Chapter 10 - The Master of Monsters
Six months later.
The soundstage at *Blood & Burlap* was alive with controlled chaos. Spotlights hung from the ceiling trusses, casting dramatic amber and deep teal shadows across a constructed set that resembled an ancient, subterranean cavern.
In the center of the set stood our lead creature: an eight-foot-tall, multi-jointed monstrosity featuring intricate, decaying silicone plates, realistic bioluminescent veins, and hand-punched hair that took three weeks to install.
“Quiet on set!” the assistant director shouted through a megaphone. “Camera rolling! Sound speed!”
From the monitors behind the director’s chair, I watched our actor step into the light. The creature looked terrifying, majestic, and completely believable.
“And... action!”
The scene played out flawlessly. When the director yelled “Cut! That’s a wrap on creature principal photography!” the entire stage erupted into cheers, clapping, and the popping of celebratory cider bottles.
David walked over to me, handing me a paper cup. “Nominated for best practical effects at the Saturn Awards next spring. Bank on it, Harriet. You knocked this out of the park.”
“We all did,” I smiled, clinking my cup against his.
“Aunt Harriet! Look at this batch!”
I turned around. Madison came jogging across the soundstage cable mats, wearing denim overalls covered in gray clay dust and a pair of sturdy, no-nonsense sneakers. She was holding a plastic tray containing four freshly cured silicone wound prosthetics.
Over the last six months, Madison had grown three inches. The sulky, entitled posture had been replaced by the lithe, disciplined confidence of a real athlete. Her grades had climbed back to straight A’s, her cheer team had taken silver at the state championship, and every Saturday morning, she arrived at my shop promptly at eight.
She had swept floors for two months before I let her touch a mold. But she had an artist’s eye—the same creative spark she had possessed as a little girl, before Lauren tried to mold her into a mini-influencer.
I inspected the prosthetics on the tray. The edges were paper-thin, the flesh tones mottled with realistic micro-veining.
“Edge feathering is excellent,” I told her, nodding approval. “Color gradient on the bruising is about ninety percent there. You used too much blue in the secondary wash.”
Madison puffed her cheeks out, blowing a stray curl off her forehead. “I told you, it’s supposed to be an old wound! Old bruises turn greenish-blue!”
“Take a look at my cheek in the mirror,” I said dryly, pointing to the faint, almost invisible mark that had finally faded months ago. “It turns yellow first, kiddo.”
Madison ducked her head, a sheepish, genuine grin breaking across her face. “Fine. Yellow wash first. I’ll redo the secondary layer.”
“After you clean your station,” I reminded her. “Grandma is making pot roast at six, and we don't keep Ruth waiting.”
“Yes, boss,” she laughed, heading back toward the effects annex with the tray held high.
Ruth’s life had stabilized into a peaceful, quiet rhythm. With Lauren gone, the house on Maple Street was no longer a war zone of manufactured crises. The debt had been restructured through Marcus’s office, the fraudulent liens wiped clean by a court order, and Ruth had taken up community gardening. She attended every one of Madison’s cheer meets, sitting proudly in the bleachers with a knitted blanket.
Our relationship wasn't perfect—trust, once shattered, takes years to cure, like thick silicone—but the guilt-tripping had stopped entirely. Ruth had learned to respect my boundaries, and I had learned to visit without my guard perpetually raised.
As for Lauren, the diversion program had required her to maintain steady, verified employment. She was currently working as a dispatcher for an appliance repair company two towns over. She lived in a modest, one-bedroom apartment, attended mandatory weekly therapy, and had supervised phone calls with Madison twice a month.
Lauren was slowly, painfully learning what the rest of the world already knew: that life wasn't an online performance, and bills didn't disappear because you threw a tantrum. She had a very long road ahead of her, but for the first time in her adult life, she was walking it on her own dime.
My phone chimed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was a text notification from Apple: a digital receipt for Madison’s fifteenth birthday gift, scheduled for delivery next week.
It wasn't a phone. It wasn't designer clothes.
It was a professional-grade set of sculpting tools, custom-forged steel spatulas, and an apprentice workbench pass for the local industrial arts academy.
Beside me, Madison emerged from the annex with a broom in hand, chatting happily with Chloe about color theory and clay densities. She looked happy. She looked whole.
May you like
I smiled, locked the screen, and slipped the phone into my pocket.
Making monsters was an art form. But rebuilding a family from the ruins? That was the best piece of practical magic I’d ever pulled off.
