The Forgotten Beast, page 1
The Forgotten Beast
THE FORGOTTEN ONES
BOOK ONE
FREYA VICTORIA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Freya Victoria
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First paperback edition November 2023
ISBN 979-8-9893882-0-2 (paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9893882-1-9 (ebook)
ISBN 979-8-9893882-2-6 (audiobook)
www.freyavictoria.com
For those of us who tried over and over again to write our first book. You can do it, it just takes the right inspiration.
“To see you was instantly to love you. Entering your apartment, tremblingly, my joy was excessive to find that you could behold me with greater intrepidity than I could behold myself.”
― Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve
Author’s Note
POTENTIAL TRIGGERS IN THIS BOOK
The Forgotten Beast is a Beauty and the Beast retelling. I want you going into this knowing what you’re getting. Ultimately, I want you to protect your mental health and there are absolutely no hard feelings if you need to DNF The Forgotten Beast. If you would like a more thorough explanation of any of these, you can find it on www.freyavictoria.com on the book page for The Forgotten Beast or you can go to the Trigger Details at the end of the book so you can decide if it’s safe for you or not.
This book includes situations with alcohol, anxiety, assault, blood, cheating, death, decapitation, depression, gore, hospitalization, hostages, kidnapping, murder, physical abuse, profanity, sexually explicit scenes, torture, violence, war
Contents
I. Thanksgiving Week
1. Evergreen
2. Deck the Halls
3. Sleigh Ride
4. Over the River
5. You’re a Mean One, Mr. Beast
II. Week After Thanksgiving
6. Santa Tell Me
7. Good to be Bad
8. Star On Top
9. Once Upon a December
10. Prayers for this World
11. I Just Called to Say I Love You
III. Christmas
12. Let it Go
13. I'll Be Home for Christmas
14. Imagine
15. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays
16. That's Christmas to Me
IV. Week After Christmas
17. Amazing Grace
18. Hallelujah
19. What Christmas Means to Me
20. Just for Now
21. Seasons of Love
22. My Heart With You
23. Little Drummer Boy
24. Invincible
25. I Saw Three Ships
26. White Winter Hymnal
27. Light in the Hallway
V. New Year's Day
28. New Year's Day
VI. The Next Year
29. Where Are You Christmas?
30. It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
31. Coldest Winter
32. Christmas Eve
33. When You Wish Upon a Star
34. When You Believe
35. Sweater Weather
36. God Only Knows
37. Grown-Up Christmas List
Thank You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Trigger Details
PART ONE
Thanksgiving Week
CHAPTER 1
Evergreen
I sit in the dust on the floor of my parents’ attic. Thirty years of collected Christmas ornaments, garlands, figurines, and other knickknacks my parents have stuffed up here throughout their marriage lie around me. As I decide which ones to bring downstairs to decorate this year, I run my hands over the surface of each ornament.
This is my favorite part of this time of year, looking through all the ornaments my parents bought or were given for each milestone over the course of their marriage. Starting with some ornaments given to them by a friend when they were engaged, which read simply First Christmas Engaged followed by First Christmas Married with the respective years. Ornaments for the birth of my brothers and me, our first teeth losses, and our first real home as a family. There are ornament cars that represent each of our first cars, and ornaments to represent each of our graduations, and everything in between and after.
Every family has their traditions. Mine is to come back to my parents’ home in Jackson for Thanksgiving. Even though I’m grown and have my own home to decorate, I would prefer to come home and help decorate the house I grew up in.
This is the home my mom decorated every year growing up. It’s the house my father would come home from work to everyday and kiss my mom on the cheek. He would ask about her day, knowing that a day dealing with us kids was more than a full-time job. It’s the house I had my first broken arm and broken heart in.
Every year, I come back for Thanksgiving and stay for the weekend, helping my parents sort through all the decorations. We decide which ones we’ll display this year. Which items should go where, and, are we going to use the nativity this year or the Santa and reindeer set? Are we going to have a live tree or pull down the massive Costco pre-lit tree my mom got on sale one year? These are the traditions I love and will treasure forever.
My life has been full of predictable turns. I grew up with parents who stayed married. Had brothers that gave me a hard time, but nothing more than you’d expect from brothers. But, I haven’t really lived. Sure, I went to college. Yeah, I graduated and moved into a place of my own in Laramie. Even got a job to support myself. But, I haven’t traveled anywhere. I haven’t truly seen anything. I’ve been on this planet for twenty-four years and have spent most of that time within a six-hour radius.
As I look around the attic that extends for most of my parents’ house, I remember Christmases that have come before. I remember the fights over who gets to hang mom’s favorite ornament or the tree topper. Fights over who gets to set up the Christmas countdown, or who gets the first taste of the pumpkin roll mom makes every year. These are the memories I come back for every year.
My brothers are both married with kids. They now help their wives set up their homes for Christmas, where they also collect a new ornament each year. I continue to come back here, reveling in the time alone with my parents, the time I know will be gone way too soon.
This is the first year I’ve done this by myself. Mom sprained her ankle, so I’m up here alone sorting through the Christmas stuff while she sits at the bottom of the ladder. She’s occasionally asking and answering my questions about which decorations we want to bring down.
I’m just about done here. Taking one last glance around to make sure there isn’t another box I’ve missed, I notice a large, dusty chest tucked away behind all the Christmas decorations. I move some boxes out of the way so I can open it. When I brush some of the dust off, I notice how well made the chest is, inscribed on the top are the words The Forgotten Ones. I try to open it and realize it’s locked, which means most likely there aren’t any Christmas decorations in here. I carefully brush the rest of the dust away with my hand amid much sneezing and coughing. The chest is made of wood, and as I run my hand across its surface, it is smooth, worn that way by time.
“Are you okay up there?” my mom yells up at me.
“Yeah… I’m fine… I’ll be down in a minute,” I say as clearly as I can amid the coughing and sneezing from the dust cloud surrounding me. I decide I’ll ask my mom about it after getting the boxes down from the attic by myself.
It takes me several trips and much struggling before I’m able to get all the supplies and decorations down. Mom helps me as much as she can on her bum ankle and we start opening the boxes and sorting everything in the order we’ll need them to put up the decorations. There’s nothing better than organized chaos.
This year, we thankfully decided on a live tree, so I didn’t have to haul down the giant fake tree by myself. Dad’s at work while “us girls do our thing” here at the house. I secretly believe he always schedules himself the day after Thanksgiving to make sure he doesn’t have to help with all the decorating.
“How about we take a break and get some hot cocoa? You can catch me up on what’s been going on with you lately,” my mom asks as she gets up from her spot on the floor. She hobbles into the kitchen to get the cocoa ready. Though, I’m not sure what she thinks might be going on with me. It’s always the same: work, home, hanging out with Huxlee, my boss and best friend. The occasional trip back to my parents’ house is about as exciting as it gets for me.
“Sure, Mom, sounds great,” This is another tradition I come home for, homemade hot cocoa. We always drink out of the same Christmas mugs we got as a Santa gift one year. They are matching, of course, so we each have one to drink the delicious, warm, creamy chocolate drink from. I get up and follow her into the kitchen, dusting off my ass as much as I can while walking.
My phone dings when I’m almost to the kitchen and I pull it out as soon as I walk through the doorway. I grin when I see the most recent text in my “Besties Group Chat.”
Huxlee
Did you survive the dust?
Me
It’s not t
Jen
Bull! Why do you think we leave so early?
Me
Really? I thought it was to keep the kids on a normal-ish schedule.
I set my phone down and look up as Mom pulls out various canisters and pans. She hobbles around their large kitchen on her boot. She’s made the cocoa so many times, she eyeballs the recipe before putting it onto the stove to warm for us. I don’t even think my mom has a package of instant cocoa in this house.
“Hey, Mom, what’s that large box up in the attic?” Why I decided to refer to it as a box, I’m not sure.
She looks at me and smiles as she stirs the cocoa on the stove. “What box, honey? You’re going to have to be more specific. We’ve been storing boxes up there as long as we’ve lived here,” she replies with a chuckle.
“The one that was behind all the Christmas stuff, yay big, says ‘The Forgotten Ones’ on the top of it.” She brings her gaze to mine, a frown marring her brow. “I thought maybe it had more Christmas stuff in it, but it’s locked.”
“Oh, that box,” she answers flippantly, quickly gazing back down at what she’s doing. “No, there are no Christmas things in there. Don’t worry about it. The things in there are private and for my eyes only.”
Clearly, my mother was never a child, or at least never a curious child. Saying anything to keep your kid out of something, even one who’s 24 years old now, is essentially a dare. Now I will stop at nothing to see what my mother might be hiding in the fancy, dusty, hidden chest. I will just apparently do it behind her back now. With her sprained ankle, it’s not like she can follow me around the entire time I’m here. I will stop at nothing to get that chest opened before I leave on Sunday night.
As soon as she’s done mixing and warming the cocoa, she pours us each a cup. Then I grab the container of homemade cookies that sits on the counter, and we move to the table. That’s one thing I can always depend on the weekend after Thanksgiving. There will be all the leftover baked goods from the big Thanksgiving affair my parents always host.
Once we’re both sitting, she continues, “I’m sorry you have to do all the decorating by yourself this year, Callie.” Then she motions to me and conspiratorially whispers, “Next year, I’ll do my best not to have an accident that takes me out for the holidays.” She finishes with a laugh. I grab a napkin from the holder in the center of the table and pull out two cookies to set on it.
“It’s okay, I know you didn’t do it intentionally. I can’t imagine you hurting yourself on purpose.” I smile and take a sip of my cocoa, the warm chocolate lighting up my tastebuds. “We’ll get this done, even if you’re just decorating the lower branches on the tree and handing me ornaments out of the box.” Picking up a cookie, I dip it in the cocoa and take a bite.
“Callie, you know you’re supposed to dip those in milk, right?”
“But have you ever tried it?” I plunge the cookie into my cocoa again, accidentally dipping too far. When I pull the cookie out, I stuff the rest in my mouth and lick the hot cocoa off my fingers.
Mom grabs her own cookie and daintily dips it into her cup. After she takes a bite, a smile crosses her face. “Wherever do you pick up these things, Callie girl?”
“Eh, thought it might taste good, so I tried it just now. Turns out, I was right.” We burst into giggles and continue to chat, eating more cookies and sipping our drinks.
CHAPTER 2
Deck the Halls
As soon as we’re done with our cocoa, we both get up and move to where we’ve unpacked the boxes. The first thing we do every year is give everything—decorations and shelves especially—a good dusting before we start decorating. Even though we follow the same routine when we put all the stuff back every year, a year in a box would cause anything to get gross.
Mom chatters away while I use her duster and clean all the surfaces. My mom has always gone all out and decorated the entire house, so while I work in every room, I also secretly look for the key to the mysterious chest.
I’ve worked my way through the living room, kitchen, and several other rooms in the house, and am now slogging my way through my mom’s craft room. This room has so many shelves it’s taking me a long time to clean everything. My determination to finish this outweighs any discomfort I feel breaking a sweat. It gathers across my forehead and under my boobs the most, but I can feel it across my arms as well.
My mom hobbles her way to the bathroom and I’m frantically searching through all of her drawers looking for the key. As I hear her coming down the hallway talking the entire way, that’s when I finally find it. I quickly snag the key and put it in my pocket for later, then close the drawer as quietly as I can right as my mom walks into the room.
“So, Callie, what do you say we take a break for some Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches?” She stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. My cheeks flame, hoping she didn’t see any of that. I feel guilty as hell.
“Sure, give me a minute to finish up in here and I’ll be right there.”
She smiles at me before turning around and heading toward the kitchen, I assume.
I quickly make sure everything looks normal after my search, and then finish dusting the last couple of shelves before following her to get some lunch. If she didn’t see me snag the key, I don’t want to give her any reason to suspect anything is amiss.
These sandwiches are another favorite of mine after Thanksgiving. My mom uses leftover rolls, layers of cream cheese, and cranberry sauce, along with leftover turkey, salad, and cheese, and we pick our own sides from whatever is left. She’s almost finished making the sandwiches when I enter the kitchen.
I take in a deep breath as soon as I cross into the room. It smells like Thanksgiving all over again, as all the smells and flavors are brought together in our delicious sandwiches. “Mmmm, smells wonderful, Mom. Thank you so much for making lunch.” My mom is the best cook I know. She’s won many a contest for her cooking in Jackson, taking top place every time for her pies.
“You’re welcome, sweetie. I figured it was the least I could do since you’re cleaning my house today.” She focuses on what she’s doing as she talks. Considering she’s got one of her giant knives out, slicing the sandwiches in half diagonally, I prefer her paying attention to her task. I’m the klutz of the family, and the most likely to slice my hand open accidentally.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. You’re the perfect housekeeper,” my dad speaks as he walks into the kitchen. We both startle when he speaks, neither of us having heard him come in.
“What, not working a full day today, Dad?” I ask sarcastically. He absolutely never misses Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches.
“And miss eating lunch with my girls?” He feigns offense before coming over and giving me a kiss on the top of my head. “Never. The house is looking wonderful, very holiday appropriate.”
“Oh, Jerry, we haven’t even started the decorating yet. Callie just finished getting everything cleaned and ready for the decorations to be put up. You’ve arrived just in time to help!” If only I could accurately capture the smirk on my mom’s face and the look of terror on my dad’s, I’d have the perfect Christmas meme.
