The house, with its silences that seemed to swallow the very air, was a confessional of sins, each shadow a mirror of our twisted desires. Since that night when my father watched us, his presence became an invisible chain, tightening around us day by day. He never spoke of what he saw, but his eyes, when they fixed on Hannah, burned with a mix of hatred and envy, as if he wanted to steal from her what Amelia and I had taken. By day, he moved with a calmness that was almost an insult, but his glances at Hannah were ravenous, laden with an anger that barely concealed desire.
She, with the arrogance of someone who knows the fire they ignite, returned provocative smiles, as if daring him to burn himself.
Amelia, more distant, seemed to sense the storm brewing. “He wants her,” she whispered to me one afternoon, while chopping onions with a precision that betrayed her anger. “And he won’t give up.” I, caught between the lust that still bound me to both of them and the guilt that crushed me, felt the house closing in on us. My father was no longer just the voyeur; he was the executioner, and his envy of me—of us—was a blade poised to cut.
That night, the air was heavy, the house’s silence broken only by the moan of the wind against the windows. Hannah went upstairs early, announcing she was “going to sleep,” but the look she cast at me and Amelia was a poisoned invitation, as if she wanted to drag us into the abyss. Amelia stayed in the living room, her eyes fixed on the staircase, as if she sensed what was coming. I, exhausted, went to my room, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, there was a sound—a faint, almost imperceptible creak of footsteps in the hallway.
I got up, my heart racing, but something—cowardice, perhaps—kept me rooted, fists clenched, jealousy burning like embers. I don’t know how long passed, but the silence was shattered by muffled voices coming from Hannah’s room. My stomach churned. It was him.
In her room, the scene was a nightmare taking shape. Hannah, sitting on the bed in only a thin nightgown, her hair loose, stared at my father with a mix of contempt and caution. He, standing a few steps away, held his phone, its screen still dark, but his posture was that of someone who knew he held the power. “You think you can play with me?” he said, his voice hoarse, dripping with resentment. “You think you can give yourself to him, to her, and leave me watching like a dog?”
Hannah laughed, a short, sharp laugh. “You’re pathetic,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “Go back to your corner, old man. There’s no place for you here.” He didn’t move. Instead, he stepped forward, his hand reaching to touch her face, but she recoiled, her body tense like a cornered animal’s. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, her eyes flashing with hatred, but also fear, her voice trembling despite her bravado.
He stopped, his lips curling into a crooked smile. “You talk like you have a choice,” he said, then raised the phone, its screen now lit. The sound that came from it was unmistakable: moans—hers, Amelia’s, mine—from that night. The recording was cruel, clear, every detail a verdict. Hannah paled, her fists clenched, but she kept her chin raised. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
He took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with bitter victory. “You know what I want,” he said, his hand already unbuttoning his pants. “Or this goes to everyone. Your mother, your friends, the whole town. You choose.” Hannah hesitated, her eyes blazing with hatred, fear betraying her in her quickened breath, her body rigid. “You’re disgusting,” she hissed, her voice shaking, but then, with a slow, almost mechanical movement, she stood, the nightgown slipping from her shoulders. “Get it over with,” she muttered, turning and getting on all fours on the bed, her hair falling over her face, her eyes fixed on the wall, as if trying to erase herself from the moment.
My father didn’t hesitate. With a fury that mixed desire and vengeance, he grabbed her hips, and the room filled with the sound of flesh against flesh, each thrust a silent scream of possession. Hannah didn’t moan, didn’t look at him; her body moved just enough, a cold, calculated surrender, as if, even there, she still held control. He, panting, muttered broken words, “you… are mine… now,” but his voice trembled, as if he knew he’d never truly have her.
I don’t know how I got there. The sound, maybe, or the jealousy that dragged me from my room like a chain. I pushed the door open, and what I saw tore me apart. Hannah, on all fours, her nightgown torn, her body arched in a surrender that was both submission and defiance. My father, behind her, moving with an anger that was envy of me, of us. The phone, tossed in the corner, glowed with the paused recording—the proof of our sin, the weapon that had broken her.
Jealousy exploded like a bomb. She was mine—mine, not his. “You bastard!” I shouted, lunging at him. Hannah turned, her eyes wide, but she didn’t scream, didn’t move, as if she knew the chaos was inevitable. My father, caught off guard, tried to pull away, but my fist found his face, the sound of the impact like thunder. “She’s mine!” I roared, blind, as he laughed, a cruel, rasping laugh. “Yours? She gave herself to me, you idiot!”
His words were a blow, and something snapped. I grabbed a bronze statuette from the dresser and struck, once, twice, until the dull thud of his skull echoed. He fell, his body limp, blood pooling on the floor like an offering to the house. Hannah, still on the bed, rose slowly, her eyes gleaming with shock and something else—power, perhaps, or relief. “You… killed him,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but fearless. “For me.”
I, trembling, the weight of what I’d done crushing me, murmured, “He forced you.” But she laughed, a low, cutting laugh. “Forced? I chose, you fool. It was him or the recording. And now…” She approached, naked, her fingers brushing my bloodied face, “now, it’s just us.”
A creak at the door. Amelia, pale, her eyes wide, stared at the scene—our father’s body, the blood, Hannah naked, me with stained hands. “You…” she began, her voice trembling, but what I saw in her face wasn’t just horror. It was jealousy, betrayal, as if being excluded from that moment was worse than the death. “You did this… without me,” she hissed, her eyes flashing with a rage that promised more blood.
But then, a rasping sound, like a death rattle. We all froze, the air trapped in our lungs. My father, on the floor, moved. A low moan escaped his throat, his fingers twitching against the floorboards, blood still dripping from his head, but his eyes, now open, gleamed with a life that was both miracle and curse. Hannah stepped back, her face pale, a scream caught in her throat. Amelia, at the door, let the phone she was holding slip, her eyes wide, a mix of fear and relief crossing her face. I, petrified, felt my heart race—fear of what he’d do, relief at not carrying his death, and a new dread of what this man, now alive, might unleash.
“You… think… you’re done with me?” he murmured, his voice weak but laced with an unbreakable rage. He tried to stand but fell, blood dripping, his eyes fixed on us, a crooked smile on his lips, as if the house had spat him back from the abyss.
The house, with its silences and secrets, seemed to laugh. My father, alive, was now an even greater threat, a specter of vengeance binding us all. Hannah, Amelia, and I exchanged glances, trapped in a triangle of guilt, desire, and terror. The phone, on the floor, still glowed, the recording intact, ready to destroy us. And as the blood spread, the house whispered: this is only the beginning.
