Chapter 1: Monsters at the Table

I am a monster. Actually, my whole family are monsters. Yeah, that's the real truth—no sense dressing it up.

Sometimes, the truth is just that blunt—a heavy word dropped like a stone in a pond. The sound just keeps rippling out, even when you try to pretend otherwise. In America, we like to think monsters belong in movies or the woods, but sometimes they're right at the table, passing the potatoes. Yeah, monsters. Right at the table.

Ever since I was little, my parents warned me: never reveal our secret—not theirs, not mine. Not ever. By "them," they meant humans, the regular folks outside our door. I remember pausing, thinking, Not theirs, not mine—nobody’s. It was a rule you felt in your bones.

I remember Mom whispering that to me in the back seat of our old Chevy, her voice low and urgent, like we were on the run, and every headlight was hunting us. Secrets were sacred—the unspoken law of our family... And in a small town, secrets are currency—one slip, and you’re bankrupt.

When the sheet covering the cage was yanked away, sunlight stabbed into my eyes. I tilted my head. Stared right at it. Drawn to the light.

The brightness felt like a slap, but I didn't flinch. I’d spent my whole life in shadows—the sun was a dare, and I was ready to take it. For a second, I almost smiled. Maybe that was stupid, but I couldn’t help it.

"Hey, this thing isn't afraid of sunlight."

"Look at those eyes. Don't forget, we're supposed to take 'em out later." A snort followed, derisive and mean.

"Still alive, huh? Can't burn it, can't drown it. Tough little freak."

Their voices had that Southern drawl—half-lazy, half-menacing. The kind you hear in backwoods bars or at the edge of cornfields at dusk. I could smell their sweat, almost taste the tang of cheap beer, and the metallic scent of blood in the air.

Outside the cage, a couple of people stood around. Some held long whips stained with something dark—the kind of dark you don't want to ask about. Others had thick chains, or heavy batons. My skin prickled.

It was the kind of gathering that made you think of those old Southern horror stories, or back-alley dog fights. Their boots scuffed the dusty barn floor. Eyes glittering with the sick thrill of power. My stomach twisted—monsters, every one. I felt their gaze like knives.

They'd found themselves some new entertainment, arguing over which method would be the most fun. I knew that look. I’d seen it before.

One of them, a bald man with a long whip, came over and kicked the cage. "Hey, you little freak, wanna see your parents?"

His boot rang against the metal, making the whole cage rattle. I could smell the leather, hear the glee in his voice. My insides turned cold. Monsters come in all shapes—and sometimes, they’re just men with too much time and too little conscience. I felt my jaw clench.

I stared at him blankly and nodded.

I didn't trust my voice, even if I’d had one. Just nodded, slow and numb. My heart was a trapped animal. Thudding. Wild.

He grinned, mean as hell, and called out to his crew.

His teeth flashed yellow in the sunlight. The others shuffled closer, anticipation thick as static before a summer storm. My pulse raced.

Not long after, someone walked up carrying two bloody things. I stared. It took me a second to realize.

They were two heads.

Freshly severed, blood still bright red, the eyes wide open, staring at me. He tossed the heads just outside the cage, as close as possible. My stomach heaved.

The heads hit the dirt with a sickening thud, rolling until they stared up at me. My parents. Unblinking, faces twisted with shock and pain. Rolling until they stared up at me. My parents. Unblinking, faces twisted with shock and pain. It was the kind of sight you never shake, not even in your nightmares.

I tried to crawl over, but the shackle on my neck was locked tight, leaving me no room to move.

The iron bit into my skin, cold and unforgiving. I stretched until my muscles burned, but the chain held. I could smell the blood, thick and coppery, mixing with the dust. My fingers clawed at the floor. Desperate. Useless.

"Go on, say hi to them."

The bald man kicked my mother's head. Her beautiful dark hair was ruined, tangled and soaked in blood. I remembered brushing it. Once.

He wasn't done. He wrapped his whip around my father's head and flung it into the air.

The head spun, trailing blood in a grotesque arc, before landing with a wet smack. The laughter that followed was sharp and jagged, cutting through the morning like broken glass. It cut through me, too.

The others burst out laughing, wild and cruel.

It was the kind of laughter you hear at a slaughterhouse or a frat party gone wrong—too loud, too gleeful, too human to be anything but monstrous. I wanted to scream.

Blood splattered onto my face, into my eyes. The world turned red.

Like hell.

The blood was hot, stinging. I blinked, but the world stayed crimson, as if someone had painted over everything with rage and grief.

I lowered my hands, which had been trying to break free from the shackle, and numbly watched the scene.

My hands trembled, but I let them drop. The fight leaked out of me. Like air from a punctured tire. I felt small, cold, and empty—like a kid at the bottom of a well, looking up at a sky that would never notice me.

They didn't kill me. The boss's daughter took a liking to me and wanted me as her pet.

I almost laughed. Seriously? Of all things. I’d seen stray dogs treated better than this. But in their eyes, I was just another trophy, a new toy for Daddy's little princess.

I crouched in the cage, listening to them argue.

Their voices blurred together, rising and falling like a chorus of crows. I hugged my knees, trying to make myself smaller. Invisible.

Originally, after they'd had their fill torturing me, they planned to kill me like my parents. But the boss's daughter stopped them.

"The last ones died too fast. I heard this one can't die or age—perfect. Enough for me to play with."

Her voice was sweet as molasses, but there was a razor hidden in every word. She was the kind of girl who’d drown kittens for sport, then cry at her own birthday party. I shivered.

The bald man was her father. He wiped the blood from his hands with a napkin. "Savannah, this little freak saw me kill her parents with her own eyes. Be careful she doesn't hold a grudge."

Savannah Whitaker walked over in red heels, lifting my chin with a wooden stick. The click of her heels echoed like gunshots. The stick was cold, hard under my chin. Her perfume was thick, almost sickening, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity and something much darker.

Her lips, painted bright red, parted. "These eyes are beautiful."

Of all things to say.

The words hung in the air, almost dreamy. She could’ve been talking about a painting or a new dress. Her gaze lingered, hungry and cold.

Right after the praise, in the next second, the sharp end of the stick suddenly stabbed into my eye.

The pain was white-hot, a bolt of lightning straight to my brain. I jerked back, but the cage held me fast. Blood poured down my cheek, warm and sticky. I gasped, vision spinning.

Not satisfied, she gripped the stick tightly and twisted it around inside my eye. Agony. Blinding. My body convulsed.

I screamed, or tried to. Only hoarse, muffled screams could be heard in the courtyard, because before this, they'd already cut out my tongue. Every nerve on fire.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a wet, gurgling noise. My throat ached from the effort, but I kept trying, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear me. Please. Anyone.

Savannah hated the noise and ordered someone to put a dog muzzle on me. She took out a wooden box, grabbed a writhing black centipede, and stuffed it into my blinded eye. I nearly blacked out.

The muzzle was tight, the leather digging into my cheeks. I tasted blood and metal. The creature writhed, its legs scraping against raw flesh. Darkness swam at the edges of my vision.

Later, I learned the boss's daughter was a witch. I was her seventy-eighth experiment. Seventy-eight. That number stuck with me, like a brand. The thought made my skin crawl.

"Eden, does your eye hurt?" She grinned, all teeth and malice. "Bet it does."

Her tone was almost playful, like a kid teasing a bug with a magnifying glass. I could see her reflection in the glass. Smiling. Always smiling.

I shook my head violently, the iron chain on my neck clanking.

The chain rattled, loud in the quiet room. I wanted to scream, to curse her, but all I could do was shake, my whole body shivering with pain and rage.

Ever since she learned I had freakish healing abilities, every few days she would stuff more bugs into me. She said I was a perfect host. Perfect. Yeah, right.

"Scream! Why don't you scream!"

I clenched my teeth and stayed silent.

My jaw ached, but I refused to give her the satisfaction. If you show weakness, they hit you harder. That’s just how it goes around here.

She stood outside the cage, holding a long whip dipped in something dark. Because no one knew where I came from, they were afraid of what I might be, so they used old superstitions to keep evil away:

"I even gave you a nice name—what more do you want!"

The whip lashed my face, splitting a bloody gash from my left eye down to my jaw. I winced. The pain was sharp, white-hot.

I tasted blood, hot and salty. I bit my tongue. I’d learned early that if you act weak, they just hit harder. No point crying over it.

"Miss." The butler's cold voice came from the door.

Savannah paused, as if doused with cold water, her eyes rolling with impatience. She scowled, but didn’t argue.

The butler urged, "Mr. Whitaker is back."

She threw down the whip and strode out. Her heels clicked in rapid staccato, the whip forgotten on the floor. The air seemed to relax when she left, as if the house itself was relieved. I exhaled, shaky.

The butler, standing at the door, just frowned at my miserable state, then walked away, disgusted.

His lips curled in a sneer, eyes cold as ice. Less than dirt. Just another problem. I shrank back, heat rising in my cheeks.

One moment I was curled up in the cage, shivering. Once they left, I blinked my almost-healed eye and let a cold smile creep onto my lips.

The pain faded, replaced by a chill satisfaction. I could almost taste revenge. Just waiting. Just biding my time.

Late at night, everyone was asleep and the whole mansion was silent.

The Whitaker estate sprawled in the dark, a Southern Gothic nightmare. The old house creaked and groaned, the wind rattling the shutters. Even the moon seemed to keep its distance. My skin prickled with anticipation.

But tonight was too quiet, because the butler had ordered everyone to stay in their rooms.

Except for me.

The sound of iron chains dragging echoed through the house. The corridors were dimly lit, casting the shadow of a hunched figure on the wall. My heart beat faster.

The chain was heavy, scraping against the floorboards. My shadow stretched long and thin, twisting with every step. Old wood. Secrets. The air was thick with them.

On the tray, the bowl of blood was perfectly balanced. The dim light made it glisten with an eerie sheen. The smell made my stomach turn.

The blood was warm, thick, and sticky. It sloshed as I walked, the scent cloying. My own heartbeat thundered in my ears. I swallowed hard.

The destination was the room at the far end, called the black room, which gave off a strange, sweet scent. My skin prickled. Something was off.

The black room was forbidden, a place even the bravest servants avoided. The sweet smell was overpowering, like rotting flowers and burnt sugar. I wrinkled my nose, fighting nausea.