From, Blood’s History: The Door
I have not opened the door since 1784 when I last closed it.
The door is in the oldest barn, a relic to centuries past. Rarely do I venture there, for the creature behind the door still lives. Still hungers.
And I cannot bring myself to kill her.
I found her when I was sixteen, long before the nation existed. She was on the edge of Gods’ Hollow, bathing in the waters of a small, vernal pool. Her skin glowed in the sunlight, shined upon her bright, sharp teeth, and drowned in her pure black eyes.
I watched as she washed blood off her mouth and bare chest, her long black hair hanging in damp locks. She saw me, laughed, and licked her full lips with a forked tongue which would later speak the greatest of lies in the sweetest of whispers.
I brought her home with me, and when she slew my uncle Ezekiel and ate him, I bound her in iron and dragged her screaming to the barn. With my own knife, I carve the sigils into the wood, and with my own blood, I sealed them.
I placed her in the unlit room and freed her of the chains. On my back, I bear the scars of her teeth and nails. My ears bled from the rage which spewed from her mouth.
Occasionally, I return to the barn, and I listen and speak with her. Always she asks to be freed. Always I deny her.
She tells me she loves me still, and I say the same.
It is a painful truth we both speak in darkness.
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