"I heard birds singing outside. I didn't know birds still came here."
"It is a beautiful day to be alive."
— Unknown
...
I wake to warm light slanting through the curtains. The air smells of toasted bread and coffee, and in the distance, I hear my mother humming a familiar tune, soft, gentle, but off-key. It sounds like she's humming with her mouth closed.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly. I blink at the ceiling, trying to remember the dream I just had, but it slips away, leaving behind only the feeling of something cold pressed against my chest.
I slide out of bed. The floor is warmer than I expect.
In the kitchen, my mother stands at the stove. She doesn't turn around when I enter, just keeps humming and flipping something in the pan. Her spine looks rigid under her nightgown, and her hair is neatly done.
"Morning," I say, moving to the counter. "What're we having?"
She doesn't answer. The humming continues. The smell of eggs and something slightly… sweet? Chocolate, I think. I smile, half-hearted, and back out of the room.
I pull my grey sweater from the hook in the hallway, still damp from yesterday or the day before and step outside.
The sky is cloudless, but the light feels filtered. The trees stand too still; no birdsong, not even wind. Only the sound of my feet crunching gravel as I begin to jog toward the trail behind the house.
The deeper I run, the thicker the silence grows.
Then I see something glow between the trees. A red coat,..small legs. A child, it seems but they're gone in a blink.
I stop. My breath comes in sharp, cold gasps.
Further ahead, a tall man stands at the tree line, facing me. Motionless. Not walking, not moving. Just watching.
I blink again.
And he is still there.
I turn back, my heart is racing more now, not from exertion, but from fright. I feel something in my gut, like a warning.
When I return, the house looks the same, but the silence is deafening. I step inside, calling out.
"Mum?"
No answer.
The pan is still on the stove, but cold. The eggs are gone. So is the sweet smell.
Even the coffee pot is full, untouched, still steaming. But my mug is missing.
I go to the bathroom, rubbing my temples. It's just the stress again. I haven't taken my meds yet. That's what this is.
I open the cabinet.
My pill bottle waits on the shelf, amber plastic, with my name across the white label.
But something new has been added.
Carved crudely into the plastic, it appears someone had scratched it in with a pin, the words are:
DON'T DRINK.
I stare at it, unable to move for a full minute. The letters are shallow but real. I touch them. They don't wipe away.
I twist the cap and take the prescribed dosage, two pills. Then grab the cup of water on the dresser.
Suddenly, I hear the scratching hiss of gas from the burner, and a low whisper.
A voice, sharp and clear, followed by a sudden "Stop!"
It comes from the stove.
I freeze, as my throat tightens. Cold buzzes across my skin.
Then I laugh short, dry, and loud in the quiet house. I must've skipped a dose yesterday. That has to be it.
I go to the kitchen, take the boiled water, and make the tea. Drop the pill in. Drink it all in two gulps.
I lie on the couch. The blanket is rough against my skin.
Maybe I can nap.
Just for a second.
Later, I wake in the dark.
Not the kind of dark that comes with sunset, but a sterile, buzzing dark. The old TV in the living room glows, the screen filled with static.
I don't remember turning it on.
A sound plays....
And I hear a truck reversing.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Except it isn't coming from outside. It's coming from the speakers. From a VHS tape?
I don't own a VHS player.
I stand slowly. The static makes the shadows pulse, like the walls are breathing.
In the kitchen, my mother hums again.
I look up at the wooden wall calendar above the sink, the one with the little wooden tiles you flip each morning.
Someone has already flipped it.
.
DAY 1
——————
"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart."
— Jane Austen
.
I wake up to the scent of coffee, thin and strong like burnt earth, seeping into my lungs before my eyes even open.
My head throbs, as I peel the blanket off and sit up slowly, scanning the room. Sunlight filters through the window. The clock ticks loudly, and somewhere behind the wall, a pipe creaks.
My mother hums that song again. The same strange tune without lyrics, just a melody looping endlessly, like the sound of teeth grinding in a dream.
I stand.
The hallway stretches longer for some reason. As I pass the grandfather clock, it ticks once and stops. The air feels dense walking toward the kitchen, and I notice the humming grows fainter… thinner.
"Morning?" I say, rubbing the side of my face.
But when I enter the kitchen, no one is there.
No plate of eggs. No smell of butter or toast. Just the heavy stench of rot, like wet meat left inside a drawer too long.
The humming is gone.
My mother's absence echoes louder than her presence.
I stare at the stove. It looks cold.
I could've sworn—
I shake it off, walk closer to the counter, and turn the tap on to fill the kettle. The pipes groan, then stop. I click it onto the burner. The metal rings dully as it settles.
When I turn around—
"Don't waste your breath."
"Jesus," I jump, stepping back too fast and knocking a mug off the counter. It doesn't break. It just… stops mid-roll.
My sister is there, right behind me, like she's been printed from the air.
She stands inches from me. Her face is pale, blank, appearing like a paper mask with two dark holes for eyes.
"Don't sneak up on me like that," I snap, pressing a hand to my chest.
But she doesn't answer. Her expression shifts, dull and tired.
"You didn't take the pills," she says flatly.
I frown. "What?"
She doesn't blink.
"You didn't take your pills."
"Yesterday. You skipped them. And the day before."
"What're you talking about?" My voice drops low. The room shrinks around me, and the light dims unnecessarily.
> "You made us believe you did," she hisses, stepping closer. "But you lied. You brought it back."
I back away, my hip bumping the sink. She follows, step for step.
"Now you're acting up again."
I reach back blindly, searching for something solid to anchor myself. My fingers dip into water...or something like it. Warm, thick.
"What are you saying?"
> "You promised you'd stop! After what you did." Her voice scrapes the inside of my skull.
"Stop it," I whisper, my voice cracking.
> "You let him back in!"
Her voice sharpens, rising like feedback from a broken speaker. My pulse hammers wildly. The shadows in the corners pulse with every word.
> "What you did… we can't undo it now."
"Shut up."
> "We're here because of you!—"
"Shut up!"
I turn away.
And the moment I do, there's only....
Silence.
Like a vacuum sucked the air from the room.
I turn back. She's gone.
Not a sound. No footsteps. Not even a breath.
The kitchen stands empty. The kettle hasn't even begun to hiss.
My hand comes out coated in something dark...almost black in the kitchen light. It clings to my skin like oil.
I look down.
Blood.
Fresh. Deep red. Rolling down my wrist in slow, thick drips.
I choke on my breath. My skin crawls as I spin toward the sink and stagger back, my heart thudding against my ribs.
Flashes of red smear the metal basin, streak the faucet, even splatter the window above the sink. It looks like...
As if someone dragged themselves across the porcelain.
"No," I whisper. I grab a towel and scrub at the sink, frantically, in trembling hands. But when I turn to get water, Gone.
The blood is gone.
The towel is clean.
And a faint scent of lemon remains.
My hand is dry.
I back out of the kitchen, still shaking. I pass the family photo in the hallway.
Me, Mum, and my sister on the front porch, all smiling.
But my face is scratched out. Deep gouges where my eyes and mouth should be. Splintered glass over my smile.
I stare, while my heart's pounding.
From down the hallway, static begins again.
The TV flickers in the dark room at the end. A hollow blue glow seeps into the walls. That sound plays again.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
A truck, reversing.
I run to the front door, grab the handle, then twist it.
The door creaks open… and I'm staring into a bathroom mirror.
My reflection blinks back at me.
My eyes are ringed black. My lips, colorless. The light behind me flickers, but I haven't turned on any lights.
I turn around.
I'm back in the hallway.
On the wall, the photo is bleeding.
I take two steps forward—
—and collapse.
.
>DAY 2
————