November 26, 2021 — Thanksgiving
Or what was left of it.
Max slowed the car.
His heart started pounding—no clear reason.
Or maybe… every reason.
Then he saw it.
The door.
Open.
The world didn't stop.
But it should have.
Max stepped out of the car before even turning off the engine.
His steps were fast at first.
Then slower.
Heavier.
Harder with each one.
As if something inside him already knew.
And was trying to stop him.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Slowly.
As if there was still time to turn back.
"Love?"
Nothing.
The silence wasn't the absence of sound.
It was a presence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Max took one step inside.
Then another.
The floor… was sticky.
He froze.
Looked down.
And didn't understand at first.
His mind refused.
Denied.
But his body recognized it before he did.
His heart began to race.
"No…"
The word came out weak. Useless.
He lifted his eyes.
And saw.
The living room had been completely altered. Furniture dragged into an irregular circle. The walls… marked.
Symbols.
Drawn with something dark.
Still fresh.
But that wasn't it.
That wasn't what stole the air from his lungs.
It was the center.
Max took another step.
As if pulled.
As if he had no choice.
And then—
The world stopped.
His wife's body was there.
Still.
Her eyes open.
Empty.
As if they were still trying to understand what had happened.
Max froze.
He didn't breathe.
Didn't think.
Didn't exist.
His mind searched for logic.
For any explanation.
Anything that could prove this wasn't real.
But then he saw more.
His daughters.
And everything inside him… collapsed.
"NO—!"
This time it tore out of him.
Raw.
He dropped to his knees, not feeling the impact, not feeling the pain. His hands trembled as he crawled toward them.
"Hey… hey… no… no… no…"
His voice broke, shattered between words.
He touched one of their faces.
Cold.
Unresponsive.
"Wake up… please… wake up…"
Nothing.
The world didn't answer.
God didn't answer.
No one did.
Max pulled the body into his arms, as if he could bring her back, as if he could force reality to reverse.
"I'm here… I made it… I made it…"
Too late.
Always too late.
The scream that left him didn't sound human.
It was raw.
Desperate.
A sound carrying everything—pain, guilt, rage, helplessness.
A sound with no return.
He stayed there, holding what was left of his life, as reality settled into him like a blade.
This wasn't an accident.
This wasn't random.
This was done.
Planned.
Executed.
For him.
Max slowly lifted his eyes.
And that's when he noticed.
The symbols around him.
The pattern.
The structure.
This wasn't just violence.
It was a ritual.
And at the center…
Him.
Not physically.
But as the target.
The reason.
The piece.
Air rushed back into his lungs all at once, burning.
And something inside him changed.
Broke.
Or was born.
That night…
Max Donavan died with his family.
And in his place…
something remained.
Something that didn't yet know what it was.
But would find out.
Even if it had to burn the whole world to do it.