The voice was a siren song woven from the fabric of her most profound loss. It didn't just sound like her father; it felt like him. It carried the warmth of remembered sunsets, the security of strong hands lifting her onto his shoulders, the ghost of a laugh that had once been the soundtrack to her world. It was a perfect, devastating imitation.
"Lane? Sweetheart? Don't be shy."
Elias dug his heels into the polished wood floor, his breath coming in ragged, panicked hitches. "No, no, no," he chanted, a desperate mantra. "It's the forge. It's tempering the skin. Don't look. Don't listen."
But Lane was already at the threshold, her hand white-knuckled around the candle, the other still clutching Elias's brittle fingers. The room beyond the door was not another horror show. It was the exact opposite. It was her grandmother's sunroom, from the old house that had been sold years ago. Wicker furniture with floral cushions. Potted ferns brushing against the glass windows. Afternoon sunlight streamed in, so real and warm she could feel it on her skin. The smell of baking bread was intoxicating.
And there, in a rocking chair by the window, was her father.
He looked exactly as he had in the photograph, maybe a few years older. His hair was still thick and dark, his smile easy. He wore a simple work shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He was real. He was solid. He was here.
"There you are," he said, his smile widening. His eyes, the same shade of hazel as her own, crinkled at the corners. "My God, look at you. All grown up." His voice hitched with what sounded like genuine emotion. "I've missed so much."
Lane's throat closed. A sob, held back for two decades, threatened to break free. This was the dream she'd had a thousand times. The reconciliation. The explanation. The welcome home.
Elias yanked on her arm, his voice a dry scrape in her ear. "It's a photograph! It's a memory! It's wearing him like a suit! Look at its hands!"
Lane's gaze, blurred with tears, dropped to the man's hands. They were resting on the arms of the rocking chair. They were her father's hands—strong, capable, with the little scar on the knuckle from where he'd cut it fixing a bike chain. They were perfect.
"Don't listen to him, Lane," her father said, his voice gentle, soothing. He didn't even look at Elias, as if the broken man were beneath his notice. "He's sick. He's been down in that dark cellar for so long, he doesn't remember what the sun feels like." He leaned forward, his expression open and pleading. "Come in. Talk to me. Let me explain. Let me finally tell you why I had to leave."
The words were a dagger to her heart. Why I had to leave. It was the question that had defined her life. The empty space every therapist had tried and failed to fill. This thing, this monster, had reached into the deepest, most tender part of her soul and offered her the one thing she had always wanted.
It was a masterpiece of cruelty.
A part of her, the five-year-old who still waited by the window, screamed to run to him. To let his arms wrap around her and make the world right.
But the woman who had eaten the peaches, who had read the journal, who had seen the engine room, held firm.
It cannot create. It can only imitate.
This was its most brilliant imitation yet. It had studied the photograph, it had plundered her happiest memories, and it had built this… this diorama of forgiveness. But it was still a puppet. A sophisticated, heartbreaking puppet.
"Explain?" Lane said, her voice hoarse. She took a single, deliberate step into the sunroom. The warmth was an illusion. There was no heat. "Explain what?"
Her father's face lit up with hope. "It was… it was complicated, sweetheart. I was in trouble. Bad trouble. I thought if I left, I could protect you and your mother. I thought I could fix things and come back. But by the time I could… it was too late. You were gone. She was gone." A single, perfect tear traced a path down his cheek. It was a flawless performance.
Elias was pulling on her arm, trying to drag her back into the hall, his whispers frantic. "It's lying! It doesn't know why he left! It's just saying what you want to hear! It's a mirror!"
Lane shook him off, her eyes fixed on the thing in the chair. "What kind of trouble?" she asked, her voice flat.
The thing—her father—faltered for a microsecond. The smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Money. Dangerous people. You don't need to know the details. It's over now. I'm here now. We can be a family again." It stretched out a hand toward her. "Come here. Give your old dad a hug."
The hand was extended. The invitation was clear. To cross the room and step into its embrace.
Lane looked at the hand. She thought of the shadowy fingers reaching for her neck in the Polaroid. She thought of the thing's true form—the void, the absence.
She took another step forward, but she didn't take the hand. She raised her own hand, the one holding the candle.
The thing's eyes flicked to the flame. The warm, fatherly expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew colder. The sunlight seemed to dim.
"You always loved candles," it said, its voice still warm, but a new note—a warning—underneath. "Remember that birthday cake? The one with the blue frosting? You blew out all the candles in one breath."
It was pulling another memory. Deeper. More specific.
"I remember," Lane said softly. She took another step. She was now within arm's reach.
"Then come here," it said, the hand still outstretched, its smile becoming strained. The illusion was perfect, but it was starting to show the effort. It was like watching a master puppeteer begin to sweat.
Lane looked into its eyes. She saw the love, the regret, the hope. She saw everything she had ever wanted to see.
And she saw the two depthless black pits hiding behind them.
"You're not my father," she said, her voice quiet but clear.
The smile on its face froze. The tear on its cheek evaporated.
"You're a collection of dust and sadness," she continued, taking the final step. She didn't embrace it. She thrust the candle forward, not at its body, but at its face.
The flame didn't touch it. It didn't have to.
The moment the light hit its eyes, the illusion shattered.
The hazel irises vanished, swallowed by solid black. The warm, living skin turned grey and waxy, like a corpse. The outstretched hand withered, the fingers elongating, the nails thickening into yellowed claws. The sunlight in the room died, revealing the truth: they were in a small, stone chamber with a single, grimy window. The wicker furniture was rotten, crawling with insects. The smell of baking bread became the stench of decay.
The thing that wore her father's crumbling face let out a sound of pure, undiluted rage—a silent scream that vibrated in the marrow of her bones. It didn't lunge at her. It recoiled from the light, from the truth, its form blurring at the edges, threatening to dissolve back into its natural state of nothingness.
Lane stood her ground, the candle held high. "You are nothing," she spat, each word a hammer blow. "You are empty. And you will never have me."
The thing's form solidified again, the rage giving it a terrible focus. The face was no longer her father's. It was a grotesque mask of hatred, the features twisted and inhuman. It pointed a clawed finger at her, not in threat, but in promise.
Then it was gone. Not vanishing, but fleeing, pulling the shadows around itself and retreating from the light of her defiance.
The false sunroom was gone. They were standing in a cold, empty stone room. Elias was on his knees behind her, sobbing with relief.
Lane's whole body was trembling, the adrenaline crashing over her. She had faced down its most potent weapon and won. She had fed it nothing but her rage.
But as she looked at the spot where the thing had vanished, she knew the victory was temporary. It had learned a new thing about her today.
It had learned that her love for her father was a weakness it could exploit. And it would keep trying, refining the imitation, until it broke her.
The house gave a deep, groaning shudder, as if in agreement. The walls seemed to lean in closer.
The game was far from over. It was just entering a new, more personal phase.