My Family, Their Sinister Game

Name: My Family, Their Sinister Game
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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For ten years, I built a wall of mediocrity around myself. After my sister Sarah vanished, an alleged suicide linked to the sinister "Blackwood Tech Curse," my parents pulled me from advanced STEM, scrubbed my online presence, and moved two states over. "Just be average, Ashley," my father pleaded, "Average is safe." I became an insurance analyst, safe and boring, believing I had outsmarted fate, that Sarah was a random tragedy. Until today, when an encrypted email landed in my inbox: "Congratulations, Ashley Miller. You've been accepted." The Blackwood curse, a digital ghost from a defunct institute, promised death wrapped in an acceptance letter, just like Sarah's. When I tried to expose it, the FBI agent who' d dismissed my fears showed me security footage-me, at the scene of a Blackwood victim's death, then a fabricated psych evaluation painting me as delusional. My own laptop was framed as the source of a federal hack, isolating me further. Even my parents, panicked by the lies, asked, "Ashley, honey... Did you... have you been seeing someone?" The one person I thought I could trust, Davies, believed the frame job. "The hack came from your laptop," he said, his voice flat. But then, my own hand clenched, tried to strike me, until Davies, who' d burst in, saw it wasn' t me. "You' re not suicidal," he whispered. "Something else was controlling you." He set up a livestream, making my forced stay at a "safe house" public, only for a chilling message to appear on my screen, "WE CAN GET TO YOU ANYWHERE." Then, a porcelain doll-Sarah' s childhood doll, supposedly lost for years-appeared at my window, its face frozen in a scream. The lights went out, and in the darkness, my mother, her eyes wide and blank, attacked me with a shard of glass, whispering, "The signal is the vessel." The next morning, the doctors diagnosed me with "severe schizoaffective disorder, with acute paranoid delusions." My parents finally broke, signing the commitment papers when a psychiatrist presented a photo altered to show me with a different sister, Eva, claiming Sarah was just my cousin, that their decade of lies was to "protect" me. I realized then, in the sterile silence of the psychiatric facility, that this wasn' t a ghost story, but a controlled experiment. And I heard a name whispered in the halls: Marcus Thorne, the vanished founder of Blackwood Tech, now a VIP patient on the top floor. They thought they had trapped me, broken me. But they had just given me a new purpose, a new identity, and a clear target.

Family Thriller Mystery Revenge Scheming

Chapter 10

07-02 16:12

Introduction

For ten years, I built a wall of mediocrity around myself.

After my sister Sarah vanished, an alleged suicide linked to the sinister "Blackwood Tech Curse," my parents pulled me from advanced STEM, scrubbed my online presence, and moved two states over.

"Just be average, Ashley," my father pleaded, "Average is safe."

I became an insurance analyst, safe and boring, believing I had outsmarted fate, that Sarah was a random tragedy.

Until today, when an encrypted email landed in my inbox: "Congratulations, Ashley Miller. You've been accepted."

The Blackwood curse, a digital ghost from a defunct institute, promised death wrapped in an acceptance letter, just like Sarah's.

When I tried to expose it, the FBI agent who' d dismissed my fears showed me security footage-me, at the scene of a Blackwood victim's death, then a fabricated psych evaluation painting me as delusional.

My own laptop was framed as the source of a federal hack, isolating me further.

Even my parents, panicked by the lies, asked, "Ashley, honey... Did you... have you been seeing someone?"

The one person I thought I could trust, Davies, believed the frame job.

"The hack came from your laptop," he said, his voice flat.

But then, my own hand clenched, tried to strike me, until Davies, who' d burst in, saw it wasn' t me.

"You' re not suicidal," he whispered. "Something else was controlling you."

He set up a livestream, making my forced stay at a "safe house" public, only for a chilling message to appear on my screen, "WE CAN GET TO YOU ANYWHERE."

Then, a porcelain doll-Sarah' s childhood doll, supposedly lost for years-appeared at my window, its face frozen in a scream.

The lights went out, and in the darkness, my mother, her eyes wide and blank, attacked me with a shard of glass, whispering, "The signal is the vessel."

The next morning, the doctors diagnosed me with "severe schizoaffective disorder, with acute paranoid delusions."

My parents finally broke, signing the commitment papers when a psychiatrist presented a photo altered to show me with a different sister, Eva, claiming Sarah was just my cousin, that their decade of lies was to "protect" me.

I realized then, in the sterile silence of the psychiatric facility, that this wasn' t a ghost story, but a controlled experiment.

And I heard a name whispered in the halls: Marcus Thorne, the vanished founder of Blackwood Tech, now a VIP patient on the top floor.

They thought they had trapped me, broken me.

But they had just given me a new purpose, a new identity, and a clear target.