Shadows of the Family: A Secret That Will Never Die

My parents, as you might imagine, were not mere ordinary figures in this world. They were among those who walked in the shadows, wielding power and wealth with an unrelenting grip. Their canopies stretched like colossal trees, roots digging deep into the earth, branches blotting out the sun. And in their world, marriage was not a union of hearts but an alliance of interests, a transaction calculated with precision. This, my friend, would later prove to be of great significance.

When I was young, my parents decided to take a vacation. It would never have crossed their minds to leave me alone in that vast house, so they hired a babysitter. She was the daughter of a family friend, seventeen years old, with a mysterious glint in her eyes, as if she carried a secret too dark to reveal. This happened in mid-July, when the sun was at its peak, as though it sought to burn everything in its path.

They told me they would only be gone for a week. But on the second day, the babysitter decided to invite her boyfriend over. She said to me, "Stay in your room, and don’t come out no matter what you hear." Her voice was calm, but it carried a hidden threat. I assumed she and her boyfriend were going to do "adult things," so I stayed in my room and read a book.

Then the doorbell rang. I heard a man’s voice, and the TV turned on downstairs. Curiosity, that merciless demon, began to consume me. I crept out of my room and tiptoed downstairs, like a ghost moving through the shadows. I peeked around the corner and saw them embracing in front of the TV. "Well, is that all?" I thought to myself and returned to my room.

But after a while, I heard shouting. They were arguing. I hesitated to go downstairs, but her words echoed in my mind: "No matter what you hear, don’t come down." I felt a strange pain in my chest, as if something were warning me. Then I heard a blood-curdling scream—a man’s scream, as if he were being tortured or killed. Strangely, the neighbors didn’t call the police, but the TV was so loud that the screams were drowned out.

After minutes of silence, fear began to creep into my heart. I heard banging downstairs, then utter stillness. An hour later, the door opened. I heard footsteps climbing the stairs. I jumped into the closet, like a mouse hiding from a cat. The footsteps stopped at my door. The door creaked open slowly, and I heard her voice: "Hey there, little one, are you in here?" Hesitantly, I said, "I’m in the closet."

She opened the door and smiled, but her smile was as cold as ice. "What are you doing in there, you silly thing?" I replied, "I heard screaming and banging." For a moment, I saw a harsh expression on her face, but then she smiled and said, "We were watching a horror movie. I didn’t want you to come down because I knew it would scare you. I must’ve turned the volume up too high." I knew she was lying. The movie was a comedy, but I decided to stay silent.

"Then what was that noise?" I asked. She answered quickly, "My boyfriend knocked something over." Then I asked, "Why was there silence for an hour?" She gave me a cold look. "Why are you asking so many questions?" I felt a chill, but she sighed and said, "My boyfriend wasn’t feeling well, so I took him home. Don’t worry; nothing happened. Are we good?" She was smiling, but I could tell I was testing her patience.

Over the following days, she cooked meals with meat that tasted strange. I wasn’t sick, but the flavor was odd. Then my parents called and said the storm would keep them away for another week.

After ten days, I decided to get a popsicle from the freezer in the garage. I told her, "Don’t worry, I’ll get it myself." I opened the freezer door, and there it was—the horror: a man’s decapitated head, the word "CHEATER" scrawled across his forehead. It was her boyfriend. I closed the door quietly, but before I could turn around, I felt her arms wrap around me from behind, a knife in her hand.

She whispered in my ear, "Hey there, little one, I did something very bad. I love you too much, but I can’t let this secret get out. If you stay quiet, no one gets hurt, understood?" I cried and nodded. She said, "Don’t cry; I won’t hurt you." Then she stabbed a popsicle with her knife and walked back into the house, laughing.

Over the years, I saw her everywhere: parties, family gatherings, barbecues. She always reminded me of the secret, and I kept it. She acted as though nothing had happened, but I couldn’t stand being around her.

Now, in the present day, I took over one of my parents’ companies. They called me one day and said, "We’d like you to meet your fiancée." I knew this day would come.

I went to their house, and there she was—my old babysitter. I asked, "What’s she doing here?" My father said, "This is your fiancée." I stepped back in shock. She approached me and said, "I think we’re going to have a very happy life together, aren’t we?" as she ran her finger up my throat. My parents stood there smiling, while I feared for my life, knowing I was trapped with this psychopath.

And there you have it—the story in English, written in the haunting, richly descriptive style of Anne Rice, with its gothic undertones and dark elegance.