For the 13 days leading up to Halloween, I am trying an experiment by rewriting the same story in 13 different styles, reflecting the various horror subgenres as part of my Thirteen For Halloween series. You can find the original version HERE. So, feel free to come back and weigh in with your opinion of which style worked the best!

The glory days of the plantation house had long since faded, now marked only by aging wood, creeping kudzu, and the weight of unpaid debts. Inside, Anaïs lay restless on a timeworn chaise. Tattered drapes and peeling wallpaper stood as silent witnesses to years of opulence and moral decay, sins of past generations stitched into the very fabric of the walls. This was a home that had once pulsed with life, its intricate architecture a spider’s web woven from strands of Southern gentility and exploitation.

When the grandfather clock in the corner tolled the witching hour, Anaïs felt a chilling breeze cut through the stifling heat. Legend had it that it was the ghost of Delphine, a woman unjustly hanged a century ago, serving as a nightly reminder of the South’s contorted legacy. Anaïs’s eyes flared open, burning with an unholy fire as a cruel yet sorrowful smile twisted her lips.

“You always remember, sugar, the dark heart hidden within beauty,” whispered a spectral voice—it was her mother’s timbre, a mantra passed down through generations drowning in lore and bigotry.

Rising from her reclining position, Anaïs felt the room’s temperature plummet. The floorboards creaked and groaned as if rejecting her newfound malevolent nature. Her high heels echoed through the rotting hallways like a metronome of impending doom. She felt the scornful gazes from framed family portraits—generations of Confederate officers, enslaved laborers, and betrayed wives—each contributing to the twisted tapestry that was her lineage.

As she descended the grand staircase, a memory flashed in her mind: Father Josiah, the local priest, had once described her home as an Eden, tainted and fallen. And now, Anaïs realized, she was its snake. Generations of malice surged within her like an overflowing cauldron of venom.

Stepping onto the porch, she noticed the air was thick, almost palpable. A dog howled mournfully in the distance, mourning her metamorphosis. The magnolias, once symbols of Southern elegance, sagged under the same wickedness now coursing through her veins. The Mississippi River before her seemed to halt its flow momentarily as if bracing for the sorrow she would imprint upon its banks.

Then, the footsteps. Caleb, her former lover, naive enough to think he could draw her back to a simpler life. He materialized from the shadows, his eyes uneasy.

“You’ve changed,” he remarked cautiously, the hairs on his neck standing up.

“Oh, Caleb,” Anaïs cooed, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. “You could never comprehend how much.”

An ethical dilemma rose within her—a fleeting pang of love or guilt—but it dissolved as swiftly as it had appeared. She looked into Caleb’s eyes and saw reflected not just her individual malice, but the collective darkness of an entire region’s history. For a brief moment, she wondered if she should release him, question the cycle she was perpetuating. The thought vanished almost as soon as it had formed, eclipsed by an irresistible urge for malevolence.

Laughing softly, a sound that melded into the night with an unsettling ease, Anaïs took her first step into a world teetering on the brink of chaos. Her laughter was a melody as dark as the murky depths of the Mississippi—a harbinger of a sorrow so profound that no historical account could ever hope to capture its essence.

And so, with an act too unspeakable to illustrate in polite company, Anaïs sealed Caleb’s fate and that of many others. It was a genesis of dread—a cruel inauguration of her reign. As she stood there, the world seemed to shudder as the malevolent influence within her unfurled, ensnaring not just the hearts of those who would cross her path, but weaving a new, haunting tapestry that would become part of the very soul of the South. A tapestry too grotesque for any loom, too intricate for any pen, but perfect for the next twisted chapter of her life.