When it all started, I actually liked my stepdad, Ryan. He and my mom met at some work event, and I could tell right away that he was good for her. Mom hadn’t really laughed or smiled much in the eighteen months after dad passed away. Ryan gave something back to her, some spark or light or presence. He made her happy and that made me happy, so I was willing to overlook the weirdness when it first began.
Ryan was a giant, at least six-foot-six or more. I was always surprised his shoulders could even fit through the doorway. He had a dark beard and a booming laugh that he fired off often. But something felt strange from our first meeting. It was his eyes, I decided later. They were small for his face, nearly black, and over the course of the dinner that mom made for the three of us, I don’t remember seeing Ryan blink once.
The first six months after my stepdad moved in with us were pretty great. He and mom had a date night at least once a week. Ryan even made time to hang out with me, which I respected. Not every new relationship is going to leave time for somebody to try to teach you how to drive or help with calculus homework, but the guy made an effort. I was stressed enough getting ready to go into my senior year of high school. Knowing that my mom had somebody who made her happy after dad died was a relief in a lot of ways.
I noticed early on, though, that certain oddities seemed to hover around my stepfather. Strangers watched him from time to time. Anytime I was out in public with him, I saw people looking at us. I could tell it was more than a casual reaction to Ryan’s size. It felt…familiar. Protective? Eyes followed us in restaurants and parks and stores. Mom seemed oblivious but that’s love for you, I guess. She and Ryan were dreamy-eyed for each other and sometimes I felt like a teenage third–wheel but, honestly, the first couple of months were good for all of us.
Then Ryan moved in with us and things got weird.
My stepdad got a lot of letters and packages. He would wake up before the rest of us and go wait at the mailbox some mornings but I still saw just how much correspondence came in. No matter the weather–even in the rain–Ryan would be waiting for the mailman. I tried, once or twice, to intercept the letters but I never made it to the mailbox on time. Once Ryan had the boxes or envelopes, they’d disappear into a shed that he custom built on our property. It stayed locked at all times and he told my mom and me very clearly that it was his private space.
In addition to all of the mail, Ryan got a ton of calls at all hours. I’d step out of my bedroom in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and hear him whispering downstairs, having a conversation in the kitchen. Occasionally, I’d creep down the hallway hoping to catch a few words but my stepfather seemed to have an almost supernatural sense about eavesdropping. Once, I made it most of the way down the staircase before his voice suddenly stopped mid-sentence. I attempted to tip-toe back up to my room but when I reached the top of the stairs, I looked back to see Ryan staring up at me. His face was completely blank in the dim light, which was somehow worse than if he’d been angry. I stopped trying to listen in on his late calls after that.
If it was just the letters and the phone calls, I could have let a sleeping dog lie. Even a year in, my mom was still over the moon, head over heels, madly in love with this strange, giant man. But then the long disappearances began. Ryan told us these were business trips, though he was always cagey about exactly what he did for a living. Something about property management, he told us. The man did well, financially, there was no doubt there. Within that first year, he was paying all of the household bills, taking my mom on fancy vacations, and even putting some money aside for my college fund (which was coming up so fast my nerves were absolutely fried).
Ryan never went into details about his job and his trips started lasting longer and longer. First, it was a few days here and there, then weeks, escalating until he disappeared for nearly a month at the start of my senior year in high school. My mom nailed a smile to her face, but I could tell she was devastated and afraid. I decided to confront Ryan when he finally returned late one night in May. Mom was already asleep and didn’t wake up when he pulled into the garage. I waited half an hour for him to get settled then walked downstairs. Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers when I sat down.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, smiling.
The smile dissolved when I asked him where he’d been and then told him I didn’t think it was right the way he was treating my mother, keeping her in the dark.
“Go to bed,” Ryan said, his face cold and flat again.
It felt like the temperature in the room dropped. To my shame, I scurried away, unable to keep eye contact with those dark, dead eyes of his. But a resolution formed in my mind that night, a promise to myself: I’d at least check the shed to see what my stepdad was storing. I ordered a lock picking kit–can you believe you can just buy that from Amazon–then waited an agonizing week for Ryan and my mom to head out for the day.
My amateur lock pick kit made short work of the shed’s defenses. There were three padlocks on the door; I got through them all in under two minutes. It was a big shed but cramped. I pushed the door open and saw only shadows from the sunlight behind me. I fumbled around on the wall for a light switch, not even sure if the shed was wired for electricity. Apparently, it was; I flipped the switch and took a step back.
The shed was packed with bones. There were boxes full of ribs and femurs and collarbones. Spines dangled from the rafters and a full human skeleton was stapled to the back wall. I saw knives, too; big blades that curved back and forth like a snake’s trail. A pair of black robes hung on a mannequin in the corner. I was so stunned by the contents of the shed, I barely registered the blinking red light over the door until I thought about it later.
It was an alarm system.
I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to decide my next move when Ryan’s car pulled into the garage. The obvious thing to do was to call the police but I was terrified that my mom might somehow get in trouble, as well. I had relocked the shed and figured I had time to talk to her, to warn her about Ryan, then we could choose what to do, together. We’d been safe with him for more than a year so what was another day?
By the time Ryan pulled his car into the garage, though, my mom was already dead. I went out into the garage to meet them and saw her dead, wide-eyed corpse sitting in the passenger seat with her throat slit. Ryan was watching me with that blank face, his shirt stained with my mom’s blood, a curvy knife in his hand. I didn’t know how, then, but I realized he knew I’d broken into the shed. I wanted to scream, to weep for my mom, but when he opened the car door, my legs took over and I ran into the house.
Ryan had his secrets but so did I…so did my mom. I knew that she had a small gun stashed away deep in the back of her closet. She’d bought it after dad died but before she met Ryan. I heard him crashing through the house behind me, calling my name. I made it to the gun just as he ran through the bedroom door. I fired it until the clip was empty and Ryan was sliding down the hallway wall, six bullets in his stomach and chest.
The police arrived quickly. After searching the shed, I found out the truth: Ryan wasn’t just a killer. He had a hidden life; several lives, actually. Several families. Some knew his secrets, others–like mom–were meant for sacrifice. Ryan had his own little cult complete with followers. They were the ones calling him late at night and sending him those packages full of bones.