A Stranger’s Face on Mom’s Nightstand

🔴 THAT PHOTO ON HER NIGHTSTAND? IT’S NOT MY DEAD MOTHER.

I choked on my coffee when I saw it, and I felt a weird, prickly heat crawling all over my skin.

Dad said he was just tidying up, making room for me to stay after… after everything. But why is that picture there? Mom’s been gone for two years. The air in here suddenly feels so thick.

“It… it reminds me of her, okay?” he stammered when I pointed at it, but I KNOW that’s not her face. I’ve memorized every detail of Mom’s smile, the tiny mole near her eye.

Now there’s someone banging on the front door — and I can hear Dad telling them to go away.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…
I edged closer to the photo, my heart hammering against my ribs. The woman in it *looked* similar to Mom, but there was something… off. Her smile was wider, almost unnervingly so, and the mole was missing. It was a subtle difference, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“Dad, who is that?” I managed to croak out, my voice barely a whisper.

He flinched, avoiding my gaze. “Just… someone I knew. Someone who helped me… through a difficult time.”

The banging on the door intensified, and a muffled voice, distorted by the wood, called out, “John? Are you alright in there? We saw someone come in.”

Dad’s face was a mask of panic. “Go upstairs. Please.” He gestured wildly, practically shoving me towards the staircase.

I hesitated, my gut churning with dread. The air in the house felt suffocating, thick with unspoken secrets. But the urgency in his eyes, the desperation in his voice, finally pushed me forward. I stumbled up the stairs, glancing back once as I reached the landing. Dad was heading for the front door, his face pale and drawn.

Upstairs, I found myself in the guest room, a familiar space now infused with an eerie unfamiliarity. I peeked out the window, peering down at the front door. The silhouette of a man, impossibly tall and thin, was visible through the frosted glass. He was still pounding, the sound echoing through the silent house.

Suddenly, a low, guttural growl erupted from downstairs, followed by Dad’s pained cry. My blood ran cold. I spun around, frantically searching for an escape. The back window! I scrambled towards it, fumbling with the latch.

As the window swung open, a sickening thud resonated from below. I risked a glance down, and my breath hitched. The man from the front door was crouched over Dad, who was lying motionless on the porch. But it wasn’t a man anymore. His features were contorted, inhuman, and his hands were impossibly long, ending in razor-sharp claws. He was feeding.

Terror lent me speed. I scrambled out the window, landing hard on the soft earth. I didn’t stop running. I didn’t look back. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs screamed in protest, until I was far, far away from the house, from the photo, from the truth that I never wanted to know. The image of the woman’s smile, that wider, unnatural smile, burned into my memory, a constant reminder of the horror I’d left behind. And I knew, with chilling certainty, that the person in that photo wasn’t the only one who could mimic someone I knew. The world, it turned out, was full of monsters.