**The Unhinged**
“Oliver, let me in. Let me in! I’m your mother! You have to give me money, or they won’t take me back,” the voice outside droned on, knuckles rapping against the wood in a dull rhythm. “You owe me!”
Oliver leaned his weight against the door, eyes shut tight. No, he wouldn’t open it. He’d spent his entire childhood branded as “the odd one,” and he refused to let her back in now.
He retreated to his bedroom, flopped onto the bed, pulled his headphones over his ears, and turned the music up loud.
His earliest memories were hazy. There had been a birthday—his fifth, perhaps—when his father was still around. A toy racing car, a cake, friends from nursery. Then those people from that strange organisation moved into their home, and the celebrations stopped.
His mother had fallen under their sway quickly. His father, unable to bear her obsession, had left, signed the divorce papers, and agreed to pay some meagre child support—though none of it ever reached Oliver, not for clothes, not for shoes.
From the start, the Brotherhood had seemed to Oliver like some great octopus lying in wait. Harmless, even fascinating at first glance—until its tendrils coiled around you, and escape became impossible.
His sixth birthday passed unmarked. As did the next ten. The Brotherhood did not believe in such things. Instead, there were “special days,” when they were allowed something sweet. The rest of the time, Oliver and his mother traipsed from house to house, preaching their doctrine alongside other converts.
The flat was sold soon after, with the Brotherhood’s lawyers smoothing the way. Oliver was left with nothing, registered in some decrepit hostel on the outskirts of nowhere. The money, of course, went to the commune.
His school years were spent in a shared room with other women and their children, dressed in second-hand clothes stamped as “charity donations,” forever reciting scripture. The other children mocked him; he fought back, and was punished twice—once by the bullies, once by the elders, for torn clothes and insufficient zeal in spreading their word.
By the time he was sixteen, they’d written him off as hopeless dead weight. That was his chance. He ran—a thousand miles from his hometown, enrolled in college, took odd jobs, worked his way up. Now he was a successful programmer, finally able to buy his own flat.
Yet the fear that had haunted him for years had come true. His mother and her fanatics had found him again. To them, he was just a convenient mark, ripe for the milking.
***
It had started a week ago, when his mother—barely recognisable—had ambushed him outside work.
“Hello, darling! I’ve been waiting here three hours,” she’d said brightly.
“And why would you do that?”
“How could you ask? I’m your mother! I missed you, so I came to visit. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“No. I didn’t invite you. I won’t let you into my home. I’ll buy you food if you’re hungry, that’s all.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Let’s eat together.” She had beamed, as if this were some grand victory.
He bought her a meal, and they sat on a park bench.
“What about your Brotherhood?” he asked. “Did you leave them?”
“Not exactly, dear. But I don’t bring them enough benefit anymore. And I’ve nowhere else to go.”
“Where did you get my address?”
“They gave it to me. Told me to go to my son. So here I am.”
Oliver sighed. “Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere, really. But that’s fine—I can sleep in the stairwell.”
Another sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, I’ll make up the sofa.”
For the next few days, he let himself believe she might change. She didn’t preach. She cooked soup, asked about his life—his studies, his job. Oliver, whose social circle barely extended beyond colleagues and clients, warmed to her, sharing his troubles and small triumphs.
Then, a week later, *they* appeared. And the money vanished.
Oliver came home from work to an empty flat. The drawer where he kept his savings—his bonus from a major project—had been forced open. He’d meant to deposit it, but kept putting it off. Now it was gone. Likely taken by her.
She returned soon enough, flanked by two Brotherhood men, letting herself in with his key.
“Darling, you should be proud! Your tainted money is going to a noble cause,” she crowed. “Now you can return to us, be saved like me!”
“What? That was most of my savings. Give it back, or I’ll report it stolen.”
“Can a mother really steal from her son?” she laughed, carefree. “Who’d believe you? Want to be a laughingstock?”
Her smile remained, but her eyes were cold.
Oliver shot to his feet. “Get out! And don’t ever come back—none of you!”
“I was stupid enough to think you missed me, that I could have a real family. And I paid for it again. At least it was just money this time.”
“You’re nothing to us. A traitor, not worth pity. You should be paying us, begging forgiveness for the rest of your life!” Her shrieks held no love—only hate.
He shoved them all out, double-locking the door—she only had a key for one. For a while, he listened to her wailing on the landing, fists pounding the wood.
***
The next morning, Oliver stepped out for his usual run. His mother sat on a bench by the entrance with two unfamiliar men.
“There he is!” she wailed. “My own flesh and blood, denying his poor mother! Left to die in the streets! Did you sleep well, darling, while I shivered on cold concrete?”
Oliver walked past, ignoring her. But she followed, her companions in tow. He stopped, turned. “What do you want?”
“We take donations, sweetheart. You grew up with us—you know the good we do.” Her voice had turned shrill. “Pay willingly, or we’ll ruin you. Your reputation, your job—you’ll have no peace.”
“Why should I pay you, or them? Because of you, I spent years without a home, decent food, or clothes!”
“Because you never truly believed,” she said smugly. “Repent, before it’s too late. Only the faithful are saved.”
“Leave, or I’ll call the police. Your Brotherhood’s already under investigation.”
They slunk off. But Oliver was drenched in sweat, his old terror surging back. Eight years gone, and still the sight of them sent him into panic.
The next day, his boss summoned him.
“Look, I don’t want to pry, but do you know our phones have been ringing off the hook about you? Is it true you threw your mother out?”
“It’s true I grew up in a cult because of her, that she sold our home and gave everything to their leader.”
“Oliver, I’m not judging, but a major client called. He doesn’t want you near his projects. Take a leave of absence—or find another job. We’ll give you a good reference, but we can’t have this drama.”
He resigned that same day. No point arguing. The Brotherhood’s reach was something he’d learned young. They’d known where he studied, where he lived—just waited until he was worth fleecing.
Walking home, lost in thought, his phone rang.
“That was just a taste,” the voice sneered. “We can destroy you. You’re ours, Oliver. Pay up, or keep suffering.”
“Go to hell,” he snarled.
“We’ll see what you say tomorrow. You’re already jobless. And don’t think you can escape us.”
Oliver hung up, exhausted. He didn’t want to run again. But by morning, flyers plastered the neighbourhood—accusing him of unspeakable cruelty to animals. As he tore them down, a neighbour muttered, “He seemed such a nice boy.”
This was their next move. And after this? Harassment until he broke? If anything happened to him, his mother would inherit his flat. That was their goal.
He needed to act. But he felt small again, powerless.
The phone rang once more.
“Enjoying the preview of your new life? The neighbours will deal with you soon. We’ve barely started.”
“What do you want?”
“You’re one of us. Pay, and live. We’ll even get your job back—or a better one.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Your choice.” The line went dead.
Oliver was done. He booked a flight to Edinburgh. The flat could be sold later. For now, he had to salvage what remained of his life—and hope they’d tire of chasing him.
Let them find another victim. He’d paid enough for his freedom.
