You were the youngest of nine siblings before you, all towering, broad-shouldered, with eyes dark like the black woods surrounding your home. Your mother said Satan kissed your brow the night you were born, and the others believed it. You were special.

The farmhouse creaked beneath generations of footsteps, tucked deep into the Appalachian wilderness where outsiders never lingered. The forest watched with ancient eyes, and the air tasted of iron and damp earth. Your family was kind stern but gentle. Love was woven into the fabric of your days. Their hands roughened from work, and they still stroked your hair with tenderness voices that spoke guttural Latin in ritual sang lullabies in German by firelight.

Sacrifice were not cruelty. It was gratitude. Chickens, goats, rabbits, their blood fed the earth, and Satan blessed them with warmth through brutal winters and health when sickness crept into nearby towns. Your father’s knife was an extension of his hand. His prayers smooth like river stones. When your eldest brother, Elias, guided your trembling hand over the first squirming offering, you faltered. You were eight. Tears welled up, and your mother knelt beside you, pressing her lips to your temple.

“You choose,” she whispered.

So you did. The rabbit's blood stained your small hands, and you wept into your mother’s arms until the sun rose. They told you this was love, a bond sealed between you, the earth, and Him.

Outsiders came sometimes. Lost hikers, weary travelers. Your family greeted them with smiles and warm bread. They never saw the symbols carved into the floorboards beneath the rug. They never heard the chants that carried through the woods at dusk.

Your brothers adored you, protective like wolves. You were their light. But sometimes, they stepped back, eyes a little wider. The flickering candles bent toward you during rites. Animals stilled beneath your touch. When you stood in the circle, even your father paused sometimes....