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.
Things haven't been the same since Dad left. 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.
*******
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.
Between the ages of 5 and 9, I had a series of foster families that treated me like an inconvenience. My last foster family's house was large and meticulously clean, but it never felt like home. The coldness of their treatment, the lack of affection, left scars deeper than any physical wound. Miss Cassie's kindness was a balm, but the fear of abandonment never fully went away.
Meals were the worst. I could only eat after everyone else, and only if my homework was perfect. Many nights, I went to bed hungry, the growling in my stomach a constant reminder of my inadequacy. The cold, unyielding silence around the dinner table never made me feel like I belonged. It was like being 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.
Mrs. Reed sat me down on the old, threadbare couch, her voice gentle but firm. "Sarah, can you tell us about your room? Is this where you sleep every night?"
I nodded, throat dry. "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. After the caseworkers talked to her and me, they told us I couldn't stay there until everything was figured out. They arranged for us to stay at a hotel for the next few nights while they continued to investigate.
Those days in the hotel were a strange mix of fear and relief. I felt safe for the first time in years, but the uncertainty of what would happen next weighed on me. Miss Cassie tried to keep things normal, taking me out for ice cream, letting me watch my favorite shows, but I could see the worry etched on her face.
Eventually, DHS decided it wasn't safe for me to stay with my foster parents anymore. A judge reviewed the evidence of abuse and neglect and agreed. They granted temporary custody to Miss Cassie, who had acted swiftly when she noticed something was wrong.
Miss Cassie became the mother I had lost. She filled our days with warmth and stability, teaching me how to trust again. I clung to her, grateful for the safety she provided.
I remember Miss Cassie speaking 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. I never fully understood why they never came back. The details remained incomplete, leaving me with more questions than answers.
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 item seemed to hum with a quiet, unsettling energy. One particular symbol—a rune-like shape—caught my eye. It looked ancient, almost alive, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow linked to the secrets Ryan was keeping.
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. The more I learned, the more everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers. The unease gnawed at me, pulling at threads I wasn't yet ready to unravel.
Eventually, Mom and I left. We packed our bags and moved to a small apartment on the other side of town. I 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. And 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 was dated several years after my birth and detailed the sudden disappearance of my birth parents. As I scanned through the text, phrases like "ethereal figures" and "ancient lineage" leaped out at me, each word sending a shiver down my spine.
"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.
As I sat in class, the weight of my unresolved thoughts pressed heavily on my shoulders. The day's events felt like a blur, my mind caught between the remnants of nightmares and the cryptic pieces of my past I'd uncovered. The classroom around me was a cocoon of noise and chatter, but I was miles away, tangled in a web of confusion and unease.
I stared blankly at the notes in front of me, trying to focus but finding my mind drifting back to the eerie symbols and the unsettling article about my birth parents. Each time I tried to piece together the fragments of my past, the puzzle seemed more elusive, leaving me feeling frustrated and disconnected.
"Sarah!? Earth to Sarah!" Justin's voice broke through my reverie, and I blinked, startled to find him waving his hand in front of my face. The classroom was empty except for us, and the realization that I'd been lost in my thoughts for the entire period made me flush with embarrassment.
"Sorry, I was just…" I began, fumbling for an explanation. "I've got a lot on my mind."
Justin's expression softened, a mix of concern and awkwardness. "I know things got tense between us the other day. I hope I didn't scare you."
Sarah glanced up, her eyes meeting Justin's. She could see the concern in his gaze, but she struggled to shake off the remnants of the nightmare she had just woken from. His presence was both a comfort and a reminder of her own insecurities.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to space out," Sarah said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew her haunted past made her seem distant, and she hated it. Justin's concerned look made her heart ache; she wanted to open up but couldn't find the right words.
"Is something bothering you?" Justin asked gently.
She hesitated, her mind flashing back to the nightmare where her birth parents' faces blurred and their voices echoed unanswered. "It's nothing," she said quickly. "Just… some personal stuff."
Justin's eyes softened, but he didn't press further. Sarah appreciated his restraint but felt a pang of guilt. She knew she was shutting him out, but the fear of exposing her vulnerability was overwhelming.
"Maybe we can go to the library later and work on our project? It might help take your mind off things."
"That would be great, actually," I agreed, feeling a bit of relief at the prospect of a distraction.
I head home, eager to talk to Mom and eat. When I arrive, I find a note 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."
Mom always knows how to make me smile. I take the note inside, get some dinner, and retreat to my room. Ever since we left Ryan, we've been plagued by nightmares that have taken a toll on both Mom and me. Each night, I fall into fitful sleep only to be haunted by vivid, unsettling dreams. They're not just fleeting glimpses of fear but full-blown scenarios that replay my deepest anxieties.
In these dreams, my birth parents' faces blur and shift, their eyes pleading or angry, and their voices echo in a cacophony of unanswered questions and accusations. I see them reaching out, only to fade away before I can touch them, leaving me grasping at shadows. Sometimes, I find myself in the eerie, empty house described in the articles, with its cold, oppressive silence that wraps around me like a shroud.
The impact on me is profound. I wake up gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, with my heart racing as if I've just sprinted a marathon. These dreams leave me unsettled, a gnawing sense of dread lingering long after I've woken. The nightmares disrupt my days, making it hard to concentrate, to feel truly present. My mind races through a haze of confusion, trying to make sense of the fragmented images that haunt my sleep.
Mom, too, is affected. I hear her murmuring in her sleep, the words often tangled with my name or the names of my birth parents. Sometimes, she wakes up crying, her face flushed with a mix of fear and sorrow. The nightmares seem to tear at the fragile stability we've built, leaving her emotionally drained. She tries to mask it with a brave face during the day, but I can see the weariness in her eyes. We comfort each other, but the support feels insufficient, like a bandage on a deep wound.
As I sit alone in my room, the comforting silence contrasts sharply with the chaos in my mind. The pieces of my past feel like scattered fragments—disjointed and elusive. My parents' sudden departure, Ryan's odd behaviors, and the strange, unsettling articles about my birth parents swirl around me, creating a storm of unanswered questions.
I can't shake the feeling that something crucial is missing from the narrative of my life. My memories of Ryan and Mom's arguments often return to me, not as specific words or phrases, but as a gnawing sense of unease. Why did their relationship deteriorate so quickly? Why were there so many secrets, unspoken and hidden?
Ryan's peculiar habits—his unexplained absences and cryptic conversations—plague my thoughts. I wonder what he was really doing during those times he "had business" to attend to. And those objects he kept locked away… what were they? The symbol I glimpsed, something ancient and unfamiliar, seems to call to me, beckoning me to uncover its meaning.
The article I found about my birth parents is a puzzle I can't quite fit together. The references to "unexplained phenomena" and "ancient lineage" feel like they're just on the edge of my understanding. It's as if there's a hidden layer to my history that's just out of reach, obscured by a veil of mystery and silence. The sense of something extraordinary yet hidden gnaws at me, creating a mixture of curiosity and dread.
Every day, I try to piece together the fragments of my past. I revisit those newspaper articles, hoping to find something more concrete. I think about the words I overheard Ryan saying, the strange artifacts he collected, and the cryptic conversations he had with Mom. My mind races with questions: What was their connection to my birth parents? Why were they so determined to keep me in the dark?
This quest for answers is driven by more than just curiosity; it's a desperate need to understand who I really am. The nightmares have fostered a sense of urgency in me. Each night's terror reminds me that there's something unresolved, something lurking just beyond my grasp. I know that finding answers about my birth parents and the strange occurrences tied to them might offer some relief. The fear of the unknown drives me to seek out the truth, hoping that understanding my past will bring clarity and, perhaps, a reprieve from the relentless nightmares.
I realize that I can't talk to Mom about this. Her pain is too raw, her own secrets too tightly held. If I'm to find answers, I have to rely on myself. Maybe contacting the author of the article could shed some light, or perhaps there are other clues hidden in plain sight. I don't know where this path will lead, but I know I can't turn back now. The search for truth has become more than just a quest; it's a necessity for understanding who I am and where I come from.
As I prepare to leave to meet Justin, my phone buzzes with a text:
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?
Annoyed, I roll my eyes and decide to just go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day, and I need the rest.