Chapter 8 - The Twisted Ritual
I froze completely, terrified that any sudden movement would end my life.
My mother ordered my husband to drop the tire iron.
The heavy metal tool clattered loudly onto the wooden floorboards.
My mother chuckled softly, her voice completely devoid of any human empathy.
She instructed her sister to take the baby to the preparation room in the basement.
The social worker hurried down the dark hallway, carrying my crying newborn out of sight.
My mother marched us into the living room, keeping the shotgun leveled at my chest.
She explained that her twisted family believed children born with a fever possessed a dark spirit.
She truly believed that extreme heat was the only way to cleanse their souls.
She confessed that she had done this once before, thirty years ago, to my older brother.
I gasped, having always been told I was an only child.
She stated matter-of-factly that my brother had not survived the purification.
She viewed my newborn as a second chance to complete the ritual perfectly.
My husband looked at me, communicating silently with his intense gaze.
He was waiting for the exact right moment to strike.
My mother took a step backward toward the basement door, keeping the gun raised.
She told us it was time to finish what she started in our kitchen oven.
Suddenly, the piercing wail of police sirens echoed through the dense woods.
The red and blue lights flashed brightly through the dusty cabin windows.
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My mother became distracted for a fraction of a second, glancing toward the front door.
My husband lunged forward with explosive speed and grabbed the burning hot barrel of the shotgun.
