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But no one came. There was just a muffled groan that sounded like when she’d cut her foot when we were running through the grass by the river.
I started to go down the stairs. When I stepped on the third step, there was a loud creak, and I paused, waiting to see if I'd been heard.
As I got closer to the bottom of the stairs, I realized why no one was rushing out. Along with the screams, there was music playing. Classical music.
I'd never been a big fan of music like that, but my dad had always loved it. The music was blaring so loudly that by the time I finally made it to the bottom of the stairs, it felt like my eardrums were going to burst.
I stood there, trying to convince myself to run back upstairs, to pretend like none of this had ever happened.
But I finally opened the door, just as slowly as I’d opened all the others.
And when I finally got the door cracked open, and I peered into the room…I saw them.
My best friend was laying on a long metal table, her eyes wild and crazy as she thrashed her head around, moaning. Drool was sliding down her chin. And every once in a while, she screamed.
She wasn’t tied to the table, but her body wasn’t moving, just her head. Like the rest of her was paralyzed or something.
He was there, leaning over her and holding her hand with a big smile on his face like he always got when I did something he was proud of.
Bile filled my throat when I realized he was popping her fingernails off, like they were acrylics and not her real nails attached to her hands.
I only watched one more minute before I went into action. Lifting my knife, I let out the long scream I’d been holding inside, and I burst through the door, running towards my father as fast as I could.
He stared at me, shock plastered all over his face. I’d somehow managed to catch him so off guard that he didn't even move until I was right in front of him. At the last second, he tried to dart away, but my knife still slid forward, slicing right down his chest like butter.
I knew in that moment that my father wasn't a man.
He was a demon.
And demons had to be killed.
* * *
Stellan
I was going through her journals again. My sister loved to write. She'd fill pages and pages with everything from her random thoughts about pop culture to the boys who paid attention to her at school.
She also wrote abouther.
Delilah.
The girl I was trying to forget.
It was hard to hate someone when you were reading your little sister's thoughts about how much she loved Aurora.
My sister had a secret. She hadn’t just loved Aurora as a friend.
She'dlovedher.
She’d wanted her.
My cheeks burned as I read about her coming to terms with the fact that she was in love with her best friend. She wrote about being desperate to kiss her. Thinking that she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world.
And then her thoughts would go dark. She'd write pages and pages about how Delilah would never love her back. And that it was so hard to be around her without telling her how she felt.
In one of her entries, a few weeks before Delilah had disappeared, she wrote in detail about Delilah’s body when she’d changed in front of her.
To say it was uncomfortable reading about my little sister lusting over Delilah’s body, was the understatement of the century.
