I Was the Monster, They Were the Lie

The splintered wood of the floorboards pressed into my cheek. Another girlfriend gone, another brutal beating from my father. Each woman I brought home to Redwood Creek, to seek the "blessing" at our family's Pioneer's Home, emerged twisted with rage, screaming that I was filth. My step-brothers found happy marriages after their girls went inside; I was almost thirty and still a pariah.

My father, Jedidiah Thorne, the town's esteemed mayor, finally showed me why. He strapped me into a chair in a hidden room beneath the Pioneer's Home, then played a horrifying video. On screen, a figure with my very face, my movements, was brutally torturing animals, then attacking my terrified girlfriends. He confirmed it was me, every single time.

My world shattered. I was a monster, a broken thing deserving only death. I sought release in the old quarry, a plunge like my mother's alleged accident. I survived, but the narrative was set: Ethan Thorne, unstable, suicidal. My father reinforced it, holding me captive, ever-monitored. I faked insanity to finally be institutionalized.

Numbed by medication, I accepted my cage, a safely contained monster.

Until one grey day in the drab yard, I saw her. Sarah. My first love. The girl I was told I'd killed years ago. She was undeniably alive. And her eyes held a fierce, angry truth that ripped through the fog, promising to expose a horror far greater than I could ever imagine.

The splintered wood of the floorboards pressed into my cheek.

My head throbbed. Another one gone.

Chloe.

She'd been sweet, all smiles and bright eyes, until Dad took her into the Pioneer's Home.

Redwood Creek isn't big. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows about the Founder's Day tradition.

If you're a young man from one of the founding families, and you're serious about a girl, you take her to the Pioneer's Home. She goes in with the head of your family, gets the "blessing."

If she comes out smiling, you're set for life.

My two younger step-brothers, Tom and Billy, they both got married at twenty. Their wives came out of that damned building practically floating.

I'm almost thirty.

Chloe was the latest. She didn't believe me when I tried to warn her.

"It's just an old building, Ethan. Superstition."

Then Dad, Jedidiah "Jed" Thorne, town mayor and owner of the biggest damn sawmill in three counties, escorted her inside.

Ten minutes later, she stormed out.

Her eyes were different. Hard.

"You piece of filth," she hissed, lunging at me.

I stumbled back. She was a yoga instructor, flexible and surprisingly strong.

"They should have drowned you at birth!"

She clawed at my face, her nails sharp.

I just tried to cover up.

Then Dad was there, yanking her off me.

He didn't say a word to her. Just shoved her towards the door.

"Get out of my town."

She spat on the ground near my feet and left.

Then Dad turned to me.

His face, usually arranged in a look of civic pride for the town, was a mask of cold fury.

"You did this," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

He grabbed the front of my shirt, hauled me up, and slammed me against the wall.

Pain exploded in my shoulder.

"You bring this curse on us. On this family."

He hit me then. Open palm, across the face. My ears rang.

Then a fist to my gut. I doubled over, gasping.

He kicked me when I was down.

"Worthless. Just like your mother."

I lay there, tasting blood.

This was the routine.

Girlfriend goes in. Girlfriend comes out wanting to kill me. Dad beats me for it.

He always said I was unlucky, that I'd angered the town's founders, that the spirits in the Pioneer's Home rejected me.

To appease them, he had to punish me.

I didn't believe in spirits. Not really.

But a dozen girlfriends over ten years? All the same reaction?

It made a man wonder.

What the hell was in that building?

Why did Dad know they'd change, and why did he keep insisting they go in?

I'd asked my friends, guys I knew from college, if their hometowns had anything like this.

"Nah, man. Our historical society building is just for, like, old photos and stuff."

"We do tours. No one comes out wanting to commit murder."

One of them, Dave, had said, "Ethan, your dad's always had it out for you, right? Since you were a kid. You think he's doing something in there?"

It was the only thing that made sense.

But I couldn't get near the Pioneer's Home.

"It's for the blessing of new family members, Ethan. You're not bringing anyone new in, are you?" he'd sneer.

Asking too many questions just meant a worse beating.

He was different with Tom and Billy. Always doting. Proud.

I'd done a DNA test once, years ago, a kit I bought online. Mailed it in myself.

Jed Thorne was my father.

Maybe he hated me because he hated my mother.

She died when I was small. An accident, they said. Fell down the old quarry steps.

He never remarried until years later, to Tom and Billy's mom.

Everyone in Redwood Creek saw Jed Thorne as a pillar of the community. A devoted father, a grieving widower for so long.

They wouldn't believe me if I told them he was trying to kill me, slowly.

No one ever did.

The pain in my ribs was a dull, constant ache.

I had to do something.

My grandmother, Mom's mom, lived in Oakhaven, the next town over. Bigger, a bit more prosperous.

I managed to get to a payphone – Dad had smashed mine after the last "incident."

I called her, my voice shaky.

When she heard me, she started crying.

"Ethan, baby, what did he do to you now?"

An hour later, her old station wagon rattled up our driveway. Grandma Willow, small but fierce, was at the wheel. My uncles, Mark and Ben, big logger types like their father had been, were crammed in with her.

"Jedidiah Thorne! You get your worthless hide out here!" Grandma Willow's voice was surprisingly loud.

She was already out of the car, waving a heavy wooden cane.

"You think we don't have family, Jed? You think you can beat my grandson half to death and get away with it?"

My uncles flanked her, their faces grim.

Dad came out onto the porch. He looked calm. Too calm.

He didn't say anything to Grandma or my uncles.

He just looked at Grandma Willow, a strange expression on his face, and said, "Willow. Come inside the Pioneer's Home with me. Just for a moment. There's something you need to see."

Grandma hesitated. My uncles looked uneasy.

"What for, Jed? I'm here to take Ethan."

"Indulge an old acquaintance," Dad said, his voice smooth. "For your daughter's sake."

The mention of my mother seemed to sway her.

She glanced at my uncles. "You boys look after Ethan. Bandage him up. We're leaving as soon as I'm done here."

She followed Dad towards the Pioneer's Home, that squat, windowless log building at the edge of our property.

Uncles Mark and Ben helped me into the kitchen. They were gentle, cleaning my cuts, their hands surprisingly deft for such big men.

"We're getting you out of here, Ethan," Mark said. "This has gone on too long."

Ben nodded. "You can stay with us. Ma will look after you."

I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this time.

Then the kitchen door opened.

Grandma Willow stood there. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and dark.

She walked towards me, slowly.

Then, without a word, she swung her cane.

It connected with my head with a sickening thud.

Stars exploded behind my eyes. I fell sideways off the chair.

Before I could react, she hit me again, across the back.

"Grandma?" I mumbled, confused, blood trickling into my eye.

Uncle Mark started forward. "Ma, what are you doing?"

She turned to them, her voice a low snarl. "He's a monster. A blight."

She whispered something to them, too low for me to hear.

Their faces changed. The concern vanished, replaced by a horrified disgust.

They grabbed me, one on each arm, and hauled me to my feet, then forced me to my knees in front of Grandma.

"Hit him, Ma," Uncle Mark said, his voice cold. "Hit him hard. If Sarah knew, she'd want us to." Sarah was my mother.

"Kill him," Uncle Ben added, his face contorted. "This filth doesn't deserve to live."

Grandma Willow raised her cane again.

"If I kill you, I'll turn myself in," she rasped, her chest heaving. "Let them try and lock up an old woman with a war hero for a husband." She always wore Grandpa's old service pins on her coat. They glinted dully in the dim kitchen light.

I don't know how long they beat me.

I just remember the pain, then darkness.

I woke up outside, by the woodshed.

It was dark. Cold.

Something was tearing at my leg.

Wild dogs. Gnawing at the blood-soaked denim of my jeans.

My scalp screamed. I put a hand to my head. It came away sticky. They'd torn a piece of it off.

I scrambled up, whimpering, and stumbled towards the house.

I didn't dare make too much noise.

Dad didn't like being disturbed when he was sleeping.