Trapped in Shadows: Living in the House of Secrets and Fear
There’s a certain weight to secrets, a heaviness that sits in your chest when you know something the world isn’t ready to hear. My story is one of those secrets—unbelievable, chilling, and dangerous to share. But I’ve reached a breaking point, and though I remain anonymous for my safety, I can no longer stay silent. This is my life: a life shaped by whispers, shadows, and the terrifying truth I live with every day.
I was told my parents passed away when I was very little. Neighbors whispered condolences, and life moved on. But here’s the truth: my parents never left me. They’ve raised me, cared for me, and stayed by my side all these years.
The catch? They are not like other parents. They never speak—they can’t. My paternal grandmother, the matriarch of our family, took their tongues. They live under her control, silenced and bound in ways I don’t fully understand. Their eyes seem to plead with me sometimes, but they can’t say the words I so desperately want to hear.
My grandmother is a powerful woman, feared and respected in our village. She’s wealthy beyond explanation, yet she has never worked a day in her life. People murmur about her wealth, her influence, and the strange pattern that follows her: young, successful people in our village suddenly falling ill and dying.
It’s no coincidence, I assure you. Those deaths are her doing.
I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes. A young paramedic from our village, only 23 years old, recently passed away after a sudden illness. During her funeral preparations, my grandmother attended as a mourner. She came back home with more than condolences—she stole the young woman’s spirit from the coffin.
After the burial, my grandmother sent the spirit to retrieve the body from the graveyard. The spirit obeyed. Once the body was brought to her, she performed her dark rituals, removed the young woman’s tongue, and turned her into another one of her zombies.
The young paramedic now works in a different city, her salary redirected to my grandmother. Her family mourns her loss, unaware that she is neither alive nor truly dead.
Our home is no ordinary place. It’s surrounded by a high fence, and no one is allowed to enter. I am locked inside, cut off from the world. I have no friends, no freedom, no way to escape.
Inside, I cook for an army—an army of stolen souls. My grandmother’s zombies live here, silent and subservient. They eat, they work, they exist, but they are not alive. Many of them cry silently, their eyes filled with sorrow and desperation. I see it every day, and it breaks me.
Sometimes, I wonder if they’re begging me for help, pleading for some way out of this nightmare. But what can I do? I am as much a prisoner as they are. She made everyone believe that I am mentally challenged and that's why she has the high walls and allows no one in the yard.
She made them believe that I can be a danger to the society because with my mental illness I am somewhat a danger to the society and that's why her yard is off limits for visitation and more.
The village suspects her, of course. How could they not? The sudden deaths, her inexplicable wealth, the way she moves with an air of untouchable power—it all adds up. But suspicion is not proof, and fear keeps everyone silent.
Even I, her own grandchild, am terrified of what she might do if she knew I was sharing this story. She’s illiterate and doesn’t use social media, so I feel a little safer writing this. But I know the dangers. If my neighbors read this and connect the dots, I could be in grave danger.
I am tired. Tired of the lies, the fear, the isolation. Tired of cooking for spirits who long for freedom. Tired of living under the control of a woman whose power seems limitless.
I wish I could walk out of this house, escape the high fences, and find a life of my own. I wish I could give the stolen souls in this house the peace they deserve. But I am trapped, just like they are, and the thought of defying her fills me with dread.
I don’t know what will come of sharing this. Maybe nothing. Maybe someone out there will believe me and see this as a call to action. Or maybe it will simply be a way for me to unburden myself, even if only anonymously.
To those who read this: please know that the world is not always as it seems. Evil doesn’t always wear a mask or live in the shadows. Sometimes, it’s in plain sight, dressed in wealth and power, daring you to challenge it.
And to those who might recognize this story: protect me. Protect my neighbors. Protect the souls who have been silenced.
This is my truth, as terrifying as it is to share. I hope it reaches someone who can help.
Living with fear is like carrying a stone in your chest—it weighs you down, suffocates you, and reminds you of your powerlessness. But even stones erode over time. Maybe, just maybe, this story will be the beginning of that erosion.
For now, I remain trapped in the shadows, waiting for a day when I can finally step into the light.
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