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PROLOGUE - ASPEN
AGE FOURTEEN
It’s the night of mischief.
Commonly known as Devil’s Night.
My mother used to tell me that the gates of hell open tonight and the demons are allowed to roam the earth and spread their evil.
It was one of the few occasions I saw my mother excited, smiling, humming a happy tune.
She made it a habit to hand-sew me a costume and take me trick-or-treating while wearing a huge grin on her face.
That was my mother in a nutshell—innocently childish, irrevocably naïve, and stupidly in love.
And that love? It cost her her life.
And mine, in retrospect.
Because ever since she died four years ago, I’ve turned into the cynical little monster she tried to save me from becoming.
Maybe she didn’t try hard enough.
Maybe she didn’t care enough.
Because nothing she could’ve done would’ve made a difference. I have my father’s genes, after all.
The chilly autumn air penetrates my skin and embraces my bones with ominous persistence. As if that’s not enough, it blows my hair and jams it against my eyes.
Thanks to Mom, I was born with naturally bright, excruciatingly attention-grabbing red hair. At times, it resembles the horns of the devil.
Extremely fitting for this night, if you ask me.
“You stand out, and not in a good way, Aspen,” the blonde angel to my right says. Clearly fake, unless wearing a costume with wings makes you one.
Caroline is a friend I met in middle school when I first moved to her neighborhood after my mother’s death and Dad’s disappearance. We’ve been close ever since because her abusive household mirrors mine. We often find refuge in each other’s company, despite having extremely different personalities.
She’s the bubbly type who likes being at every party.
For instance, this one.
I didn’t really want to come. Not only am I an exemplary student who spends every free moment studying so I can get out of the custom-made hellhole my aunt and uncle have made for me, but I’m also not good with people.
However, after having a pan thrown at my back because I didn’t heat dinner to my drunken uncle’s liking, I was like “fuck it” and asked Caroline to give me the address to the party.
Obviously, I had to sneak out of the house by climbing down a tree from the attic I use as a bedroom.
My friend jacks up a hand on her tiny waist that serves as the wings’ belt holder. “When you said you were coming, I thought you’d be in a costume.”
“I don’t have one.” Nor do I want to hide behind anything. I already have a mask I wear in public; I don’t need another one.
“It’s Halloween. Everyone has a costume.” She throws her hands around, motioning at all the high school kids slipping into the mansion clad in their Halloween outfits. A myriad of colors, clichés, and the ultimate American fairy tale—or in this case, a nightmare.
It’s a hilarious parody of vampires, monsters, and the latest popular horror movies.
As for me, I’m wearing a simple black dress, my old sneakers, and a denim jacket my aunt got me from the local church donations.
Definitely not a costume. Unless dressing poor has become a trend, which wouldn’t be a surprise in circles like these.
