At seven months pregnant, I agreed to look after my brother’s house while he and his wife, Anne, went on vacation. I thought a change of scenery might do me good. I was wrong.
One afternoon, while rummaging through the basement for some canned goods, I came across three large, black garbage bags shoved into a corner. Something about them felt… off. The air around me thickened. When I opened one of the bags, my world tilted.
Rotting chicken bones, bloodstained ritual tools, feathers… and voodoo dolls. One of them had my face stitched onto it.
My hands began to shake, my heart pounding like a war drum. I couldn’t breathe.
“Run, faster, Celina!” screamed a voice inside my head as I tore out the back door and into the woods. One hand clutched my swelling belly, the other pushed away the branches clawing at my skin. The cold air sliced through me like the fear tightening around my chest.
How could I have been so blind? How did I not see the warning signs? I stared at my trembling hands, now speckled with drying blood—whose, I didn’t know anymore.
“We’re safe now, baby. Someone will bring us home.”
It had all started two weeks earlier when Victor called. His voice was oddly calm. He asked if I could house-sit while they took a trip. Things had been strained between us for years, but I agreed, thinking maybe this was a step toward reconciliation.
The first few days passed uneventfully. The house was too quiet, but I told myself that was a good thing. Then came the fourth morning. The basement. The bags. The horror.
Anne called almost immediately. Her voice was cold, flat: “Don’t touch those, Celina. You don’t understand what you’re messing with.”
But it was too late. I had already seen. I knew then—I had to get out.
I called Paul, my childhood friend, someone who had recently come back into my life. I said one word: “Come.” By the time I stumbled my way to the bus stop, he was already waiting. He didn’t ask questions. He just opened the door and drove.
The next few days were a blur of fear and disbelief. Anne kept calling. Again and again. Paul wouldn’t let me answer.
“Wait for Victor to come back,” he said. “He needs to handle this.”
Eventually, I met Anne anyway. We sat across from each other at a café. She smiled. I trembled. Then she said the words that still echo in my mind: “Do you know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow?
You were always the good sister, the perfect girl, the shining one. I took what was meant for you—because I couldn’t have anything else.”
Victor came back. And everything fell apart. The marriage ended. Our family fractured. I was left with a heart full of fear, trust broken into a thousand sharp pieces.
But Paul stayed. Slowly, painfully, a sense of normalcy returned. Still, the memory of those dolls never left me. Anne’s shadow still lingered in the corners of my mind.
Today I sat in the nursery, folding tiny clothes. Soft music drifted from the radio, and the air smelled faintly of fresh paint. I rested my hand on my belly and whispered: “We’re okay now, little one. Always.”
And I believed it—because I’ve learned that sometimes, the ones who hurt you most… are the ones standing closest.
