Killer Instinct: Carrie Unleashed

Chapter 1: A New Start

Carrie White’s unsteady groan was the only sound in a silent world. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, a frantic tattoo against the quiet, as her vision flickered. Her last memory—stones raining in a relentless storm—burned into her mind, shattering glass and splintering wood as the house crumbled. A strange, yielding pressure pinned her. A chilling discovery concealed the pain and clammy warmth beneath her hands. Her breath hitched, and a wave of revulsion, colder than the fallen stones, washed over her.

She gasped, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of a nightgown before finding the rigid stillness of a familiar body. Realization hit like a physical blow, a cold, crushing weight in her chest that stole her breath.

Her fingers traced the curtain of copper-blonde hair, now matted with dust. It framed a face with full, pink lips stained blue, eyes closed in unnerving peace. The white nightgown, once delicate, clung to the person’s slender frame, covered in the same grime that coated the floor.

Carrie screamed as she shoved the weight off her body, panting. A soft “M-Mama…” escaped her lips, but only heavy silence answered. Her mother lay on her back, eyes shut. Carrie dragged herself toward the still woman and shook her. “Mama, please, say something!”

When nothing happened, she sobbed. She embraced her mother’s body, burying her face against her scalp. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, blurring her vision as a single thought pounded in her mind: Why won’t Mama wake up?

The warmth between her fingers slowed her thoughts. She raised her hand, staring at the crimson smear. Her breath caught as the sharp, metallic scent of blood lingered, choking the air.

Memories flooded back: the frantic struggle for survival, the knife glinting in the dim light. Margaret’s last breath was a whisper lost in the stillness.

The girl shivered, a hand flying to her mouth. No, no, this isn’t real. Mama is fine. She has to be. She took slow, measured breaths, fighting back nausea. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against her mother’s, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the truth.

“She deserved it.”

The thought slithered through Carrie’s mind, curling like smoke. She flinched, her body rigid, and her head whipped around, scanning the shadows. “H-Hello?”

Her chest tightened, each breath shallow and forced, but only a deep stillness remained. Burning heat stung her swollen eyes. I’m having a nightmare. I have to wake up. Mama will be alright.

“Deny it all you want, but this is reality.”

The wreckage - a cage of shattered house walls - boxed her in. As she studied the debris, her breathing grew shallow. The sight was a trigger, and memories clawed to the surface, dragging her back to the oppressive dark of the Prayer Closet. The despair of that place gripped her like a vise, making her body stiff with fear.

Carrie continued to rock, clutching the cold, lifeless body, praying for a warmth that would never come. Her tear-swollen eyes found it—a distant, vibrant flicker of orange light spearing the gloom. It stood in stark contrast to the death surrounding her. A way out? A sign of salvation?

The orange light pulsed, casting unsettling shadows along the jagged walls. It should have filled Carrie with hope, but a frightening dread enveloped her.

Perhaps the light wasn’t an escape but a passage to the fire and brimstone her mother promised. Her fingers twitched, and her sins burdened her soul. Her mother’s warning echoed through her thoughts, thick with venom. Girls like you will suffer this fate.

The light wavered, then flared, glowing brighter for a fleeting second.

A fresh sob rattled her chest. She pressed one last kiss to her mother’s temple, then her hand brushed Margaret’s hair. Carrie recalled each detail as if it were a painful prayer.