Family Visit: Welcome to the Murderers' House

I stood in front of the house, shaking so hard I could barely breathe. My chest still ached from being shoved around at school today. Tiffany Stone and her crew had been especially brutal.

I glanced down at my watch.

Six o'clock. I was a full thirty minutes later than usual.

Just as I took a deep breath and reached for my keys, the heavy oak door swung open from the inside.

"Welcome home, Lily." My father, Arthur Miller, stood in the doorway with his signature gentle, fatherly smile.

His barbecue apron was splattered with fresh blood, the bright red stains glaring against the white fabric. "Hungry? I made you some red velvet cupcakes."

I swallowed down the nausea rising in my throat and mumbled, "Yes."

Dad noticed my eyes lingering on his apron and laughed it off. "Got a little messy prepping the ribs earlier. Looks like your mom's going to nag me again." He took off his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone so casual you'd think it was just another kitchen mishap.

I forced myself not to stare at the blood and nodded, slipping inside. I set my shoes neatly on the rack and put on my indoor slippers.

This picture-perfect, middle-class family home—only I knew what kind of horrors were hidden beneath those polished floors.

The fireplace was roaring.

A woman was tied to a custom-made wooden chair, her lips sewn shut with thick black thread. All she could manage were muffled, guttural cries from deep in her throat.

When she saw me, a flicker of hope flashed in her eyes.

My body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked away quickly.

"Lily, do you know what this lady did?" Dad's voice was as warm and smooth as ever, like he was telling a bedtime story. "She locked her three-year-old daughter in the car so she could go hook up with some guy at a bar. A stranger. By the time someone found the little girl, she was..."

He didn't finish, but I knew exactly what kind of tragedy he was hinting at.

The woman thrashed violently in the chair, the wood scraping against the floor. Her strangled screams grew more desperate.

I sat rigid on the edge of the couch, hands wrapped tight around my mug, too afraid to look up.

Her muffled sobs and struggles dragged on for several minutes, the suffocating despair thickening the air.

Dad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped a tiny blood spatter from his glasses. "Lily, I'm about to start the 'cleansing' ritual. It might get a little messy, so why don't you head upstairs?"

My legs nearly gave out as I stood.

Just as I turned to leave, I heard Dad quietly tell Mom, who had just walked in, "This kid's nothing like us. Way too soft."

Back in my room, I collapsed against the door, drenched in cold sweat.

I closed my eyes, but the bloody memories wouldn't stop.

I was four when I first saw Dad "judge" someone—a man who'd beaten his stepson to death—in the basement.

From that day on, I knew my family was nothing like anyone else's.

I stared anxiously at my phone, dread flooding over me as I remembered my promise for tomorrow: Tiffany Stone and her crew wanted to come over, to see "what kind of freak family could raise someone like you."

I'd begged them not to come, but Tiffany just chewed her gum and sneered, saying she was dying to meet my parents—maybe she'd even want to use her"methods" on them.

This afternoon, when Brayden Kowalski punched me in the face again, Tiffany just stood there, recording and laughing.

What she didn't know was: no one who's ever come to the Miller house for "judgment" has made it out alive.

I curled up in the corner of my room, listening to the faint noises downstairs—the whirring of a power saw—and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

All I knew for sure was that Tiffany was about to walk into a hell she couldn't even imagine.