The Father
The white room stretched endlessly in every direction. No walls, no floor, no ceiling — just light. Pure, blinding, suffocating light. Iris stood at the threshold, her bare feet on nothing, her body suspended in the glow.
Her father stood a few feet away.
He looked exactly as she remembered him from the old photographs — tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and cold eyes. But there was something different about him now. Something wrong. His skin seemed to shimmer, like heat rising off asphalt. His eyes were too bright, too empty.
“Hello, Iris,” he said again. His voice echoed, bouncing off surfaces that didn’t exist.
Iris didn’t answer.
“You’ve been avoiding me for a long time. Hiding in your apartment. Hiding in your work. Hiding in your silence. But you can’t hide from me here. This is my place. My home. My church.”
“church?” Iris’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Where I worship. Where I pray. Where I sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice what?”
“Sacrifice you.”
He stepped closer. Iris stepped back. The white room had no boundaries, but she could feel the distance between them shrinking.
“Why did you lock me in the basement?” she asked.
“To make you strong.”
“You made me afraid.”
“Fear is strength. Fear is power. Fear is the only thing that keeps us alive.”
“I was seven years old.”
“Old enough.”
Iris’s hands clenched into fists.
“You’re not my father,” she said. “My father is dead. I killed him.”
The thing wearing her father’s face smiled.
“You tried to kill me. But you only killed the body. The rest of me has been here all along. Inside you. Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for you to come back. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to become me.”
“I will never become you.”
“You already have. Every time you blacked out, it was me. Every time you woke up with blood on your hands, it was me. Every time you heard a voice in your head, it was me.”
Iris shook her head. “No. That was you. That wasn’t me.”
“We are the same, Iris. You and I. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Darkness of my darkness.”
“We are not the same.”
“Then prove it.”
The white room flickered.
For a moment — just a moment — the light dimmed. Iris saw something in the darkness. Shapes. Figures. Bodies.
The twelve victims.
Elena Vance. David Marsh. Marcus Webb.
They were standing in a circle around her, their faces blank, their eyes empty.
“You know them,” her father said. “You know their names. Their faces. Their screams.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then let me help you remember.”
He snapped his fingers.
The white room disappeared.
They were in an apartment. Small, cramped, dimly lit. A woman was sitting on the couch, watching television. She had dark hair. Dark eyes.
Elena Vance.
Iris was standing behind her. Her hands were reaching out. Her fingers were stretching toward Elena’s throat.
“No,” Iris whispered.
“Yes,” her father whispered back.
Iris tried to pull her hands back. She couldn’t. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. Something else was controlling her.
Something dark. Something hungry. Something that had been inside her all along.
Her hands closed around Elena’s throat.
Elena gasped. She clawed at Iris’s fingers. Her eyes were wide with terror.
Iris wanted to stop. She wanted to let go. But the thing inside her was stronger.
It squeezed.
And squeezed.
And squeezed.
The scene shifted.
Another apartment. Another victim. Another death.
And another.
And another.
Twelve scenes. Twelve deaths. Twelve screams.
Iris watched them all, helpless, her body a puppet, her father’s voice laughing in her ears.
When it was over, they were back in the white room.
Iris fell to her knees.
“I didn’t want to kill them,” she whispered.
“But you did.”
“The thing inside me—”
“The thing inside you is you. It’s always been you. The anger. The rage. The hunger. You’ve been carrying it your whole life. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
Iris looked up at her father.
“Then why are you here?”
His smile faltered.
“Because I’m not real,” she said. “Because you’re not my father. You’re the guilt. You’re the shame. You’re the part of me that wants to believe I’m a monster.”
“You are a monster.”
“No. I’m a person who did monstrous things. There’s a difference.”
She stood up.
Her legs were steady now.
“I’m not going to let you control me anymore.”
The father’s face twisted. “You don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
She reached out and touched his chest.
He screamed.
The light exploded.
Iris opened her eyes.
She was in the cell.
Dr. Sterling was kneeling beside her, holding her hand.
“You’re back,” the doctor whispered.
“I’m back.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Iris looked at her hands.
They were clean.
“I found myself.”