Tom took a shaky breath as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
"Honey, kids, I'm home," he called out, his voice calm but carrying an edge of something unsteady. He bent down by the doorway, slipping off his worn shoes and placing them neatly beside the others. Three pairs, all precisely aligned. Three perfectly arranged sets, standing in eerie symmetry. His gaze lingered on them, noticing one slightly out of place. Without hesitation, he adjusted it, ensuring the line was flawless.
"Perfect." A satisfied murmur left his lips. Order. Harmony. Just like how his family would be again—soon.
Straightening up, he stepped deeper into the house, the darkness swallowing him. But if one looked closely, if light had dared to penetrate the shadows, they would see it—the thick veil of spiderwebs crisscrossing the ceiling and corners, draping over long-forgotten surfaces. The shoes he had so tenderly arranged? Their insides had long been claimed by tiny creatures—cockroaches scuttled within, and holes pockmarked the soles, miniature and round, like bullet wounds.
Yet Tom walked with purpose now, no longer limping as he had outside. Here, he was the man of the house. The protector. The glue keeping it all from crumbling apart.
"Honey? Kids? I'm back. Won't you welcome me home?" His words carried a feigned lightness, a chuckle accompanying them.
A low growl rumbled in response.
In the living room, they stood.
Three figures. Still as statues.
The first, an older woman—her once smooth skin now a grotesque landscape of decay, her face frozen in a state that might have once been warmth but now bore only remnants of something rotting. The illusion of wrinkles was merely thick clusters of flies clinging to her flesh, a buzzing, shifting mask of death.
Beside her, two smaller figures. Girls. Twins. They mirrored each other in form and disfigurement. Their peeling, flaking skin seemed barely held together, exposing hints of bone, the gruesome interplay between death and the remnants of what was once human. If one were to shine a light, to truly examine them, they might see the remnants of identical faces—fractured echoes of childhood lost.
Their eyes glowed in the dark, red and unwavering. Watching. Tracking him.
Tom smiled. "Still the same, aren't you?" His voice was gentle, almost affectionate.
He maneuvered past the broken television, its shattered screen still housing the jagged remains of its remote, half-embedded like a wound. The tea table, barely standing on three legs, wobbled under the faintest touch. The long couch—a single, mutilated piece—bore bite marks, its leather surface shredded into an unrecognizable checkerboard pattern of black and white.
Yet Tom moved effortlessly, tracing familiar steps toward the dining table.
He placed his briefcase down. Papers, neatly stacked, rested atop it.
The growling deepened.
Three sets of eyes followed him, their gaze predatory, their presence suffocating. They had not moved, but they had watched. Oh, how they watched.
Tom chuckled softly, a calculated calm in his tone. "Relax. I'm just getting what I need so we can sit together as a family. Don't you want that?"
Another snarl answered him.
Sighing, he reached for the masks. Four of them. His fingers dipped into a gelatinous substance, smoothing it over their insides before fitting them onto his face—one, then another, then another, until all four layers rested snugly against his skin.
"Alright. I'm done. Daddy's here, girls. Do you want to play?"
Their eyes twisted, tracking his every motion in an unnatural way. As he moved, one of the twins—Tia—rotated her eyes in a full 360-degree motion, an impossible tracking that disregarded the limits of human anatomy.
Tom tsked. "No, no, bad girl, Tia. Daddy told you not to do that. It's scary. You'll frighten people away, and you won't make friends at school." His voice took on the tone of a tired but patient parent. "Use your body, move your head—like this." He demonstrated, turning his head from side to side, twisting his torso despite the jolt of pain that shot through him.
Nothing. No movement from them. Only the vibrating air of their snarls.
He sighed, stepping back. "I forgot. My beautiful girls, please forgive me. I know you don't like it when Daddy stands too close." He smiled, though the weight of his exhaustion seeped into his voice. "See? I stepped back. I'm learning."
Their skeletal hands twitched. Reaching. Yearning. Not out of affection, but something else—something primal. Something final.
"Hmm? Are you calling me over? No, no, I won't get close. You don't like it. Don't tempt me."
A chorus of guttural growls answered.
"I know, I know. But patience is a virtue, my loves. After tonight, you'll be free. No more chains. No more waiting."
He turned, moving swiftly, retrieving a delicate, framed painting. The edges of the paper had thinned with age, fragile as dust.
"Here. Look." His voice softened, reverent. "This is Mom, Shelly. And this is you, Tia. And you, Mia." His fingers brushed the glass. "You were so young. You probably don't remember this photo, but I do. Every detail. It's burned into my memory. My best memory. My last memory of you."
His voice cracked. The weight of it all hung thick in the air.
"But after tonight, we will be like this again. He said so. By the sixth month, under the full moon. And there's a full moon tonight."
A sudden jolt—sharp and sudden—ripped the mask from his face.
Pain. A small wound. Blood dribbled down his cheek.
Tom staggered back. "Oh? Sorry, I messed up again, didn't I? Don't be upset." His voice wavered, but not with fear—something else. "I just got lost in the moment. I can't contain my excitement."
He exhaled and sank onto the floor, his arms resting on his knees, his head tilting back. His body slumped in a way that betrayed his exhaustion.
He checked his watch.
Chuckled.
"Time moves slowly when you're waiting for something."
The growls rumbled, thick and constant, reverberating through the walls.
Tom closed his eyes.
"Since you don't want to play, I'll rest for a while. Daddy is exhausted from work."
The snarls continued, low and hungry, filling the house with their haunting resonance.
And Tom fell asleep.