"Happy birthday, Thorne. This is going to be your best year yet!"
Thorne plastered a smile on his face as his Aunt Debra pinched his cheeks.
Something was off, and it wasn't just because his entire family was here for his 21st birthday, which was still unusual.
It was the feeling in his chest, something lurking inside him, aching to get out. But Thorne couldn't name the feeling, let alone understand it.
They were all in the family house. It wasn't fancy or modern. It was a cabin in the woods, surrounded by unsettling sounds, creaky floors, peeling wallpaper.
Unfitting for the powerful, wealthy Durmores.
Thorne hated it. He should've been with his friends—smoking, drinking, maybe even finally sleeping with his girlfriend. But instead, he was stuck in an old, smelly cabin, surrounded by aging relatives with hollow eyes and fake smiles. He counted the minutes until he could leave.
With Aunt Debra's gift, he stepped away from the door and placed it with the rest of the gifts his other relatives had given him by the chimney.
"Happy birthday, Thorne."
He turned toward the voice and smiled. "Hi, Uncle Del."
Del moved over and tousled his hair. "You're 21!"
"In a few minutes, yes," Thorne replied, his smile widening.
Of all the strange family members, Uncle Del was one of his favorites—him and Uncle Pat.
"I'm so proud of you!" Del cheered. "This is going to be the best birthday ever."
Thorne's stomach twisted at his uncle's tone.
A flash of something crossed Del's eyes.
Regret? Pain? Pity?
But before Thorne could understand the expression, it was gone. And so was Uncle Del.
He sighed, shaking his head.
The Durmores had always been weird. Rich. Powerful. Darker secrets. But today, they felt weirder than usual.
Everyone was here—grandparents, great aunts, uncles, distant cousins. Some he knew, others he didn't.
Too many people for a small birthday.
They were his family, but that didn't make it any less unsettling.
He touched the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
Time to take a break.
He wasn't 21 yet, but that had never stopped him. Although his mother would definitely yell if she found out.
She still thought her son was a small, innocent baby.
He chuckled as he made his way toward a room he figured was the dining room. He had never been to this cabin before, and after today, he was definitely telling his father he was never coming back.
Fuck tradition.
Fuck custom.
This place was shit.
He entered the room, which had a large table covered with a stupendous amount of food.
Greedy Durmores.
There was no way they could finish all of it.
From an inner chamber, he could hear the grownups talking, laughing, and most definitely drinking.
"I spent all my money on the lottery today," his Uncle Wayne announced.
A gasp ran through the room.
"All of it?" someone asked.
"Yes," Uncle Wayne replied confidently.
"What if you don't win?" Aunt Helen asked—Thorne recognized her voice because it was the tiniest.
"I don't need to. We're getting rich tonight anyways!"
Rich?
What was happening today?
His curiosity tugged him forward.
And he let that curiosity lead him. "What's happening tonight?" he asked, barging into the room.
They all froze.
There was no better word to describe their stillness.
He looked at them all. The shock on their faces made his stomach twist. "What?"
His great-Uncle Ruben recovered first. "Don't mind us old folks. We just like to fool around."
Once Ruben spoke, everyone relaxed—laughing awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably, murmuring incoherently.
Something was definitely wrong.
He tilted his head, unconvinced. "Is it a grown-up thing? Because if it is, you know I'll be 21 soon. I can join the fun," he teased.
No one laughed.
Aunt Helen approached him, her expression soft and... mournful? "We'll let you know how it goes. Go rest now, child."
Before he could protest, she ushered him out, gently closing the door.
What the hell?
"That was a close one!" someone said from inside.
"Wayne wouldn't just shut his damn mouth!" Uncle Del snapped.
Why was his sweet uncle snapping?
Thorne shook off the weird conversation and walked down the hallway.
His brother Herbert and his twin cousins, Edgar and Ernest, ran past him.
"Easy now," he cautioned.
"Sorry, Thorne!" they chorused, but they didn't stop.
"Be careful!" he called after them, but they were already gone.
He sighed and decided to explore the house to find the perfect hiding spot. He walked down until he found a small door.
He opened it and stepped inside.
"Perfect," he muttered.
The room was big enough for one person. It had a small cracked window where he could see the sky. Although it smelled of damp, moldy air, he would manage.
He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, took one, and lit it. He puffed, exhaling as the smell of tobacco filled the air.
He tapped his forehead, letting the smoke ease his tensed nerves. He exhaled again, his nerves relaxing—until he heard his mother's voice.
He stiffened, terrified she had caught him, till he realized she wasn't anywhere close.
Her voice was coming from beneath him.
Thorne carefully followed the sound. From an opening in the floor, he saw his mother sitting on a chair and his father standing beside her.
Was this some sort of secret hideout?
He stood up slowly, packed his cigarettes and lighter, and was about to leave when his mother spoke again.
"Does Thorne have to die tonight?"
Thorne froze.
Die?
"Think of it like a small sacrifice for a bigger cause," his father replied.
His mother cried. "What bigger cause? You're killing our son!"
Thorne's stomach tightened. What was going on?
A part of him wanted to leave, to run away, but another part needed answers. And that part won.
His father moved closer to his mother. "I understand your pain. But where do you think all this—" he gestured around them, "—comes from? The money to shop, to run your club and charities? It's all part of the sacrifice."
Confusion and horror reeled through Thorne. The money came from his death?
"I hate this tradition! I hate your family!" his mother yelled, standing up and pacing about.
For a moment, Thorne didn't see her until she came back in view.
"I hate that my son has to pay for this!"
"You can always have more children, Charlotte. Besides, we still have Herbert, and we can—"
"I am not birthing you another child!" she snapped. "I can't let your demon take another of my sons!"
"It's just the thousandth son. He's the unlucky one. We won't have to deal with this again for another millennium, I promise," his father said, trying to touch her, but she pushed him away.
The unlucky one? What was that about?
"But your lineage continues! And when another thousand years comes?"
"Not my problem," his father said, and his mother gasped. "The family is here to give him a befitting goodbye."
"You call that a goodbye?" she snapped. "With empty parcels and fake food? They came to gloat—to celebrate their riches at my son's expense!"
"That's enough!" his father roared. "It's not up for debate. His drink has already been drugged and in less than ten minutes, he'll be tied on that table, ready for the cross over. You either sit here and cry or go find your son and bond with him before he's gone forever!" Then he stormed out, leaving her crying.
Disbelief raced through Thorne.
No way.
His parents wouldn't kill him.
They loved him!
Yet, he didn't believe himself.
Quickly, he left the room and ran down the hallway.
He had to find out the truth. But how?
Then it clicked.
The food. The gifts.
Getting to the food would be hard because of the grownups, but the gifts were unguarded.
Thorne rushed to the chimney where the gifts were stacked. Maybe he was wrong.
He picked one and tore it open.
Empty.
He grabbed another. Empty again.
And another. And another. Until he was out of breath.
It was true. They were going to kill him tonight.
Panic clawed up his throat.
"Thorne?" Uncle Del called.
Thorne turned to him, fear simmering in his chest. "Is it true?" he asked. Maybe his parents were wrong. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding.
Del raised a hand. "Calm down now, Thorne. Don't do anything stupid." He raised his voice like a signal to others.
The fear doubled. It was true. Thorne could see it in his uncle's eyes.
He took a step back.
Before he could blink, Del pulled out a gun. "If you move, I'll shoot you!"
Tears streamed down Thorne's face. His favorite uncle was going to kill him.
Before long, the rest of the family gathered, all staring at him with that same strange look.
Then his mother appeared, her eyes red from crying.
"Mama! Help me!" he screamed, his heart pounding in his chest.
Her voice cracked. "Run!"
He didn't hesitate.
Thorne ran out of the house; scared, confused, and in tears.
He ran as fast as he could, heading to nowhere in particular. Behind him, he heard his family calling out his name.
The night was cold and windy, but it didn't dry his tears.
Then suddenly, pain ripped through his chest—stabbing, sharp, wrong.
What was happening?
"Ah!" he cried at the pain but he didn't give in. Couldn't give in.
Something was clawing inside him; something foreign, something different.
Still, Thorne continued to run blindly into the dark woods.
His family's voices grew closer. The pain in the chest tightened even more.
Still, he ran.
And suddenly, a loud ring slammed in his head. Voices flooded in. Many. Loud. Incoherent.
"Ah!" he cried again, dropping to his knees.
Everything hurt.
Everything burned.
Something exploded from within. He screamed at the pain.
The voices were tearing him apart, clawing at the back of his skull.
His bones twisted and cracked.
He shouted. He pleaded.
He heard the tear of his own skin.
His vision went black. Then he collapsed.
Quick. Short, like something had pulled him out of this world.
When Thorne opened his eyes, the scent of blood was the first thing that clicked. Strong, Bitter.
Then he realized he wasn't in the woods.
He was in a market square and everyone was screaming around him.
What happened?
His legs buckled. He staggered, hitting something on the floor.
There was blood. So much blood.
Thorne leaned closer and he gasped. Someone was on the floor! Dead. Headless.
And in his hand—
He gasped.
A head.
A woman's head.
He dropped it, screaming at the top of his lungs.
What had he done?