I walk back home, feeling a slight sense of disappointment, but all of that fades as soon as I see a RAV4 parked in my driveway. Even though my father never mentioned buying a new car, I know it's his—he told me on the phone yesterday that he'd be back today. I eagerly unlock the door, excitement building as I expect to find him in the living room, the place he always settles when he returns from a work trip, just so he can be there when I get home from school.
I step in, anticipating the usual image. But there's something off. I can hear faint, nonsensical sounds from the bedroom—soft sounds that I can't quite explain. My heart stutters, struggling to process it. It's not the kind of sound my dad makes. It's unusual...
I creep towards the bedroom, and just as I reach the door, the sounds from the strange sound from living room stop, and the noises of loud footsteps took over instead, the door swings open.
My dad is there, but not himself. His face is not quite right. His eyes aren't quite right. His eyes are wide, too wide, moving slowly, almost mechanically. His smile is stiff and forced.
"Julius," he says, in an effortful voice, as if he can't quite select the right word. "You're home early." Something in the way he's saying it is off, that I can't quite pinpoint. It's not in his tone—it's in the way he's standing, as if not quite sure where he is. As if he's trying too hard to act normally.
What's happening?
"Hi, Dad, I've missed you," I tell him, though hesitation colors my tone. I try for a typical smile, but it feels phony, like I'm doing it while every cell in my body is yelling that something is off.
He stares at me for a moment, his smile never wavering, but I notice something in his eyes—an unreadable flicker. It's like he's scanning me, as if he is unsure of how to respond.
"Yeah, I missed you too, Julius," he replies, his voice flat.
"Dad, I hope we can climb together again sometime soon. That time we climbed Kilimanjaro was really fun. I've been thinking about it a lot lately." I pause, watching his expression carefully.
He blinks, his smile flickering for a fraction of a second. "Yes, of course," he says, his voice a bit too high-pitched.
Trying to keep my tone casual, "I also want us to raise another cat together. I've always wanted another cat since Tigger died."
He nods enthusiastically, almost too quickly. "Oh, you're absolutely right. We should get another cat. Tigger was always such a good companion, wasn't he? I miss him too." He says with that strange voice again.
"Sounds awesome, I just had a long school day, and I desperately need a nap. I'll be up in a bit," I say with a genuine tone.
Without waiting for a response, I turn and head toward my bedroom, my feet feeling heavier with each step. The door clicks shut behind me, and I lock the door immediately. For a long moment, I started breathing heavily, and cold sweat flew down my back. I stand there in the dim light, staring at the familiar walls. My mind races, trying to make sense of it all.
We've never climbed Kilimanjaro... We've never had a cat named Tigger!
So whoever this thing is… or whatever this thing is… It's not my father.
I swallowed my fear and reached for my phone—but then paused, my hand hovering as doubt crept in.
I can't put Zach or anyone else in danger.
Calling Zach wouldn't help. Neither would the police. No one would believe me in a police call. What's inside this house isn't human. It's supernatural—something most people will never encounter in their lifetime, something they wouldn't believe before actually seeing it.
I steady my breathing, forcing the tremble out of my hands as I reach for the painting—the one with the elf holding the sword, ready for battle. My fingers curl tightly around the canvas like it can save my life. I push open the door to the living room.
Empty.
The thing pretending to be my father isn't here anymore. But that strange, rhythmic noise… It's back. It's from the bedroom again. A shuffling, like something trying too hard to mimic the ordinary.
I swallow the lump in my throat. My pulse drums in my ears as I approach the hallway. Slowly, carefully, I raise my knuckles and knock on the bedroom door, keeping my voice steady even as the weight of the painting grows heavier in my hands.
I hear the loud footsteps coming closer and closer.
Click… creeeaaaaak…
The bedroom door slowly drifts open with a groan that sounds too deliberate, too slow. The thing that looks like my father stands behind it, wearing his face like a mask—eyes too still, smile stretched a little too wide.
"There you are," it says in that strained, cheerful tone. "Something wrong, Julius?"
I force a grin, "No. I wanted to show you something."
I cradle the painting in my hands, angling it so that the soft light falls upon it at an angle to optimize its best. In the center, standing tall and proud, is the elf, with metallic sheen on its sword. My own voice is even, nearly somber as I begin to speak.
"I finished that one yesterday evening," I inform it, tracing my finger down the sword's edge. "It's an elf I dreamed about. What do you make of that glare in his eyes? I think that all paintings have their unique meaning. And that this elf's purpose is to protect."
The creature is gazing at the painting with curiosity, as if not quite comprehending but wanting to. Its head tilts to one side, curiously. "Very nice, Julius. You're quite talented, yes."
I nod once, slow and steady.
"Thanks."
Without warning, my free hand hovers over the painting, and the colors begin to shimmer. The sword in the artwork glows faintly, as if sensing my intent. Then, like light breaking through water, my hand slips into the canvas. The boundary between paint and reality ripples—and the hilt meets my fingers. It feels real. Cold. Alive. I drew it out as fast as I could, as if unspooling a dream into the waking world.
The creature tilts its head, confused. Before it can speak, before it can even breathe—I strike. The blade finds its mark, piercing straight through the thing's chest in one clean motion.
Its mouth falls open—in pain, but also shock. The creature is surprised that I have discovered its disguise, like it can't understand how.
"What the hell are you?" I ask with anger and a bit of fear in my eyes.
Its skin begins to ripple, like water under a thin sheet of glass.
And then… it starts to scream.