Chapter 1: The Nightmare Begins

My little sister went to be a bridesmaid for her best friend. That night, eight groomsmen turned her dream into a nightmare.

Back then, when my sister told me she was heading to the hills outside Maple Heights for the wedding of a classmate—her best friend—I was dead set against it. That small town was notorious for its mean-spirited wedding hazing, and I couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at me.

The moment she said "Maple Heights," my gut twisted into knots. Everyone in the county had heard the stories—wedding season, barns glowing with Christmas lights, wild parties that spun out of control, the ugly rumors whispered over cheap beers at the local bar. I remembered an old news story about a girl who disappeared after a wedding there—nobody ever found out what really happened. I tried to talk her out of it, haunted by those warnings about what creeps in after dark in those parts.

My sister pleaded, her voice raw with desperation, promising that she and her best friend were tight, and Natalie had sworn there’d be no wedding pranks. “Please, I owe Natalie so much. It’s her big day—she says they don’t do that stuff anymore. She swore to me, cross her heart.”

She stood in our parents’ kitchen, fingers twisted in her hoodie, eyes wide and shimmering. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee, the hum of the old fridge buzzing in the background, and the faded linoleum cool under our bare feet. It was a room we’d grown up in—a place that should’ve felt safe.

Reluctantly, I caved, but only if I went with her, just in case. I remember jamming an extra hoodie in my duffel, grabbing the old can of pepper spray Dad gave me after my first high school dance, and telling her, “Fine. But I’m not letting you go alone. Not to Maple Heights.”

On the day of the wedding, everything looked picture-perfect. The groomsmen played nice. Then, deep in the night, a scream ripped through the walls next door.

The barn had finally gone quiet, the last sparklers hissing out in mason jars. That scream cut straight through the leftover laughter and the clatter of empty beer bottles. My blood iced over as I shot upright.

I burst in, only to see my sister, naked and sobbing, pinned down and assaulted by several men.

Every nightmare I’d ever had came alive in that moment. My world spun as I took it all in: my little sister, cheeks streaked with mascara and tears, crushed under the weight of men I’d just clinked glasses with hours before.

Rage detonated inside me. I grabbed a heavy wooden stool and charged, swinging with all my strength to get to her. But more men stormed in, boots stomping on discarded streamers. Soon we were surrounded, outnumbered.

I swung and screamed until my throat burned. But it was hopeless—more men crowded in, eyes shining with cruel delight. We were cornered, trapped like animals. Their stench, their breath hot and close, the glint of laughter in their eyes—I’ll never shake it.

My sister’s best friend swept in, heels clacking on the old wood floor. She wore a smug, self-righteous grin. “That’s just how things go around here—the bridesmaid’s gotta give the guys a little something. Everybody knows that.”

She looked at my sister, eyes cold as stone. “So what if you get slept with? It’s not like you’ll lose a piece of flesh. You always act so high and mighty—let’s see how proud you are now.”

She spat the words, her voice echoing in the room. Time seemed to crawl as I realized this was all a setup. The worst part was the glee in her voice, like she’d waited years for this.

Turns out, in this town, women were invited to be bridesmaids just so the groomsmen could have their way. My sister’s so-called best friend lured her here, just to destroy her.

I felt like I was drowning. The truth slammed into me: my sister was just a pawn in some twisted tradition, her trust used as a weapon by a girl she’d called her best friend since third grade. The men jeered in the background, drunk on whiskey and the sick power they held.

I was shaking with rage, desperate to get my sister out. But her best friend folded her arms, sneering, “You really think I’m dumb enough to let you run off and dial 911? Not happening.”

She stood there, arms crossed, smirking. “Go ahead, try it. See what happens when the sheriff’s your uncle and half this town owes me favors.”

She showed her true face, then gave the order for the groomsmen to kill me.

She didn’t even flinch as she nodded at them, her voice flat and icy: “Take care of him.”

After I died, I floated above my body, powerless. I watched as my sister was locked in an abandoned coal shed behind the hills, the so-called friend her jailer. Every day, three or five groomsmen would go in to torment her, shattering her trust and leaving scars no one could see, until she died.

I was trapped in that limbo, watching the world rot, helpless as my sister’s sobs faded day by day. The coal shed’s broken window, dust motes swirling in sunbeams, the sound of men’s laughter bouncing off cinder blocks—those haunted me as much as the pain.

I blinked, and the world spun—rain tapping on the tin roof, the smell of whiskey and fear, and those eight men waiting outside like nothing had ever happened.

It was like waking from a fever dream, my chest squeezed so tight I could barely breathe. The crickets outside were deafening, the air thick with summer rain, and those eight men lounged in the shadows, eyeing us like wolves circling a wounded deer.