The scent of iron lingered in the air, clinging to Mary-Jane's clothes and hair as she climbed the creaking staircase. Each step felt heavier, her small hands trailing along the walls for balance. The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of a distant refrigerator and the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky faucet. The calmness of the setting betrayed the horrors she had just left behind.
In the kitchen, she moved instinctively, her petite fingers grasping the oven dial. The click, click, click of the knob echoed as she turned it to the required temperature. She stared at the glowing orange numbers, her gaze distant.
Her mind replayed the scene in the basement. The screams. The struggle. The way her father moved was mechanical and practiced as if it were just another chore.
"This is normal," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the oven. She wasn't convincing herself, not entirely, but it helped quiet the creeping unease that nibbled at the edges of her thoughts.
Mary-Jane's father emerged moments later, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. His once pristine shirt was smeared with streaks of crimson, which he seemed unconcerned about as he approached the sink to wash his hands. The water ran red for a few moments before fading to clear.
"Everything ready, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice disturbingly cheerful.
"Yes, Daddy," she answered robotically, avoiding his eyes.
"Good girl," he said, drying his hands on a towel and smiling. His affection made her stomach churn.
The air between them thickened as he turned toward her, his gaze softening. For a brief moment, he was just a father looking at his daughter with pride.
"You're not scared, are you?" he asked, crouching slightly to meet her eye level.
Mary-Jane hesitated. Was she scared? She didn't know. Fear felt abstract to her, like something she had read about in books but never fully experienced.
"No, Daddy," she replied, forcing a small, hollow smile.
He chuckled, patting her gently on the head. "That's my girl. Strong, just like your mother was."
The mention of her mother brought a flicker of something to her chest. Not warmth, not love, but a vague, gnawing emptiness. Her mother had vanished years ago, leaving only faint memories of lullabies and the scent of lavender. Mary-Jane had stopped asking questions about her long ago, knowing the answers would likely be as twisted as the world her father had built.
The timer on the oven beeped, breaking the silence. Her father's face lit up, a predator's grin stretching across his lips.
"Time to get started," he announced, his voice dripping with enthusiasm.
Mary-Jane nodded, retreating to a corner of the kitchen as her father opened the oven door. He disappeared briefly, returning with a large plastic bag stained with streaks of blood. She didn't need to ask what was inside; the answer was already clear.
He began humming a cheery tune as he worked, pulling out knives and carefully slicing the contents of the bag into neat portions. Mary-Jane watched with a mixture of detachment and morbid fascination. It was like watching a chef on television, precise and methodical, except the ingredients were…different.
"Do you want to help, sweetheart?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Her chest tightened. "No, Daddy," she said softly.
"That's fine," he replied with a shrug. "You'll learn when you're ready."
She didn't respond, her eyes fixed on the floor as the sound of chopping filled the room. Each strike of the blade against the cutting board was a cruel reminder of the life they had taken just moments ago.
As the minutes ticked by, the smell of roasting meat began to fill the air. It wasn't unpleasant, but it turned her stomach all the same. She couldn't bring herself to eat when the time came, though her father piled her plate high with the fruits of his labor.
"You need to grow strong," he insisted, watching her expectantly.
Mary-Jane forced herself to take a bite, her hands trembling as she brought the fork to her mouth. The flavor was rich, savory, and utterly nauseating. She swallowed quickly, suppressing the urge to gag, and pushed the plate away.
"I'm not hungry," she murmured.
Her father's expression darkened for a moment before softening again. "That's all right, pumpkin. More for me."
He relished his meal, humming the same cheerful tune as before. Mary-Jane excused herself quietly, retreating to her room.
Once inside, she locked and locked the door, shaking her hands as she leaned against the wall. The facade she had maintained throughout the day began to crack, and tears welled in her eyes.
Sliding down to the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest and let the tears fall silently. She didn't cry for the woman, or her father's victims, or even for herself. She cried because she didn't know how long she could keep pretending.
Mary-Jane lay in bed staring at the ceiling as the night stretched on, her mind racing. She thought about the woman's terrified eyes, the way she had begged for her life. She thought about her father's smile, so warm and yet so cold.
And then she thought about the future.
Will I be like him someday?
The thought chilled her to her core. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the darkness to take her, but sleep would not come. Instead, she lay awake, haunted by the screams that echoed in her memory and the growing fear that she might never escape this life