The Montclairs were not a perfect family, but to Eleanor, they were; they came close enough.
Her mother, Cecilia, smelled like fresh linen and vanilla. Her father, Malcolm, wore cologne that lingered long after he hugged her, he loved her.
And then there was her sister, Adelyn, who was older by four years and endlessly irritating. But even her teasing had its charm on some days.
Our house stood like a quiet secret at the edge of a cul-de-sac in a modest but well-loved neighbourhood. Ivy curled around the fence like nature's ribbon, and laughter often floated out of the windows like music no one wanted to stop.
That evening, dinner had been noisy. Her father made his awful dad jokes. Her mother giggled behind her wineglass. Adelyn rolled her eyes and flung a piece of broccoli at her sister when their parents weren't looking.
"Grow up," Eleanor hissed.
Adelyn smirked. "You first, tadpole."
That was Adelyn. Gorgeous in the way girls in magazines were, long hair, long legs, long lashes. And ruthless when she teased. Eleanor hated both her and craved her approval like air.
"Girls," their mother warned lightly. "Not at the table."
Malcolm chuckled and clinked his glass against Cecilia's. "Let them fight. Builds character."
Eleanor rolled her eyes but grinned. She took another bite of mashed potatoes and watched her parents laugh together in a quiet pocket of love that had never run dry.
God, she loved them. All of them. Even Adelyn.
After dinner, she went to my room and curled into bed with a sketchbook on her knees. Drawing was something she'd picked up to soothe the nervous storm in her chest that sometimes crept in after sunset. Lately, it has become harder to fall asleep without tracing lines on paper.
She could still hear her parents murmuring downstairs, the low timbre of her father's voice, the occasional bubbling laughter of her mother. It comforted her. Anchored her.
Adelyn passed Eleanor's room an hour later, slapping the doorframe with her palm.
"Don't forget to brush your teeth, baby," she mocked with a wink.
"Rot." Eleanor groaned.
Adelyn just laughed and disappeared into her own room.
And then, silence.
The kind that wraps a house like a shroud.
She fell asleep tracing the outline of a garden gate in her sketch. Dreaming of vines, stars, and open skies.
She didn't know what time it was when she woke, only that the silence had changed.
It wasn't peaceful now. It was… wrong.
Heavy.
She sat up, her sheets bunched at her waist. The house felt still in a way that made her heart thump, loud and awkward, against her ribs.
Then she heard it.
A sound. Sharp. Wet.
A thump. A drag.
Was Adelyn up? Was her father moving furniture?
She swung her legs over the side of her bed. The floor was cold. The air was even colder.
She pushed her door open a crack.
And froze.
There was a smear of something dark on the wall across the hallway. Thick. Streaked. Red.
Her brain refused to name it. Denial is a soft, sweet drug.
"Dad?" she whispered.
No answer.
She stepped into the hallway. The floor creaked beneath her bare feet. Her throat closed.
The door to her parents' room was open.
She saw a hand.
Just a hand.
Pale. Motionless. Hanging off the bed.
She didn't want to see more. She shouldn't see more.
But she did.
Her mother's eyes were open, glassy, her mouth agape in a soundless scream. Blood painted the couch like a masterpiece from hell. Her father was soaked in a pool of blood. His blood.
The smell hit her.
Metallic.
Sharp. Unforgiving. She stumbled backwards, hand clamping her mouth. A whimper escaped, unbidden.
Then.....
A creak behind her.
She spun.
Someone was there.
A figure. Drenched in black. Holding something glinting, a knife? A machete? She couldn't tell. She wasn't quite sure.
Their face was masked, but their eyes met hers.
Calm. Cold. Familiar.
She knew those eyes.
But in that moment, Eleanor didn't scream. She ran.
Not down the stairs, that would be stupid. The front door was too far. Instead, she bolted back into her room and locked the door, heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted out.
She didn't know what to do.
Phone. Where was her phone?
Her fingers shook as she searched. Found it. Dialled 911.
The door handle rattled.
She backed into the corner, phone pressed to her ear, whispering her address through the tears. She was terrified.
Outside, the world kept sleeping.
Inside, Eleanor Montclair died, not physically, not that night.
But something pure and golden inside her snapped. And it would never return.