Chapter 1: The Night I Became the Monster

I am a doctor who volunteered in a remote part of Montana, but in the end, I used a scalpel to cut the throats and end the lives of an entire family of three. The confession claws at my insides, hot and raw, nothing like the cold, clinical words I'd use in a report. I remember the blood, the terror, the way the blade felt in my hand—like a secret I never wanted to know.

The words echo in my mind, heavy as lead. Out here, you learn not to trust the quiet. The mountains swallow the roads, the wind howls like a warning, and violence isn't just a rumor—it's a shadow that follows you home. I never thought I'd become its instrument. But that night, it was as if the world had tilted off its axis, and I, Dr. Nathaniel Reeves, was the one holding the blade.

My pulse hammered in my ears. That night, the girl I once saved came to the clinic seeking help.

She was just a silhouette in the doorway, shoulders hunched, hair tangled, face streaked with tears and Montana dust. The porch light cast her shadow long and thin across the warped floorboards, making her look impossibly small. I remembered her from before—the girl with the stubborn eyes and a limp that never quite healed. But tonight, her voice trembled, brittle as ice about to crack.

She said she’d been assaulted and begged me to help her.

Her words tumbled out, ragged and raw. "Please, Doctor Reeves, please, help me," she gasped. Her hands shook so badly she could barely grip the edge of the counter. There was a wildness in her eyes, a terror that made my own heart stutter.

My heart was pounding, hands cold. First, I checked her wounds. Then, the evidence. Always the evidence. I preserved everything by the book, treated her injuries, and called the sheriff’s office.

I moved on autopilot, medical gloves snapping tight, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. I bagged her torn clothes, swabbed for DNA, did everything by the book. My hands were steady, my voice calm, but inside, a storm was building. When I dialed the sheriff, my knuckles whitened on the phone. "Assault victim at the clinic," I said. "Send someone now."

But when her family and the police arrived, she accused me—screamed that I was the one who raped her.

The room turned cold as the grave. Her parents burst in, frantic, clutching each other. Savannah—her name like a curse in my mind—pointed at me, eyes wide and wild. "It was him!" she screamed. The accusation hit me like a sucker punch. The sheriff's hand hovered near his holster. I felt the air thicken with suspicion.

I was detained for investigation, but was released after my innocence was confirmed.

They locked me in a holding cell, the metal bench biting through my scrubs. Hours passed in a blur of questions and paperwork. Eventually, the evidence cleared me. The sheriff muttered an apology, but it tasted hollow. I walked out into the Montana night, the sky so wide it felt like it might swallow me whole.

Still, the girl and her family harassed me every day, demanding hush money—three hundred thousand dollars, or else. They said it was for their daughter’s lost innocence.

They showed up at the clinic, at the diner, even outside the post office. Their voices were loud, faces twisted with rage and grief. "Three hundred grand, Doc! You owe us!" Savannah's father would shout, spittle flying. Their demands followed me like a bad smell, impossible to shake.

They even threatened that if I didn’t pay, they’d drag me into the woods and leave me for the wolves.

Montana threats aren't idle. Folks here know what happens when someone disappears in the wild. The way Savannah's father looked at me—cold, steady—sent a chill down my spine. "You don't pay, Doc, and we'll let the wolves have you. No one'll find your bones."

They banged on pots and pans at sunrise, live-streamed on Facebook, screaming to anyone who’d listen that I was a rapist. "Everyone needs to know what this so-called doctor did!" they'd yell. The racket started at dawn, metal clanging like a funeral bell. They'd set up their phones, shouting my name, calling me a monster. The whole county watched. Then the whole state.

They insisted that, as a doctor who knew the law, I had destroyed the evidence ahead of time.

"He knows how to cover his tracks!" Savannah's mother would shriek. "He cleaned everything up, just like one of those TV criminals!" Their lies grew roots and spread, choking out the truth. People I used to call friends started crossing the street to avoid me.

Because of this, I was cyberbullied. My parents were also harassed. While trying to avoid the online mobs, they got into a car accident and both died.

My phone blew up with threats, my inbox flooded with hate. My folks, back in Nebraska, tried to keep their heads down. But the mob found them—posted their address, their photos, even my childhood dog. The night they died, fleeing in their old sedan, a semi ran a red light. The police called me at 3am. I never got to say goodbye. The news hit me like a punch to the chest. I stared at my phone, numb. My hands shook. I couldn't even cry.

I couldn't take it anymore. So I... In despair, one night, I started a murder live stream.

I sat in the dark, staring at my reflection in the window. The mountains loomed outside, indifferent. I set up my phone, hands steady now with a different kind of resolve. "Tonight," I said to the camera, "I'm going to show you the truth."

After killing the girl’s parents, I asked the girl:

The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge. Blood pooled on the linoleum, shining in the pale light. Savannah cowered in the corner, her eyes huge and wet. I crouched down, scalpel still slick in my hand. "I once saved your life. Why did you frame me?"

“I once saved your life. Why did you frame me?”

My voice was low, almost gentle. The words felt heavy, ancient. I wanted her to look at me, to see the man she had destroyed.

The girl cried and begged for mercy: “I really was assaulted, but I didn’t see who it was... My parents said someone had to pay, and you looked like you had money...”

Her confession spilled out in hiccuping sobs. "I swear, I didn't know who it was... But my folks, they said it had to be someone, and you... you had a nice truck, a good job... Please, please, don't hurt me..."