Chills & Thrills Anthology

When The Villains Win | Layers of Sin

The following is the winning entry from our When the Villains Win contest. Congratulations to our winner!

The full list of winning entries can be found here.

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PROMPT

"Sometimes the monsters are...you."

Your character is out and about, for what seems like a normal day, changes when you stumble on an old box that you just recognize to be your old toy as a kid, except it's glowing. What do you do?

  

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Layers of Sin

by CharlieOakree

  

Howling autumn winds blow past Georgia as she reaches the gate. Hesitantly, she places her hand on the cold, wrought iron. Gazing up at the house, it looks foreign to her now.

"You've been unconscious for a week."

Unfamiliar voices still echo through her mind. Doctors, nurses, police officers, they all failed to provide many answers. The gate creaks as she pushes it aside.

"You appear to be suffering from dissociative amnesia."

Aging mahogany grumbles under the weight of her laced boots as she ascends the porch steps. Wind chimes greet her with a high pitched jingle. Behind her, dark clouds surrender to the late October downpour. As she reaches for the brass doorknob, she closes her eyes.

"Your mother's been killed."

She only permits a single tear before suppressing her grief. As her keys land on the little maple wooden table by the door, Georgia ponders the normalcy of the action. But nothing will ever be normal again.

Dead silence engulfs the mid-18th century Victorian property. Stroking back her unruly blonde locks, Georgia takes the five steps from the front door to the living room. Everything is exactly as it was, from the gardening magazines on the coffee table to the untouched cup of herbal tea her mother always forgot to drink while watching her crime shows. As Georgia peers into the dark brown liquid, it feels as if her mother could appear at any moment. But she can't.

Drifting across the hard wooden flooring, through the sliding French doors, her palms fall flat upon the kitchen island. Sinking ever so slightly, her knees tremble as she steadies herself. Every corner of her mind begs her to give in, to collapse in anguish. But then she sees it.

It's faint at first, hardly drawing any attention. But soon the light expands, enveloping the house. Puzzled, Georgia turns to face it. How did that get down here?

Nearing closer, gradually, she regards the childhood object as it glows ominously. Perched upon the mantle over the fireplace, the old Russian nesting doll beckons her.

The radiance of the doll should have alarmed her, scared her off. But something inside her is pulling her to it, until her fingertips grasp the painted surface of the outermost layer. Georgia remembers the doll vividly, remembers the day her mother found it in an old antique shop on Cherry Lane. Georgia was only 7 years old at the time, and probably played with the doll for a week, before forgetting about it entirely. Until now.