The table was set just like she remembered.

White linen runner. Gold-edged plates. The lemon-tea pitcher catching the light in soft amber tones. April stood at the head, smiling as she carved into the roast chicken with her favourite knife – the one with the tiny chip in the handle.

"Sit, sweetheart," her mother said. "It's still warm."

Liz obeyed. Bare feet on hardwood. Hands in her lap. She was small again – maybe nine, maybe ten – the years blurred. Her legs dangled from the chair, not quite touching the floor. The smell hit her first – rosemary, garlic, honey-glaze. Her stomach growled, which surprised her. She hadn't felt hunger in weeks.

"Here." April placed a plate in front of her. The mashed potatoes were perfectly whipped. The peas glistened with butter. A gravy boat steamed beside the breadbasket, untouched but already full.

"I missed this," Liz said quietly.

April chuckled. That same, soft sound. "You always loved my cooking. Even when you told me it needed more spice."

Liz smiled, but her fingers twitched on the fork. Something about the room was… too quiet. Not silent – the tick of the wall clock still echoed softly – but wrong. Like every sound had been rehearsed. Even the scrape of her chair felt scripted.

She took a bite.

The chicken flaked perfectly, juicy and warm. The potatoes melted. But the flavour—

Perfect.

Too perfect.

Not rich. Not overwhelming. Just ideal. In the way that made her stomach tighten, not relax. The salt was exactly balanced. The gravy held just enough umami. And yet, the moment she swallowed, there was nothing left behind.

No aftertaste. No warmth.

It was like tasting someone else's idea of memory. Not hers.

She took another bite. Same thing. Her mouth moved. Her body reacted. But the food left no imprint. No joy. Just function. A simulation wearing skin.

April sat across from her now, sipping tea. She didn't blink. Just smiled. Tilted her head slightly, the way she always used to when Liz talked about school. The apron she wore had no stains. The skin on her hands was too smooth. The knife never scraped the plate.

Liz's appetite vanished.

She set the fork down, slowly. Her eyes stayed on her mother's face.

"I dreamed of this," she said.

April nodded. "I know, sweetheart. I'm here now."

"Yeah," Liz whispered. "You are."

But the voice in her head was louder than her own.

This isn't her.

The tea pitcher gleamed. The ceiling fan spun too slowly. Somewhere behind her, the piano chimed again. Not a song – a chord in reverse, dragging itself backward note by note like a corpse crawling uphill. Then silence. Then again. A loop. Slower each time. Softer. Like it was unlearning itself.

Liz's hand trembled against the tablecloth. Not from fear. From recognition.

This wasn't peace. It was packaging.

And something beneath the glass was watching.

…………………

Liz set the fork down with slow, deliberate care.

Her hands were still sticky with lemon tea. It clung to her skin in thin, invisible strings – tacky and cold – and no matter how she wiped them on the napkin, the wetness wouldn't fade. The cloth just smeared it, like trying to erase ink with a feather.

She didn't look at April. Not yet.

Instead, her eyes drifted to the window.

The garden outside was suspended. Mid-bloom. Mid-breeze. Midlife. The trees held their breath, branches frozen in the act of swaying. A bird hovered midair, wings stretched wide, trapped between beats like a paused video.

Nothing moved. Except them.

Something itched behind her eyes. Not pain – a wrongness. Like a note sung just off-key. A memory trying to unspool itself.

She'd eaten this meal before. Not once. Dozens of times. But never like this.

The roast chicken had always been uneven. Her dad's carving was chaos – he'd tear into it too fast, hands clumsy, laughing as skin peeled off with a comic wince, always pretending the leg "slipped" so he could steal it. He made a monster voice for the fork. "Who's hungriest? WHO DARES?"

The mashed potatoes were from a box when April forgot to shop. The peas were usually too soft. The gravy? Clumpy as hell.

But it had been perfect.

Not because of flavour – but because of noise.

The kitchen had been a warzone of sound. Mum talking through bites, debating with herself about obscure occult papers. Dad making puns no one wanted. Liz trying to one-up him and failing with a snort. There were arguments about whether ghosts could cross the equator. April once drew a summoning circle on a napkin just to prove a point. Liz had taken it to school the next day and got detention.

There was always something. Spilled juice. Burnt garlic bread. One time, mum spent half the meal talking about a patient at the university clinic who swore their reflection had started moving differently – and then broke into laughter when she realised she was scaring Liz.

And above it all, the warm hum of life. Too fast. Too bright. Too much.

This?

This wasn't any of that.

The table was clean. Too clean. The plates matched. The roast was symmetrical. No yelling. No swearing. No dumb laughter.

Like someone had rebuilt her memory using the words, but not the tune.

Her stomach fluttered – not from hunger. From something colder.

She reached for the tea, just to do something. The condensation stuck to her fingers like glue. She couldn't feel the weight of the mug. Her hands didn't shake – not yet – but the air felt thicker around her throat. Like breathing through fabric.

The tea smelled perfect. Too perfect. Like lemon from a candle shop.

The silence pressed in.

And then, Liz smiled again – not because she believed, but because she was afraid to show she didn't.

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"Hey, Mum?" she said lightly, trying not to sound careful.

April looked up from her tea. Her smile didn't waver. "Yes, sweetheart?"

Liz tilted her head. "What did you say when I wanted to name the stray cat Mike Wazowski?"

April chuckled. "Oh, that? I said it was cute, so we kept it."

Liz froze.

Just a fraction of a second – a breath too long between heartbeats.

Then she smiled, almost too easily. "Right."

April's eyes didn't blink.

"It was so sad – it only had one eye. Do you remember what you said when we took it to the vet?" Liz asked, voice soft as syrup.

Her mother nodded warmly. "Of course. That poor thing. One eye, wasn't it? You saved it. You always had such a big heart."

The tea in Liz's throat turned bitter.

Mike Wazowski had two eyes. Perfectly healthy. They'd kept him for three days before he clawed the sofa and ran out the door. Mum had threatened to name the next cat Sulley in revenge.

Liz kept her face still. She smiled. Just enough.

But her fingers curled beneath the tablecloth, gripping the fabric so tightly it left nail marks.

"Yeah," she said. "I remember."

The warmth in her chest shrank to a hard, cold stone. Her stomach twisted, not in grief – but in dread. Something in her bones was curling backward. Her skin felt like paper.

She looked up again.

April was still smiling. Still holding her teacup. Still watching her with that soft, motherly gaze.

But she hadn't blinked once.

The tea wasn't steaming anymore. The food had stopped cooling. The tick of the wall clock had vanished.

And outside, the bird still hadn't landed.

Liz kept smiling.

She wiped her hands again, this time on her dress. The fabric clung like skin. Even the air had turned thick – like walking through wet cotton. Something inside her was shrinking, folding in on itself. Not fear. Not grief. Something worse – recognition.

She knew. This wasn't memory. This wasn't peace.

This was something that had learned how to mimic her mother's voice – but not her soul.

And it was watching her.

…………………

The house sighed.

It was soft. Almost gentle. Like the creak of old wood settling.

But Liz heard it.

She rose slowly from her chair. The plate in front of her still shimmered, steam frozen mid-rise. "April" was in the kitchen now, humming tunelessly as she washed dishes that didn't exist. Her back never moved. Her head never turned.

Liz stepped into the hallway.

And it stretched.

Not all at once – not like some horror movie trick – but subtly. Incrementally. Like each step she took pushed the floorboards just a little further away from their proper place. The hallway grew longer. Narrower. The light bulbs overhead pulsed like distant heartbeats.

The rug beneath her feet rippled. It didn't slide or wrinkle – it flowed. Like liquid under cloth. The pattern of it shifted when she wasn't looking directly at it.

She turned toward the wall.

The family portraits were still there.

Only now... they whispered.

Low voices, layered and damp, spoke from behind the glass. Some repeated "stay", soft and desperate. Others muttered "safe here", like a lullaby with a broken tune. One simply sighed her name, over and over, as if trying to lull her back into a memory she hadn't agreed to.

Liz's eyes locked onto a photo in the centre.

Mum, younger, holding her as a baby in her arms. Sunlight filtered through the trees behind them. The old park bench. The white cardigan. The warmth of that moment had once been so real she could remember the exact smell of the shampoo in April's hair.

Then the photo changed.

Not all at once. Not like a trick. Just... the angle. The mother in the frame turned her head. Her shoulders didn't move. Her hands still cradled the infant. But her neck bent. Her face angled toward Liz, eyes locked straight through the glass.

And smiled.

A slow, wide, knowing smile.

Liz stumbled back.

The whispering got louder. Not frantic – enticing. Like a siren's call whispered from every crack in the drywall.

"You're tired, Lizzy."

"It's too heavy out there."

"Just rest. Just one more day."

She whirled around – and saw the dining chairs stretching upward, their legs now too long. One brushed the ceiling. The walls bowed inward, curving like the inside of a ribcage. The floor rolled gently beneath her feet.

And then she heard it.

Her own laugh.

From upstairs.

Not now. Not today. Not seventeen. It was her, years ago – maybe six – squealing as dad tossed her onto the couch and called her his "tiny tornado."

The laugh looped. Once. Then again.

But the pitch drifted. Slower each time. Like a recording degrading.

Liz's breath caught. Her mouth was dry. Her hands curled into fists by instinct, but the air felt like cotton – heavy, choking.

This place wasn't falling apart.

It was growing tighter.

A cocoon. A shell made of memory. Meant to trap. Meant to smother.

It wasn't breaking. It was sealing.

And it wanted her to sleep inside it.

…………………

The living room had become... wrong.

The sofa sagged like it had bones. The coffee table stretched toward the hallway like a reaching limb. Framed photographs melted down the walls, their glass dripping like slow tears. The light had turned the colour of dried blood – that same sunset-orange you saw just before headlights hit.

And nothing moved. Except her.

Liz stood in the centre of it, arms tight to her chest. The house creaked behind its silence, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Then April appeared.

She didn't enter – she was just there. One blink and she stood by the kitchen doorway, same soft apron, same humming lullaby vibrating beneath her breath. Her eyes gleamed like wet pearls.

But now her feet didn't touch the floor.

She floated half an inch above it – not dramatically, not supernatural in a grand way. Just... wrong. Her apron didn't sway. Her limbs didn't swing. She moved like a mannequin given too much grace.

And her smile.

Wider now. Too wide. The kind of smile a mask makes – no muscle. No kindness. Just shape.

"Lizzy," she cooed.

Liz didn't answer. She didn't move.

April glided closer.

Then she knelt beside her – slowly, smoothly – without ever bending her knees. Her face drew close, and she smelled like lemons. Not real ones. The artificial kind. Candle-shop sweetness over something rotting underneath.

"Stay," April whispered. "Just one more day. You don't have to hurt anymore. You don't have to fight."

Her hands reached up and stroked Liz's hair.

They left no pressure. No warmth. No weight.

Fingers without substance.

"You'll feel better soon," April said again, gently. "I promise."

Liz stared past her.

The wall behind April was peeling.

Not wallpaper. Not paint. The wall itself. Layers of drywall and memory splitting open like stretched skin – curling outward as something wet and dark churned behind it. A shudder pulsed through the house. Not loud. But felt. Like lungs preparing to exhale something that wasn't air.

Liz trembled.

This felt like before.

Just before the crawling things came. When she'd still been alone in her head. When the voices whispered in her sleep. When the shadows didn't blink but watched anyway.

She swallowed.

And looked back at the thing wearing her mother's face.

It was still smiling. Still humming. Still pretending.

But now Liz knew.

This wasn't Mum – wasn't April. This wasn't home.

This was a lie wrapped in memory. A parasite wearing her grief like a coat.

And it wanted her to give up.

…………………

The house exhaled.

Walls sagged inward. The ceiling lights dimmed, pulsing like a slowed heartbeat. Behind her, the figure in the apron rose silently, still humming that tune with no melody. The walls kept peeling. The floor cracked open behind her – something wet and hungry dragging fingers along the grain.

Liz ran.

The staircase loomed ahead, curling upward like a spinal column — bone-white steps laced with red veins pulsing faintly beneath the wood. Each step groaned as if remembering pain. The handrail twisted like cartilage.

She didn't care.

Her bare feet slapped the steps. First one, then another. She stumbled — small legs too short, lungs too shallow. Her nine-year-old frame wheezed as she climbed.

But then the stairs shifted beneath her.

Not physically. Not quite. But something inside her changed with each step.

Her breath deepened. Bones stretched. Her fingers lengthened. Her heartbeat steadied into a stronger rhythm.

With each step, her body reshaped – but her soul remembered. Each stair stripped a year from the lie.

Ten years old – the year she cried for three days when Mike ran away. Eleven – when she found April's journal and read words like summoning and price. Twelve – her first dream of fire. Thirteen – the first time she tried to draw a circle. Fourteen – hospital visits. Fifteen – pills. Sixteen – silence. Seventeen – standing at the edge of everything. Alone. Alive. Still here.

Her spine straightened. Her eyes cleared. Her soul stopped shrinking.

I am not a child anymore.

Her memories flickered back into place.

Dad's voice, gruff and tender. Mum's laugh when Liz stole her eyeliner. The feeling of cold glass beneath her forehead during that first hospital night.

She was seventeen by the time she reached the landing – the version of herself that had fought, suffered, survived. Her legs burned, her fists clenched, her lungs no longer wheezed. Her mind was no longer fog.

And her fingers glowed.

Faint, but unmistakable – a low red shimmer bled from her skin. Not Hellfire. Not psychic flame. Something in between. Something hers.

A flicker haloed behind her head – just a shimmer at first, like light through smoke. Then deeper. Red. Raw. Rising.

Liz turned.

Below, the house sprawled in impossible ways. Walls twisted into meat. Floorboards writhed. And at the bottom of the stairs, where the steps melted into shadow, stood April.

Or what wore her.

Still in the apron. Still humming.

But no longer pretending.

Her head tilted slowly – too slowly – like a broken doll readjusting. Her eyes were gone. Hollowed out into shadow. Her mouth stretched in a grin that touched the edges of her face.

Liz stared down at her.

And didn't flinch.

"I'm not yours," she whispered.

Then she turned back, placed one hand on the door at the end of the hall, and pushed it open.

Beyond it – light.

But not warmth. Liz stepped through, teeth clenched.

The door pulsed faintly beneath her palm. Not with heat. With knowledge. Something behind it knew her – not as a memory, but as a story half-finished.

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