The iron gates of the ancestral manor didn't just creak; they groaned under the weight of my arrival, a rusted symphony of welcome for the daughter they thought they had erased. I walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, though I left no physical weight behind. The rain continued to lash down, but I remained dry, the water seemingly afraid to touch the cold essence of my vengeful spirit. Inside those walls, my family was likely huddled together, perhaps celebrating with expensive wine, toastng to the "tragedy" that made them millionaires. They had no idea that the tragedy had just come home.
I didn't enter through the front door. I didn't need to. I drifted through the heavy oak panels like a whisper of smoke, appearing in the grand hallway where my father's portrait still hung. His painted eyes seemed to follow me, filled with a sadness that mirrored my own rage. But I couldn't dwell on him yet. My mother—my poor, fragile mother—was the one calling to me. They had buried her in the private family cemetery at the back of the estate, a place of prestige that she never wanted. They put her there just to keep up appearances, a final act of hypocrisy.
I reached the cemetery, the marble headstones glowing like teeth in the dark. Her grave was fresh, the earth still soft and muddy. I knelt beside it, my spectral fingers digging into the dirt. I didn't need a shovel. My rage moved the earth, the soil flying upward in a whirlwind of supernatural fury. I needed to see her. I needed to ensure they hadn't touched her, hadn't insulted her even in death. As the wooden casket came into view, I felt a wave of nausea. This was the woman who had protected me, now reduced to a box in the ground because of the people in that house.
I pried the lid open. There she lay, pale and still, looking as though she were merely sleeping. But the sight of her didn't bring me peace; it brought a roar of agony that shook the very trees surrounding us. I reached out and touched her cold cheek. In that moment, I made a choice. I wouldn't let her remain a trophy of their "grief." I began to exert my will, my dark energy flowing into the casket. I would mar this place. I would make it so that no one would ever want to visit this grave again. I began to tear at the silk lining, breaking the polished wood, creating a scene of absolute desecration. If they wanted a tragedy, I would give them a nightmare. I wanted them to find this tomorrow and know that something unholy had returned for its own.
A shadow moved near the edge of the graveyard. I froze. It was my uncle, the man who had held the gun to my head. He was stumbling, a bottle of scotch in his hand, looking for a quiet place to escape his own guilt. He stopped near the freshly unearthed grave, his eyes widening as he saw the dirt piled high and the casket lid shattered. He dropped the bottle, the glass shattering against a tombstone.
"Who's there?" he stammered, his voice thin and trembling.
I didn't answer with words. I rose from the grave, my hooded figure silhouetted against the flash of lightning. I let him see the knife. I let him see my eyes—the eyes of the niece he thought he had murdered. He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat as I lunged. I didn't kill him instantly. That would be too kind. I wanted him to feel the coldness of the grave first. I dragged him toward the open pit, his fingernails clawing at the mud as he begged for mercy.
"Mercy?" I whispered, my voice sounding like the grinding of stones. "You didn't show mercy to my father. You didn't show mercy to me. And you certainly didn't show mercy to her."
I shoved his face into the wet earth, right next to the casket I had just opened. I wanted him to smell the rot of his own soul. He scrambled back, gasping for air, but I was everywhere at once. I was the shadow behind the tree, the cold breath on his neck, the glint of steel in the dark. I chased him back toward the house, toyng with him like a predator. Every time he thought he reached safety, I appeared in front of him, the knife leaving thin, stinging red lines across his skin—reminders of every signature he forced me to sign.
By the time he reached the patio doors, he was a broken man, his expensive suit ruined, his mind fracturing. He hammered on the glass, screaming for the others to let him in. I stood just a few feet away, watching as my cousins and aunts gathered at the window, their faces turning ghost-white as they saw the bloodied man outside and the dark figure looming behind him.
I raised the knife and pointed it directly at them. The lights in the entire mansion began to flicker and explode, one by one, plunging them into the same darkness they had forced upon me. The "accident" was over. The hunt had moved indoors. As the last light died, I stepped through the shattered glass of the patio door.
"I'm home," I whispered into the void. And the screaming began.
Akifa,
The Author.