The time on the lock screen flashes: 12:44 PM. She slaps the phone back on the nightstand. The empty spot beside her on the bed is still untouched. She assumes he slept in the downstairs office again, buried in piles of paperwork. But no matter how busy he gets, he always takes the time to check up on her. She wonders why he didn't wake her up for lunch.

  "Don't forget that you're eating for two," he usually reminds her.

  "I know."

  Sometimes her appetite isn't there. For Evelyn Soriano, the past couple of months have been a messy blur. There's a hole in her chest. An immeasurable black hole where light and happiness go to die. It appeared on the day she found Dad and her stepmom dead. It has only grown bigger since then, even long after the memorial service and the scattering of their ashes. The hole almost sucked her into its vortex.

  To this day, she clings to its edge with just her fingertips. And when she thought she had no feelings left to spare, a month later, on a sunny afternoon, she received ten missed calls and Mama Larang's voice message: "It's your mother. She's gone. I'm so sorry."

  Estranged mother, who took a knife and plunged it into her throat. Despite not having seen her for twenty years, Evelyn felt a twinge of pain in her chest. The hole grew slightly bigger.

  She throws off the blanket and caresses her round belly, imagining how it will feel to hold the baby when it's born. She wonders whose face it will resemble the most, Mr. Soriano's or hers. Perhaps it will inherit their best features. And as it grows up, she wonders what kind of person it will become. A thought crosses her mind: can the baby sense her grief? Can it experience her spiraling depression? Whatever the mother eats and feels, she passes onto her offspring. She read that somewhere, maybe in someone's status post or a meme.

  Her feet search the floor for her slippers. She gets out of bed, steadying herself with a hand on the nightstand, and waddles over to the coat stand to retrieve her bathrobe.

  As she pulls open the long, silky curtains, sunlight floods the previously dark and gloomy room. The window offers a wide view of the expansive garden in the backyard. Several gardeners in beige uniforms are scattered throughout, tending to the roses and salvia perennials. However, what catches her eye is the hexagon-shaped wooden stage being constructed. She can't recall arranging for the construction. She browses through the calendar in her mind, trying to figure out if she has forgotten about a planned event. Regardless, she has already made up her mind to cancel it anyway. The emotional crisis in the family hasn’t yet passed. Too soon, too raw to force a smile and welcome guests to the house. It’s all too soon.

  One of the carpenters stops hammering, his back stiffens, and he peers over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the window. Evelyn quickly shuts the curtains, unsettled by something about his smile. It feels as though he knows her, even though she's certain she has never met or seen him before. The unfamiliarity of the gardeners and carpenters made her uneasy.

  From the hallway, she hears Mama Larang's lighthearted singing voice coming from the kitchen downstairs. The anticipation of her aunt's visit brings comfort to Evelyn. Mama Larang has been a constant source of support, saving her countless times from being consumed by the gaping hole of grief. She has been there for Evelyn, cradling her like a baby while she fought against the maddening grips of grief.

  *****

  She makes her way to the kitchen, believing she can get through another day without falling apart, until something stops her halfway: the piercing gaze of her mother. It has been twenty years since she last saw her mother's pinched face and hard stare. The memory takes her back to the night of their escape from the compound. Dad had told her not to look back, but she couldn't resist. She caught a glimpse of her mother standing by the window on the second floor, watching them run, her dark eyes piercing through as if to convey that no matter where they ran, she would always find a way to watch over them.

  And now, the late matriarch, portrayed in an oil painting framed in gold, is perched on the fireplace mantle, overlooking a table filled with food and wine. Mother always hated photographs, believing that they captured and imprisoned people's souls.

  The elaborate altar dwarfs the humble tribute Evelyn had set up for her dad and stepmom. In a corner, a simple table adorned with white candles and flowers picked from the garden surrounds the framed photographs of the departed couple.

  Disturbed, she strides into the kitchen and finds her beloved aunt singing and swaying her hips to a song. The unease she felt from seeing her mother's image momentarily fades away. Mama Larang, a tiny lady in her mid-50s with a fondness for vibrant flowery clothes and bug-eyed leopard-print sunglasses, cooks by the stove with a smile on her face.

  Evelyn often wonders what she would have done without her aunt in these past two months. She is grateful that Mama Larang is there to take care of household duties while she navigates through the challenges of pregnancy and the overwhelming grief. Mama Larang is also a source of companionship when Mr. Soriano is away on business, providing comfort in their cozy countryside home. It is for these reasons that Evelyn struggles to find a delicate way to broach the subject of the portrait.

  She listens to the older woman talk about her day: meeting an old friend at the craft store, buying fresh cut lilies to bring some cheer to the somber Soriano house, and planning to meet a few friends later in the evening.

  Meanwhile, Mother remains etched in Evelyn's mind like a scar, a faded memory but never truly gone. And then she blurts it out, "Did you hang up that painting in the sitting room?"

  “What is it you say, dear?”

  “The painting in the sitting room,” she repeats, “did you put that up?”

  “Ah, well, I felt the room was missing something.”

  “I want it taken down.”

  “Taken down?”

  “Yes, the portrait,” Evelyn can’t believe she has to tell her aunt about it, when the old woman knows the reason.

  Mama Larang glances over at the clock on the wall. “Have you eaten yet?” She takes out a plate from the cupboard, puts a couple of chicken drumsticks, scoops up rice from the rice cooker and piles it on the plate. “You need to eat for the sake of yourself and your child,” she places it on the table, “I’ll have to make some more for the workers out in the back.”

  “Why did you put it up?” Evelyn asked.

  Mama Larang sets the plate of food on the dining table and ushers the heavily pregnant Evelyn to her seat. She snaps her fingers and says, “Fork and spoon!” She grabs the silverware from a drawer. “You need a fork and spoon to eat with.”

  “Auntie! You’re ignoring my questions,” Evelyn snaps, watching the older woman fiddle with the silverware in her hands.

  “I’m sorry, dear, what were you asking?”

  “Why did you put up that altar?”

  “Because she was your mother and my only sister,” she sits herself in a chair beside her and drops the silverware onto the plate.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And?”

  “Yeah, like so what?”

  Mama Larang purses her lips. “Don’t disrespect the dead, Evey! I feel that despite her mistakes, we need to learn how to forgive."

  “Forgive?” Evelyn scoffs. “Twenty years ago, she chose them over her own family— me, my dad, and you. Have you forgotten about that?”

  “No, I haven't forgotten. But she had deep convictions that were impossible to break, and the Church--”

  Evelyn cuts her off, “--you and I know that it wasn’t a church."

  “Call it whatever you want, but it was her home, and it was ours, too, for a time,” she closes a hand over Evelyn’s, “I mean, it wasn’t all that bad living there. And you said to yourself before that you sometimes missed the freedom you had running around in the wild.”

  Evelyn shifts uneasily in her chair and bites the inside of her lower lip. It's true, she hates to admit it to herself. There were times when she would dream about the vast forest that had surrounded the compound.

  She misses playing by the lake and daring the other kids to jump off the short cliff with her into the water. But those fond memories are overshadowed by things she can't even bring herself to speak of. The rituals she witnessed the Church perform. It was what happened when one reached a certain age, Mother had explained. Those dark memories fill her with deep humiliation and shame for having taken part in them.

  Not taking part, she reminds herself. I was, like the others, coerced.

  Manipulated and brainwashed.

  Guilted.

  “I missed the innocence of my childhood days,” she says, “and that’s why we moved here, to the countryside,” actually now that she thinks of it, the idea belongs to Mama Larang who insisted the move would do Evelyn and her husband good, “but the other things that happened there I can’t—” the muscles in her throat tense up so tight words refuse to leave.

  “That’s why when your mother became the High Priestess, she put an end to those horrific practices.”

  “What?” Her head snaps up and she wonders if she has heard her right.

  “She became High Priestess and changed the Church for the better!”

  The floor is falling away from under her feet. “No, no, no…”

  Mama Larang places her second hand atop Evelyn’s. “It’s different now, Evey, you should forgive your mother; forgive the Church.”

  “You can’t be serious, Auntie! Do you hear yourself? Have you forgotten the sick things they made us do? The killings and the ‘loving’ rituals…” her blood bubbling, “my God…have you forgotten?”

  Mama Larang shakes her head. “No, I haven’t forgotten! But listen to me—”

  “We vowed to cut all ties from the Church and that meant cutting off ties with her too.”

  “I couldn’t do it!”

  Hearing those words from the woman she had trusted for years turns Evelyn's stomach.

  “She was my dearest sister,” Mama Larang continues, “we’ve been through it all together and I loved her, flaws and all, so to cut her out of my life completely was something I just couldn't do.”

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  “No, no, no... after everything we’ve gone through to rebuild our lives; to have a fucking normal life?”

  “The Church isn’t like what it used to be; your mother changed—”

  Evelyn slaps both palms flat on the table. “IT'S NOT A CHURCH! It wasn’t a church then, it’s not a church now; no matter how much you claim that your mother changed it, its roots are still the same.”

  Mama Larang leans back in stunned silence. After a moment passes, with the tension in the air refusing to loosen, she says, “She loved you, Evey, so much,” lifting up the sunglasses to wipe a teary eye with a finger, “a week before her death, she told me the one thing she regretted in her life: it was letting you go.”

  Now, more irritated than before, Evelyn gets up from her seat. She doesn't want to hear any more about her mother and the Church. First, her dad and stepmom are dead, and now she finds out that the only relative on her mother's side has betrayed her trust.

  “Where are you going?” asks Mama Larang.

  “I’m heading back to bed.”

  “No, sit down, you need to eat. It’s not good for the baby, if you—”

  “Right now, Auntie, I feel exhausted, and I don’t have much of an appetite,” she says making her way to the door, and as she opens the door, she adds, “I want the portrait down.”

  She leans back against the closed door, her eyes shut tightly. Her heart pounds against her chest, beating in rhythm to the carpenters hammering in the backyard. She reminds herself to tell her husband to cancel whatever event is being planned. She's in no mood to host a party or entertain guests.

  When she opens her eyes, she sees Mother looking at her from the fireplace mantle. Her hands curl up into fists as she fights off the urge to stride over to the painting and hurl it somewhere far away, preferably into a deep pit doused with gasoline and set on fire. She calls out to Mama Larang and instructs her to put away the table of food as well.

  Flies are already hovering around the bowls and plates on the altar. She swats them away and begins to gather the plates together, but she nearly drops a plate of papaya slices when a black beetle pops out from among the black seeds and crawls onto the table.

  She flicks it off, and it lands on its back on the floor. Its six little legs flail about wildly, grasping at the air in an attempt to flip itself over.

  Another black beetle emerges from the seeds. This time, she tosses the bowl back onto the table, accidentally knocking over the wine glass. The papaya slices spill out from the bowl, and the black seeds scatter across the white tablecloth, which has turned reddish from the spilled wine. Tiny black legs sprout from the seeds, their antennae wavering.

  She stumbles back.

  The table becomes overrun with more black beetles.

  An odd feeling stirs within her, a familiar sensation that shakes her nerves violently, rendering her senses numb. It's a memory she has locked away, bound in chains and buried deep within the recesses of her mind. Now, it resurfaces before her eyes—the scene of the day she discovered her parents' bodies.

  Black beetles were present at Dad's house. They were the first thing she saw when she opened the back door to the kitchen. She had rung the bell multiple times, but no one answered the front door. A sense of dread weighed her down, and she crumbled under its weight.

  Dad was slouched at the table, his eyes and mouth transformed into dark, gaping holes from which the beetles poured out in an endless stream. Her stepmom lay sprawled on the floor behind the counter, with the insects freely roaming in and out of her eye sockets, mouth, and every orifice of her body.

  It will forever remain a cold case in the books, but Evelyn doesn't need a detective to solve it. She knows who is responsible. They didn't need to set foot inside the house. Their High Priestess sits upon the fireplace, as if it were her throne, and in her calm reddish-brown eyes, the world is reflected upside down.

  Dad had once warned her about people with eyes like that.

  They can perform miracles, he had told her, and they can conjure up nightmares.

  They’ve no light in their soul and they’re so consumed by their own selfishness and their hate for those who aren’t with them, the world appears upside down in their eyes.

  The beetles lead her to the home office, crawling in and out of the gap under the closed door.

  The familiar sense of dread returns, growing heavier with each step closer to the door. She reassures herself that behind the door, Mr. Soriano is working hard, as he does every day. He puts in long hours for the sake of the family they are building together. She envisions finding him at his oak wood desk, looking up and asking about her well-being, as well as the baby's, and inquiring if she has eaten yet.

  “Let’s take a stroll outside before dinner,” he’ll suggest, then he'll pause for a moment, look down at his work, and add, “just give me another five minutes to wrap things up here.”

  She’ll nod and say, “Okay, I’ll be waiting.” Then, she’ll close the door to let him finish his work.

  That’s how it’ll go, she tells herself again.

  She raises a trembling hand to the doorknob.

  Her heart beats as loud as the hammering.

  She turns the knob.

  The door cracks open.

  An odor reminiscent of spoiled fruits and eggs wafts into her face, causing her to instinctively raise her hand to shield her mouth and nose. A wave of sickness churns in her stomach, threatening to rise up to her throat. She clenches her teeth tightly, determined to suppress the nausea.

  She peers into the room.

  The high-back swivel chair behind the desk has its back turned to her.

  The flies circle the top of his slumped head like a halo.

  She doesn’t need to see his face. She knows there'll be three deep holes of darkness from which the beetles flow out in droves, eating his once-handsome face. The pain in her chest becomes unbearable. She wants nothing but to die on the spot.

  Now she’s alone.

  The people she loved are gone. She’s left with no one.

  “It’s going to be alright, dear,” Mama Larang’s voice comes up from behind her.

  Startled, Evelyn staggers back against the wall. “Stay away from me! Get out of my house!”

  Mama Larang lifts her sunglasses, leaving them perched on her head. For the first time, Evelyn gazes into her aunt's reddish-brown eyes, which have always been concealed behind the bug-eyed sunglasses, avoiding direct eye contact with anyone.

  Dad’s voice whispers in her ear: Run.

  With one hand cradling her large belly, Evelyn forcefully pushes Mama Larang aside and dashes towards the front door. However, her escape is short-lived as a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist, restraining her. Looking up, she sees that the arms belong to one of the carpenters. Another person, a gardener in beige uniform, joins in to assist the carpenter, holding her down on the floor. She kicks and screams, while they remain composed and unaffected.

  Mama Larang kneels beside her with a syringe in hand. “It’s going to be alright, dear,” she says again and inserts the needle into Evelyn’s forearm.

  A sob escapes Evelyn’s throat. “Why are you doing this? Auntie, stop...”

  “Oh, my dearest niece,” Mama Larang says, and strokes her cheek wet from tears, “don’t be afraid, your mother will be arriving soon, and she’ll make it all better; all the world will be right once again, this I promise you.”

  Whatever the syringe contains, its effects are instant. Evelyn's limbs become limp and useless, and a wave of drowsiness engulfs her, pulling her into unconsciousness. The last image she sees is her reflection upside down in Mama Larang's eyes.

  *****

  When she regains awareness, the bright glow of the lock screen displays the time in the dark room: 12:44 AM. The phone slips from her weak grasp, landing on the floor. The lethargy slowly fades, but a lingering feeling remains. She has no recollection of climbing the stairs to the bedroom, getting into bed, or falling asleep. The space beside her remains untouched and unusually cold. Perhaps her husband is still downstairs in his office, engrossed in piles of paperwork.

  She throws off the blanket, her arms still weak like jelly but gradually regaining some strength. As she does, she feels the baby shifting positions inside her, accompanied by a strong kick. She gently touches the spot where she felt the kick, connecting with the little life growing within her. The baby seems restless and hungry, responding to her touch.

  At that moment, her stomach growls, reminding her of her own hunger. She struggles to recall if she has eaten dinner, the recent events clouding her memory.

  “I should get something to eat,” she mumbles to herself.

  She reaches for the lamp's switch, hoping to illuminate the room. However, when she presses it, there is no light. She tries again, flicking the switch on and off repeatedly, but the light refuses to turn on.

  Her feet search the floor for her slippers as she carefully gets off the bed. With a hand resting on the nightstand for support, she waddles over to the window, accidentally knocking over the coat stand in the process. Grasping the long silky curtains, she pulls them open, inviting a soft current of moonlight to stream into the room. The moon overhead casts its glow upon the silhouette of evergreen trees and mountains. Yet, its light fails to penetrate the pitch-black darkness of the garden below. Within that abyss, there was a presence that seemed to watch her, beckoning her to descend and join it.

  A cold shiver runs up and down her spine, chilling her to the core. Something’s not right. She feels it. That dreadful feeling hasn’t left. Memories begin to trickle back into her consciousness, piece by piece. The black beetles. Mother’s altar. And then, it hits her—the realization that she didn't ascend the stairs on her own; she was carried.

  As her thoughts race, the coat stand suddenly lifts off the floor, propelled by a pale hand attached to a long, slender arm. Stepping out from the dark corner of the room, a naked man with a sickly pale complexion steps forward.

  Evelyn shrieks. Her body was scared stiff.

  He maintains his smile, his wide unblinking eyes fixed on her. The sight of his grin sends chills down Evelyn's spine. She can sense his excitement, his anticipation of something unknown. His gaze falls upon her swollen belly, and a wave of fear washes over her.

  Without uttering a single word, the pale figure takes a step forward, causing Evelyn to instinctively stumble back, her movements fueled by panic. The sudden movement triggers a sensation she can't ignore. Something bursts and releases, and a rush of fluid cascades down her legs, creating a pool at her feet.

  At that moment, the adrenaline kicks in. Panic grips her as she desperately scrambles towards the door, her heart pounding. With every step, she silently pleads for the unborn baby to hold on, to stay inside until she can reach her husband's home office. There, she knows she can find the only landline phone and dial 911 for help.

  The thought of returning to the bedroom and searching for her dropped phone is out of the question. Every second counts, and she must act swiftly to ensure her and her baby's well-being.

  The naked intruder stands in the doorway, his presence sending a wave of fear through Evelyn. But as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit hallway, she notices the delicate glow of a candle floating towards her. The candle is held by the hands of another intruder, a woman, who bears the same crazed eyes and unnerving smile as the man. She beckons Evelyn to follow her down the steps, her candlelight guiding the way.

  Reluctantly, Evelyn finds herself drawn towards the woman, her body trembling with fear and the increasing intensity of labor pains. With each step, the contractions grip her abdomen, forcing her to pause and brace herself against the pain. Finally, they reach the sitting room, where Mama Larang is carefully lighting the white candles on Mother's altar.

  The room is filled with a sense of danger. Evelyn's labor intensifies, and she collapses onto the plush sofa, her hands tightly gripping the cushions for support as she faces each sharp wave of pain.

  *****

  Mama Larang puts her sunglasses on the altar, kisses her hand and touches a corner of Mother’s portrait to pass on the kiss to her beloved late sister. “Before I left the Church with you and your father,” she says, seating herself next to Evelyn, “I promised your mother that I’d look out for you; that I’d be there when you needed me; and I’ve done just that,” she strokes Evelyn’s large belly, places an ear to it. “There she is! Oh, what a joy! I can hear her moving inside you; what a precious thing she is going to be.”

  “You murdered my family,” Evelyn’s voice breaks.

  “Because it is the only way for you to return to the only family that matters—us, The Church,” Mama Larang cups her cheeks, wipes a tear with a thumb, “Your mother sacrificed herself to be with you. And tonight, you will be reunited with her. Daughter will become the Mother, and the Mother will become the Daughter.”

  Evelyn throws her head back, pain and despair etched on her face as the labor pains surge through her body. With each agonizing wave, she clings tightly to the cushions, seeking some semblance of support.

  From the depths of the shadows, figures begin to emerge, their naked forms gliding towards Evelyn with a sense of purpose. These are the followers of the Church, their bodies adorned only by the flickering torch light that casts dancing shadows across the room. They heed Mama Larang's command, lifting Evelyn high above their heads as if she were weightless.

  Together, they carry her, marching through the dimly lit corridors until they reach the garden. The night air is heavy with anticipation, illuminated by the glow of torches that line a carefully prepared stage. Upon reaching the designated spot, the followers gently place Evelyn on a bed.

  She finds herself unable to resist the overwhelming force inside of her. A guttural scream tears its way out of her throat, echoing through the night. In response, the followers’s voices rise in yodels and chants. The intense energy of the night, the charged atmosphere that surrounds them, compels them to surrender to their most carnal desires.

  Their bodies merged into a collective act of love and passion. They move as one entity. They moaned and cried in unrestrained ecstasy. They’ve now surrendered themselves completely, giving in to those urges that have taken their souls.

  Evelyn bears witness to this surreal spectacle, her senses overwhelmed. The raw energy of their collective envelops the garden and her very being. Still gripped by the throes of labor, she grits her teeth fighting back against the pain pulling her in and out of consciousness. Within her, an indescribable power struggles to rip through as if something primal and otherworldly is clawing its way into existence. The followers of the Church gather around, their eyes on the miracle.

  They forced Evelyn to bear witness as they placed a mirror between her trembling legs, showing her the creature that’s slithering its way out of her. The followers continue their chants, pushing her onward, as she braces herself for the final, climactic moment when the miracle will be unveiled.

  Evelyn’s breath catches in her throat. What she sees in the reflection freezes her in terror: Mother’s reddish-brown eyes.

  “Our High Priestess is reborn!”

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