The sound of tires grinding on the white gravel of the driveway leading to the Miller family’s garage in suburban Connecticut was soothing. The clock showed 2 p.m. I, Evelyn Miller, had returned earlier than expected from a business trip to Boston. In my hand was a brand-new Hermes silk tie, a surprise gift for Mark – my perfect husband, a renowned lawyer, and the man I had adored for seven years.
Our Colonial-style mansion stood silently beneath the old oak trees. Everything was the same: the meticulously manicured lawn, the vibrant red geraniums on the balcony. But as soon as I stepped through the heavy oak door, an unusually cold air assaulted my nostrils. Not the familiar scent of lavender candles, but the smell of rust mixed with a pungent, almost maddening herbal aroma.
“Mark? I’m home!” I called out, placing the keys on the coffee table in the hallway.
There was no reply. The silence in Mark’s house, usually filled with the gentle sounds of jazz music, had become thick and heavy. I walked toward the kitchen, where the setting sun streamed through the window, casting long streaks of shadow on the marble floor.
And that’s when I froze.
Sitting at our table wasn’t Mark. It was a woman. She wore a loose, flowing, jet-black velvet robe that covered her legs. Her ash-gray hair hung down, obscuring half of her pale face. What nearly made my heart leap was what she held in her hand: my favorite crystal glass – a family heirloom left to me by my grandmother.
She was drinking from it, but the water wasn’t clear. It was a deep red, thick and bubbly.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” I asked, my voice trembling, gripping the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.
The woman slowly set the glass down. She lifted her head, revealing dull, almost pupil-less eyes. She looked at me, but her gaze seemed to pierce through my skin, reaching my very soul.
“Evelyn,” she whispered, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “You’re back earlier than scheduled. Mark won’t like this.”
My name, uttered by a stranger, sent a chill down my spine. “Where is Mark? What have you done to him?”
She didn’t answer immediately, but instead tapped the side of the crystal glass lightly with her thin, long, dirty fingernails. “Do you think this is just a marriage, poor Evelyn? Do you think Mark chose you out of love?”
She laughed, a hoarse, sarcastic laugh. “Betrayal is a cheap concept for what’s happening under this roof. You’re not his wife. You’re just… a vessel.”
Just then, the basement door opened. Mark stepped out, still in his elegant suit, but his sleeves were rolled up, revealing dark red stains that I hoped were just paint. But his breath reeked of rust – the same smell I’d smelled earlier.
Mark’s eyes met mine. There was no surprise, no remorse or embarrassment of a husband caught with a stranger in the house. Instead, a cold disappointment.
“Evelyn,” Mark said, his voice eerily calm. “You’ve ruined the cleansing.”
“Cleansing? Mark, what the hell are you talking about? Who is this woman? And why does our house smell of blood?” I yelled, backing away toward the door.
Mark advanced, his steps slow but overwhelming. “Have you ever wondered why, in the past seven years, we’ve never had children? Why you so often feel tired and have memory loss after those nights of ‘deep sleep’?”
My head was spinning. Fragmented memories flooded back: Waking up with tiny pinprick marks on my arm that Mark claimed were insect bites; the tonics he forced me to drink every night; the fact that I had never been allowed down to the final room in the basement.
“Your family has existed in New England for over two hundred years, Evelyn,” Mark continued, his eyes now gleaming with a strange light. “We don’t maintain our wealth through law. We maintain it through sacrifice. And this woman is the Elder. She’s here to prepare for the final stage.”
The woman in black rose, her cloak sweeping across the floor. “Your blood is the rarest, Evelyn. It’s so pure it can prolong the life of an entire lineage. Mark nurtured you, cared for you like the most precious possession… until today.”
I understood it all. This wasn’t an affair. This wasn’t a broken marriage. This was a systematic hunt. I wasn’t a partner, but a sacrificial lamb fattened up for the past seven years under the guise of perfect modern American love.
Mark leaned closer, raising the warm hand I once cherished to caress my cheek. “Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt. Just one final transfer from your cup to ours.”
I looked at the crystal glass on the table – a symbol of my family memories – now containing the disgusting liquid of my own life being slowly drained away.
