The blanket slid back, inch by inch. I couldn’t breathe. My legs felt cemented to the floor.
Pale, bony fingers curled around the edge of the fabric. Too thin. Too long.
They didn’t look human.
The thing underneath dragged itself free. My stomach twisted — it wasn’t even close to human.
Its skin looked stretched, like it had been pulled too tight over the wrong bones. Its head jerked sideways with a wet snap, neck too long, too loose.
But the worst part was the face.
It was mine.
Not exactly — more like something had tried to copy me and got bored halfway through. The eyes were hollow, skin cracked and split around a mouth that was too wide, too toothy. It grinned at me, head lolling to the side.
My phone buzzed in my trembling hand.
"Looks close enough, doesn’t it?"
I gasped, stumbling backward. The thing on my bed twitched, like it was learning how to move.
It spoke — or tried to. The voice was garbled, wrong, like a recording played underwater.
“H-Hey... sweetie.”
It was my mom’s voice. Or an attempt at it.
I choked on a breath. My mom’s voice — but my face.
The Stranger In My Photos 35