria, used to say. I thought that was normal. Until I turned seventeen.
The day started like any other. I was rifling through the attic, looking for old photos for a school project. The room was stifling, thick with dust and cobwebs. A trunk in the corner caught my eye, its leather peeling and brass hinges tarnished. Inside, I expected to find moth-eaten clothes or forgotten knick-knacks. Instead, I found a stack of yellowed papers, tied together with a fraying red ribbon.
The first page was my birth certificate—or so I thought. It listed my name, birth date, and a hospital I’d never heard of. But the parents listed weren’t Gloria and Harold Varner. My stomach churned. Digging deeper, I found adoption papers. Signed. Dated. Witnessed. I wasn’t just adopted; I had been purchased.
My heart pounded as I flipped through more documents: letters written in a strange, spidery handwriting that mentioned things like "the family curse" and "blood debt." There were even photos—old black-and-white images of people who looked unsettlingly like my parents, but from decades, even centuries ago.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Panicked, I shoved the papers back into the trunk and slammed the lid. Gloria appeared at the attic door, her pale face illuminated by the dim light bulb.
"Find anything interesting?" she asked, her voice calm but her eyes drilling into me.
"No," I lied, wiping my dusty hands on my jeans.
Her gaze lingered for a moment before she smiled. "Good. Dinner's ready."
I barely ate that night. My mind raced with questions. Who were these people? Why had they adopted me? And what was the "blood debt"?
That night, I waited until the house was silent. Then I crept back to the attic. This time, I read every page in that trunk. The letters revealed that the Varners weren’t just a family—they were a lineage of something... unnatural. They owed their wealth and long lives to a ritual. A ritual that required a "new vessel" every generation.
The last page hit me like a punch to the gut: "Subject must be between 17-18 years old. The ceremony will take place on the first blood moon after the vessel comes of age."
I checked the calendar. The blood moon was tomorrow.
---
The next day, I pretended everything was normal. Gloria and Harold acted normal too, but there was an unusual energy in the air, like they were vibrating with excitement. That night, they told me they wanted to celebrate my upcoming birthday with a "special family dinner."
The dining room was decked out with candles and strange, twisted decorations I’d never seen before. At the center of the table was a goblet filled with a thick, dark liquid that didn’t look like wine. Harold handed me a glass.
"To our legacy," he said, smiling.
I excused myself to the bathroom, but instead of going upstairs, I ran to the front door. It was locked. So were all the windows. My parents weren’t in the dining room when I turned back—they were behind me.
"You weren’t supposed to find out this way," Gloria said, her tone almost regretful.
Harold grabbed me, dragging me toward the basement door. I screamed, but the walls of the house seemed to swallow the sound. As we descended into the basement, the air grew colder, heavy with the scent of iron and decay. The room was filled with symbols painted on the walls, strange tools, and an altar.
"You’ll thank us one day," Gloria whispered. "You’re part of something greater than yourself now."
I fought with everything I had, kicking and clawing. I managed to knock over a candle, setting the edge of one curtain ablaze. In the chaos, I broke free and ran. The fire spread quickly, licking up the wooden walls. I didn’t stop running until I reached the woods outside.
I watched from the treeline as the house burned, the flames roaring higher and higher. For a moment, I thought I heard screams—human, but... something else, too. And then, silence.
---
Now, months later, I live under a new name, in a new city. But sometimes, I see things out of the corner of my eye: a shadow that doesn’t belong, a flicker of movement in the mirror. And I swear I hear Gloria’s voice in my dreams, whispering, "You can’t run from family."
Because even though the house burned down, I know they’re not gone. Not really. And I’m afraid they’re coming back—for me.
#entertainment
source
| 21,000 mlx | |
| 26 | |
| 2 |