Chapter 2: Reborn to the Nightmare

When I opened my eyes again, I was reborn. Back to the very day Savannah was about to torture and kill the mayor’s wife. I woke to the familiar scent of lavender polish and old money. The halls of the Langley estate stretched out before me, sunlight slanting through the stained glass. But the air felt heavy, thick with dread. Like a storm was brewing just out of sight.

In the Langley estate, you could taste blood in the air. It was a coppery, cloying scent that clung to your skin and seeped into your clothes. I could hear muffled cries from the next room, the sickening slap of flesh against wood. No matter how hard I scrubbed my hands, I could never wash it away.

Mariah Evans’s hands were strung up high, her body twisting in agony, blood pouring down her legs. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face streaked with tears and sweat. The ropes cut deep into her wrists, leaving angry red welts. She was gasping, half out of her mind, but she still fought—kicking weakly, her eyes wild with terror.

Just that morning, she was the mayor’s wife, three months pregnant and the envy of everyone. She’d worn a pale blue dress, her hand resting gently on her belly, smiling shyly as folks congratulated her in the town square. Hard to believe only hours ago, she’d been the picture of happiness. Now, Jackson himself had forced her to drink a bowlful of bitter tea, then dragged her into the estate. Just to make Savannah Langley smile. He looked like a man possessed. His face was blank, his eyes hollow. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze as he shoved her through the gates, ignoring her sobs and pleas. It was like the man she loved had vanished, replaced by a stranger.

Savannah was infamous for her cruelty. I remember thinking, God help anyone who crossed her. Rumors about her ran wild through Maple Heights—stories of pets gone missing, of servants who vanished overnight. Folks crossed the street when her car rolled by. Mothers pulled their kids close. The Langley name was both a curse and a promise.

What Savannah loved most was watching others suffer. The more pitiful the screams, the happier she got. “I’ve heard the mayor’s wife is famous for her icy beauty—the envy of all. As it happens, my room is missing a lampshade made from a beauty’s skin. Why not use yours? Wouldn’t that be perfect?” Her voice was sweet as honey, but her eyes glittered with something cruel. She lounged on the velvet chaise, heels kicked off, swirling a glass of bourbon like she was just talking about the weather. The other guests laughed nervously, not sure if it was a joke. I felt my stomach twist.

Savannah sat stunning in her designer dress, every gesture oozing arrogance, her smile edged with a twisted madness. She looked like a movie star from the old silver screens, but her smile never reached her eyes. The diamonds at her throat caught the light, but nothing outshone the cold calculation on her face. She’d said the same thing in my last life. The words echoed in my memory, a grim refrain. No matter how many times I replayed it, the outcome was always the same. I caught myself thinking, maybe this time I could change it.

With her next stroke, she slit Mariah Evans’s throat herself. The room went silent except for the wet gurgle of blood. Savannah watched with a satisfied smile, her hands steady, not a hair out of place. It was over in seconds, but it felt like forever.

And I was the one she ordered to skin Mariah and dump her body in the woods. My hands shook as I carried out her orders. The other servants kept their eyes down, pretending not to notice. I worked in silence, the weight of my own complicity pressing down on me like a stone.

Later, Jackson Evans came to me, begging in tears to recover his wife’s body. I remember him finding me in the laundry room, his face streaked with tears, his voice hoarse. He looked smaller than ever, shrunken by grief and guilt. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him—almost. I forgot the first rule of survival in this world. Never trust anyone, and never act on a whim of kindness. I should have remembered what Grandma Edna always said: “A good deed in a viper’s nest gets you bit.” I gave in, and told him where Mariah’s remains were. For a second, I hesitated. But I told him anyway. He squeezed my hand, promising to keep my secret. I wanted to believe him—I really did. But in the Langley estate, secrets are currency, and loyalty is always for sale. Who’d have guessed he’d sell me out the very next moment? I learned too late: desperation makes cowards of us all. The ink was barely dry on his promise before he went running to Savannah.

That day, the man everyone saw as proud and upright calmly fed grapes to Savannah. Then, with just a few words, he decided my fate. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your staff, Miss Langley. This maid’s disloyal—she should be beaten to death.” He didn’t even flinch as he said it. His voice was smooth, rehearsed, like he was reading lines from a script. The room was silent, every eye fixed on Savannah, waiting for her verdict.

Savannah was in a good mood, favoring him, so she just waved her hand and had me dragged away—as easily as swatting a fly. She barely glanced at me, her lips curling in a lazy smile. The guards grabbed me, their grips iron-tight. I screamed, but nobody moved to help. In the Langley house, mercy was just another word for weakness.

I begged and wept, but in the end, I was beaten with a hundred lashes. My bones were broken, my flesh torn open, blood everywhere, dying in agony. Every lash was fire. Each blow a reminder of how helpless I was. My vision blurred, the world shrinking to nothing but pain and the taste of blood. I died alone, my last breath stolen by Savannah’s cruelty.

Afterward, my soul drifted back to my hometown in a daze. I floated through the streets like a ghost, invisible to the living. I watched the seasons change—the leaves turning gold, the first snow dusting the rooftops. I longed for the warmth of my grandma’s kitchen, the smell of her apple pie cooling on the windowsill. Maybe I missed home too much. The longing ached in my chest, sharper than any whip. I would’ve given anything for one more day in the sun, one more hug from Grandma Edna.

Savannah had promised that once I dealt with Mariah’s body, I could leave and return home. I remember clinging to that hope, foolish as it was. She dangled it in front of me like a carrot, knowing I’d do anything to see my family again.

My grandma was waiting for me. She’d written to say she missed me, and after all these years, she was finally going to celebrate my birthday when I came home. I can still see her letters—always neat, the ink faded at the edges. She wrote about the garden, about the neighbors, about how she’d saved up to buy a special cake. She was so proud, so excited to have me home.

But when my spirit returned, I found... The house was empty, the windows dark. The birthday banner she’d made hung crooked in the hallway, untouched. No one sang, no one celebrated. The silence was suffocating.

Savannah had left no loose ends. Even my elderly Grandma Edna was drowned on her orders. She hadn’t even bothered to hide it. Folks in town whispered about the old woman found in the creek, but no one dared say more. Fear of the Langleys ran too deep. She died alone, her body left to rot. Nobody dared claim her body. The preacher said a few words over her grave, but no one came. Her friends stayed home, curtains drawn tight. They were all afraid of what might happen if they showed up.

And in her hand, she still clutched the birthday gift she’d made for me—a dress she’d sewn herself, straining her failing eyesight, working day and night... God, that image will haunt me forever. The stitches were uneven, the fabric soft and worn. She’d embroidered apple blossoms along the hem, just like the ones that grew by the front porch. Each blossom was a labor of love, every thread a promise she’d never get to keep. She pricked her hands over and over, just to get those apple blossoms right. I remembered her wincing as she sewed, but she never complained. “Beauty’s worth a little pain, Tessa,” she’d say, smiling through the ache. She always said— “Our Tessa is so fair and lovely—she looks best in apple blossoms.” Her voice was soft, full of pride. She used to tuck a blossom behind my ear every spring, laughing as I twirled in the sunlight. I would have given anything to hear her say it one more time.

But now she would never see me wear it... The dress lay folded on the table, untouched. I pressed it to my face, breathing in the scent of home and loss. The world felt colder, emptier than ever.

Seeing what happened to her, hatred overwhelmed me. It burned in my chest, hot and wild. I swore then and there that Savannah would pay—that I’d never let her hurt anyone I loved again.