THE FINAL VICTIM

Genre: Horror 

 

 

 

THE FINAL VICTIM

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

I am no longer anonymous, no longer a faceless entity.

They have a name, Jeffrey Fisk, and a detailed description to go along with that name.

I slipped up. I got sloppy, careless. There was a witness. I panicked. I never panic, but I did this time. I left them behind. You don’t leave witnesses behind. I should have known better. You don’t leave things unfinished.

So, for now, I lie low. Bide my time. The cabin isn’t a dream house, but it will suffice. It’s not registered in my name. It’s not connected to any family members or friends or colleagues. No way for the police or the FBI to track me here.

I acquired the cabin from someone whose name escapes me, but they no longer had any use for it. And I acquired it specifically for this reason. In case things went sideways one day and my identity was exposed to the world. The cabin is tiny but adequate, especially for evading the authorities.

The walls of the cabin are comprised of stained wood panels. Beyond the front door of the cabin is the kitchen and living room area. To the right of the living room is a small rectangle of a bathroom with a tiny shower stall inside, no bathtub. Behind the living room couch is a sliding glass door that leads out to the back deck. A thin curtain hangs above the slider from a flimsy iron rod that was installed half-assed.

To the left of the living room-kitchen combo is a single bedroom with a twin-size bed. A trap door lies in the center of the kitchen floor, which leads down to the cellar.

A brick-and-mortar fireplace in the living room with a bucks head mounted above the mantle. Pictures on the mantle of people I don’t know or recognize. All except for one. The man whose name I can’t recall.

There are lot’s them; names I can’t recall or remember. Some names stick with you, some don’t. But the faces stay with you, embedded in your subconscious. You see them when you’re awake and every time you shut your eyes.

I know I’m a bad person. I don’t pretend that I’m not. Every serial killer has their own reasons, their motive, their message or purpose. For me, there was no message. Compulsion is what drove me to kill. Impulse. An irresistible urge.

It just got easier and easier with each victim. It got even easier when I didn’t get caught right away. I kept doing it, and I kept getting away with it. It made me feel powerful, invincible. And with that power, the urge grew stronger. I lost control.

The cabin is quiet. Outside, even quieter. No noisy cicadas or pesky insects buzzing around. A radio plays in the background while I monitor the station for news updates about yours truly.

Reception is spotty at best up here in the mountains. But it doesn’t really matter. There’s no Wi-Fi and I don’t own a cell phone. Just another way for them to track my location. But it also affected the radio. No channels came in clearly, but I could make it out enough to keep up with what was being said.

Muffled dins emanate from the cellar. Probably just rats. Wait, are there rats this far upstate? What am I saying, of course there are rats upstate.

That’s it. It’s got to be rats. That or some other wildlife that got in through the cellar somehow.

I listen closely as the din grows louder. Something is kicking around down there. Too big to be rats. Maybe a possum or a raccoon. Plenty of deer around these parts, but no way in hell a deer got into the cellar. The windows are too narrow and besides the trap door, there’s only one other entrance to the cellar, along the side of the cabin, and it’s chained shut.

The radio cuts in and out, and when it comes back, the voice of the energetic DJ is replaced by another, different, somber voice.

“Jeffrey? Jeffffrey. Can you hear me, Jeffrey?”

“Who said that?” I glance nervously around the cabin. The buck mounted above the fireplace seems to be staring back at me. An unnerving thought.

“Pssst…over here, Jeffrey.”

It took a moment for me to realize that the voice was emanating from the radio itself.

“Who the hell are you? How are you even talking to me right now? What is this, some kind of sick joke?”

“You should know my name, Jeffrey. Hell, I know yours. And you are staying in my cabin, free of charge, mind you.”

“You’re…you’re–”

“Caleb. Caleb McCaffrey. The man you murdered in cold blood because you needed a place to hang your hat. I hope the accommodations are to your satisfaction.”

“Caleb McCaffrey,” I repeat, finally putting a name to the face. “What do you want from me?”

“For you to remember us, Jeffrey. All of us. We’re all here in one form or another. We’ll always be a part of you, Jeffrey. But you already know that, don’t you?”

A cacophony of distorted voices cried out from the radio speakers. I turn it off, but the voices persist. They’re all around me, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

I smash the radio to pieces, and it doesn’t have anything else to say.

A loud THUD causes my body to almost leap out of my skin. The trap door. Someone’s pounding on the other side.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Nobody’s there. I’m losing it. It’s all in my head.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Nobody there. Ignore it.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I storm to the kitchen, grab the brass handle, and thrust open the trap door. The acrid stench of bleach and chemicals rise up, permeating the cabin.

I get a flashlight and shine it down those shoddy wooden stairs and find nothing. I slam the trap door shut and chuck the flashlight aside.

A knock comes at the door. I check the window; nobody on the front porch.

The door swings wide open. Another familiar face stands at the threshold. Female, young, brunette. Her skin was ghostly, her throat opened up from a serrated blade, the blood still spurting out.

I rush to the door and close it before she can get in. But she’s standing right behind me when I turn around.

An invisible force pounds on the trap door. Another face from the past emerges from the bathroom, his body riddled with innumerable stab wounds. Blood still leaks and gushes from each gaping wound. Another appears in the kitchen, their skin flayed from their upper body. Then another materializes, their eyes gouged out, face rearranged like a jigsaw puzzle.

These are but a few of my victims. My ghosts. Content to haunt me until the day I die. As hard as I try to forget their names, I recite each one as fast as they come flooding back to me.

David Burke, an accountant with a wife and two kids.

Janet Dixon, a bank teller and mother of three.

Mark Boone, just a teenager with his whole life ahead of him.

Terry Hart, a businessman from out of town.

Ryan Madison, a model I found online.

Darlene Fish, a sweet, innocent hitchhiker who I thought nobody would miss.

These are just a few of my victims. I thought by acknowledging them, by saying their names aloud, they would find peace.

But their ghosts offer no reprieve, only haunting memories.

This is my punishment. My eternal torment. My hell on earth.

Their ghosts surround me, boxing me in; Caleb McCaffrey in the center, clutching a knife which he holds out for me to accept.

This is how it’s meant to end.

All the people I’ve hurt, all the lives I’ve changed, all the lives I’ve taken. It’s only fitting that I take my own.

I’m the final victim.

BAD HAIR DAY

Genre: Horror 

 

 

 

BAD HAIR DAY

By Randy Romero 

 

Mason Jones was waiting at the front door when Allen Gregg pulled up in his dusty white pickup truck. Allen came lumbering up the driveway, orange toolbox swinging at his side, and greeted Mason at the door.

“Thanks for stopping by on such short notice,” Mason said, grateful.

“Hey, anything for an old pal. Besides, it’s technically my job. Got to make that bread. The bills don’t pay themselves, you know what I mean?”

Mason knew exactly what he meant. Everyone was rebounding from the pandemic. Businesses were closing left and right or struggling to get by. Mason had a little money tucked away for rainy days, but for the most part, he and his wife were living paycheck-to-paycheck.

“Don’t worry, I won’t charge you too much,” Allen said. “I’ll give you a friendly discount. But I can’t do it for free. I wish I could.”

“Totally understandable. I’m just glad you could help.”

“Like I said, anything for a friend. And it gives us an excuse to hang out, catch up. We hardly see each other nowadays.”

“Can I get you a beer?” Mason offered.

“Officially, I’m not supposed to be drinking on the job. Company would fire me if they found out. Unofficially, I’d kill for a beer.”

“Domestic or imported?”

“Domestic. I don’t need anything fancy. And no IPA’s. That stuff is poison to me.”

They went to the kitchen. Mason led the way and grabbed two Coors Lights from the fridge.

“Cheers,” Allen said, setting down his toolbox on the green Formica kitchen table and accepting his ice cold beer.

“What should we drink to?” Mason asked.

Allen Gregg thought about it for a moment. “To a long, healthy life.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

But Allen was anything but healthy. Over the years, he’d really packed on the pounds. His love handles were practically spilling from the sides of his soiled blue jeans. It was a miracle the button didn’t pop off and take Mason’s eye out.

Not like Mason had any room to judge. His cholesterol was so high his doctor had warned him he was venturing into “heart attack country”, as he called it. No sugarcoating there. Just a cold hard fact that Mason needed to hear.

To his credit, Mason had quit smoking, which was the hardest thing he ever had to do. It took several attempts. He tried it all. He tried weening himself off. Tried the nicotine patches, then the gum when the patches didn’t work. Then he tried vapes as a substitute, but realized it wasn’t the smartest substitute for cigarettes. Finally, after another lecture from his doctor about his heart, he quit cold turkey. And this time, it stuck.

He’d also made changes to his diet, but it was still a work in progress. And he obviously hadn’t given up drinking.

They drained their beers and Allen wiped his hand on his stained white tank top and picked up his orange toolbox. “Which shower, upstairs or downstairs?” Allen asked.

“Downstairs,” Mason said. “I snaked the shit out of it, but no luck.”

“Well, that’s why you called in an expert.”

“So you think you can fix it? It’s clogged up something awful. I even tried drain cleaner. Went through two bottles of that stuff. Didn’t do a thing.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“It’s probably Laura’s hair clogging up the drain. Women…they shed like huskies. Well, I’ll let you get to work and stay out of your way. If you need me, I’ll be in the man cave, and by man cave, I mean my basement.”

He let Allen be and let him do his job. Allen unscrewed the drain cover, took it off, and started fishing around for the obstruction. There wasn’t anything visibly blocking the drain, so he had to investigate further.

He lowered the toilet snake–a retractable metal cable–down the drain and poked around, snagging something thick. He pulled it out slowly, and up came a thick wad of jet-black hair. He pulled it off the end of the metal cable, and it came to life in his gloved hand, writhing like a thousand tangled snakes, squirming and struggling. Aware, sentient.

He gasped, dropping the ball of hair and watched it skitter like a spider across the bathroom floor and disappear under the sink.

A tentacle of black hair shot up from the shower drain and coiled around his wrist, so tight Allen Gregg could feel his bones cracking. Allen screamed as the hair tugged, pulling him in like a fisherman reeling in their catch. He screamed, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

“Al, you alright?” Mason called out from the hall. “I heard all the noise. What’s the commotion? You fall into the crapper or something?”

The bathroom door was ajar. Mason pushed it open and peeked inside, but Allen was nowhere to be found.

In the tub, blood started to bubble up from the uncovered drain,

“What the…” But Mason didn’t even have a chance to finish his thought. Something dark and thick shot out from the bloodstained drain and enveloped his entire face. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breath, couldn’t think, couldn’t untangle whatever had wrapped itself around his head.

He was panicked, frightened, desperate to escape. He tugged and scratched and clawed at the sentient hair that was suffocating him. But there was no reprieve, no escape.

Laura found his body on the bathroom floor when she returned home that evening. But it wasn’t asphyxiation that killed him. Official cause of death was a heart attack. He had been so terrified and gotten himself so worked up in his struggle to escape, that his heart couldn’t withstand it and had simply given out on him.

With Allen Gregg missing, and his truck parked out front of Mason Jones’ house, the police had to investigate. They found pieces of Allen throughout the domestic pipes of Mason’s home and put their theory together. They surmised that there had been an altercation between the two men, and that things escalated, which led to Mason killing Allen, cutting up his body, and having a heart attack while disposing of Allen’s remains in the bathroom.

Nobody knew the truth, and nobody ever would. Not like they would have believed it, anyway…

THE GIG

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

THE GIG

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

In the fall of 1999, my mom hooked me up with this babysitting gig. I was sixteen years old and I needed the money for college. My parents were willing to help with tuition and expenses, but they told me not to expect a free ride. They expected me to work and contribute any money I saved. It seemed fair to me, especially since this was my college education we were talking about. I was desperate for money and working the register at the local supermarket every day after school. And when my mom told me the neighbors needed a babysitter on the weekends, I jumped at the offer.

It was for this young married couple that lived at the end of the block, last house on the left. They had a girl and a boy, ages five and seven. Lisa and Billy. They were absolutely adorable. The girl was so young, but she was the spitting image of her mother.

The job paid six bucks an hour, which was pretty generous for 1999. And of course, there was the usual babysitting perks, like free rein of the television. The parents said I could watch anything I wanted to, even while the kids were awake. And they said I could help myself to any food in the fridge or use the phone if the calls were local.

The kids were a pleasure. So well mannered and well behaved for their age. I made sure they brushed their teeth and were in their pajamas by eight o’clock. They needed a good brushing after the ice pops they had after dinner. And I might’ve helped myself to one, too. You remember those ice pops that used to come in those clear plastic tubes? You used to have to cut the top off with a scissor just to get it open? I loved the blue and the purple flavors. But I digress…

I let them watch a little TV and had them tucked in by nine o’clock. Parents orders. Then I went downstairs and parked my butt on the couch and grabbed the remote. Around nine-thirty, I used the landline to call my friend, Jennifer.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Piece of cake,” I said. “They’re little angels. I’ve already got them tucked away in bed, no fuss at all. But, I don’t know, something just feels…off. This house is so dark, so quiet. I feel like this is the set up for a horror movie.”

Jennifer laughed. “You’re so dramatic, Kat.” Everyone knows how much I hate Katherine. People have been calling me Kat since I learned how to walk and talk.

“I’m serious. It’s too quiet. Like eerily quiet.”

“Too quiet?” Jennifer said. “Sounds like Heaven to me.”

There was a slight break in our conversation where neither of us said anything for a few moments, and in those few moments, I heard a ruckus from upstairs, which I assumed was just the kids.

“Jennifer, I’ve got to call you back.”

I hung up the phone and walked to the bottom of the stairs. It was pitch black at the top.

“Kids?” I called out. No answer.

“Are you awake?” I asked. No response.

No more noise, either. No ruckus. No footsteps. No sounds at all. Quiet again.

“It’s okay if you can’t sleep. I can’t sleep either, sometimes.”

Still no response. So I started walking up the stairs. I made it to the landing, and looked to the left and right of the top of the stairs. The hallway was clear, but a dim light emanated from the upstairs bathroom. The door was slightly ajar so I tapped on it.

“Hello? Billy? Lisa? Are you in there?”

I nudged the door open. The bathroom was empty. But there was a message…

Scrawled on the mirror in black lipstick were three bloodcurdling words.

You Die Tonight

Billy and Lisa were sound asleep. And the house appeared to be empty. But I was petrified. I called my dad up and made him come sit with me until their parents got home. The mom claimed she didn’t even own a tube of black lipstick. And obviously, the kids never admitted guilt. But they searched the whole house. Nobody was in there. There were no signs of a break in.

They even called the cops, just to be on the safe side. They searched the whole house and didn’t find a thing. And the mother was adamant about not owning any black lipstick. ‘She didn’t like it, it wasn’t her style, she only owned a few different shades of lipstick…’ I still refused to babysit for them ever again.

Katherine Martell, or Kat, sipped her drink and shuddered at the thought of that night.

“That was just north of twenty years ago,” Kat said, almost wishing she hadn’t remembered that night. But in reality, she had never really forgotten it.

Paige LaGreca filled Kat’s wine glass and topped herself off, too.

“That reminds me of this one babysitting gig I had upstate…” Paige started.

I was in college and I was living off cheap beer and Ramen noodles. I needed money for real food and textbooks, so I responded to an ad in the local paper.

The couple claimed to have a newborn baby that needed to be looked after twice a week.

They seemed nice, but every time I babysat, they told me the baby was sleeping and not to disturb him. They just told me to listen in on the baby monitor and to check only if I heard him making a fuss. Otherwise, I wasn’t to wake him for any reason.

And let me tell you, that baby never cried. Not once. Not a cry, or a moan, or a gurgle. Nothing. It never woke up, never made a sound.

Finally, I got so creeped out I just stopped returning their phone calls and answering their messages.

But an old college roomie of mine wound up babysitting for them a few months later. She was far braver than I and decided to go upstairs one night and check on the baby.

“And?” Kat said, waiting in suspense.

“The room was empty,” Paige told them. “Just a dusty old crib and a baby monitor in its cradle, turned on. Turns out the couple lost their first child and never quite recovered. They turned out to be harmless, just a little batty.”

Angelina Ortiz drained her glass and refilled it. The bottle was feeling light and she offered Kat and Paige one last chance before she polished the rest off.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but my story takes the cake,” Angelina said. “This was the early 2000’s, and I was babysitting these two adorable angels one night in Eden Harbor.

I kept getting these weird phone calls all night and nothing was coming up on the caller ID. Half of them were weird or obscene, just heavy breathing and moaning into the phone. But eventually, he started talking.

‘I am The Python,’ he said, his voice all deep and rusty. I hung up. But he kept calling back.

‘I am The Python. I am going to wrap myself around your throat and squeeze the life out of you.’

It reminded me of those books from the 90’s, the collection of scary stories to tell in the dark. One of those stories is about a woman who keeps getting harassing phones calls from The Viper.”

“Didn’t it turn out to just be a window washer in that story?” Kat asked.

“Yes,” Angelina chuckled. “I am the viper, I come to vipe your vindows.” They all laughed before Angelina resumed her story.

“I thought it was my boyfriend playing a prank on me at the time. But then I remembered he was in the Hamptons with his parents, having dinner with some rich friends of theirs. And like I said, this was early 2000’s, before everyone always had a cell phone in their pocket. And his parents wouldn’t have excused him to make all those calls on their friend’s phone.

I called my parents and they instructed me to lock all doors and windows and call the police. The police wound up tracing the calls to a nearby payphone. It turned out to be an escaped mental patient who grew up in the house I was babysitting in. He got the number right out of the phone book. You know, they never did catch the creep. I always wondered what happened to the dreaded Python. Did he die? Did he flee to another state, another country? Is he still out there?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Paige shrugged.

“I think we’re better off not knowing,” Kat said. Ang concurred.

Angelina’s cell phone rang. Unknown caller. They all froze and exchanged terrified glances.

“Don’t answer it,” Paige said. But Angelina couldn’t stop herself from reaching for the phone.

“Hello?” Angelina said, a tremor in her voice.

“I am The Python,” a frighteningly familiar voice said, gravelly and deep. “I’m coming to squeeze the life out of you.”

IMPOSTER

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

IMPOSTER

By Randy Romero

 

 

I don’t know her.

She looks like my mother.

She has her voice. She has her ocean blue eyes and shoulder-length chestnut hair. She has all her mannerisms and expressions down pat.

But she’s not my mother.

She’s a fraud, a phony, an imposter. I can’t prove it, yet. But in time, I will expose her. I will get my dad and my sister to see the truth…

Miranda Langermann hummed a little tune in the master bedroom as she folded clothes fresh from the dryer and laid out her husband’s things for the next day. Russell Langermann, or Russ as he preferred, had a meeting with his publishers first thing in the morning. He had to look professional, or at the very least, presentable. Jade was in the next room, her ear pressed against the wall.

Her mom was never this upbeat or cheerful. Jade couldn’t remember the last time she heard her hum or sing a song. Miranda didn’t even like to listen to the radio in the car. Something had been off about her for a while now. She wasn’t her old self.

She was calm and collected. Not quick to anger. She didn’t lash out at Jade as much as she used to. And her sister, Julie, was an angel who could do no wrong. She was benevolent and talkative and the exact opposite of the woman who had raised her.

She would hum and sing and dance around the house. She would clean and fold laundry with a smile instead of a frown. And every day, she took a ride into town, alone. Sometimes to the supermarket. Sometimes to the salon. Other times, she would come home empty handed, with no explanation for her absence. But every day, at twelve noon, Miranda was out the door and in her car without saying a word. Jade couldn’t help but wonder where she went, what she did.

She wanted to tell someone, anyone. But Julie wouldn’t understand. Not at her age. Not without proof. And her father would have her locked away in the nearest looney bin if she ever suggested the idea that her mom had been replaced by a carbon copy. She couldn’t tell her friends, couldn’t tell anyone at school. Her teachers would tattle on her, tell them to hire a shrink or have Jade talk to the school guidance counselor. No, Jade couldn’t tell a soul. Not her friend, Annabelle. Or her history teacher, Mrs. Benson. She had to bite her tongue and bide her time.

 

 

***

 

 

At dinner, we go around the table and talk about our day. That’s what normal families do at dinnertime, so my “mom” says.

Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. The sauce splattered around my plate reminds me of the old man’s body splattered across the pavement. I have to look away before I let go of the food that’s already in my stomach.

Russ Langermann helped himself to a piece of garlic bread, a guilty pleasure he couldn’t pass up. Miranda went first, though her story was less than captivating. She talked about her day, which consisted of shopping and getting her nails done. “Can you believe the price hike!” she exclaimed. “I paid eighteen dollars for a single ribeye. But on the other hand, I was able to get a nice family pack of pork chops for just fourteen bucks. And don’t even get me started about the chicken. Twenty dollars for a frozen pack of drumsticks. Ridiculous. And guess what? Clarissa doesn’t work there anymore. Between you and me, I heard she was drinking on the job.”

“Drinking what, mommy?” Julie asked, young and curious.

“Oh, nothing, sweetie,” her mother said and smiled at Russ. “She was drinking juice.”

“She got fired for drinking juice?”

“Yes, because she didn’t pay for it,” her father said, thinking on his feet. Julie didn’t follow up with another question.

“Then I got a French manicure and heard all the gossip at the salon. Sally, the woman who does my nails, told me all about her neighbors’ son. The kid’s eighteen years old and he’s already in rehab. Pills. The mother’s devastated, and I don’t blame her. But at least he’s getting the help he needs. Sally also knew all about Clarissa. I can’t say I’m surprised. She hears everything down at that salon. And oh, I heard Mrs. Benson is set to retire next year. I wonder who the school is going to get to replace her.”

Replace, Jade thought. Like you replaced my mother.

It wasn’t just her mom’s change in behavior. It was a gut feeling that Jade had. An undeniable but indescribable feeling. She didn’t just think it. She didn’t just feel it. Somehow, she knew it without truly knowing it. Her mother was not her mother.

Jade was quieter than usual that evening. She stabbed blindly at her plate, eating without looking. She didn’t want that image of the old man in her head anymore.

“Would you like some garlic bread?” her father offered. Jade declined politely, her response brief and muted.

“How about you, Julie?” he offered her younger sister, who was happy to accept a slice to dunk in her sauce. Jade’s stomach churned just at the otherwise innocuous sight.

Russ helped himself to another piece and tried to make more conversation. Jade’s father always said it was important to have an open dialogue. Of course, an author would say that. But Jade didn’t want any of her quotes or teen angst to end up in one of his books.

Russell Langermann, horror author of such classic titles as “Chop Shop” and “Destroy All Vampires”, was always looking for new material, new ideas, new characters. And Jade was not looking to contribute to his work or be fodder for one of his books.

“Jade,” Miranda called out to her daughter. No reply. “Jade. Earth to Jade.”

Jade snapped out of her trance. “Yes, mom?”

“Can you pass the grated cheese. Please.”

Jade passed the grated cheese and resumed eating, keeping her head down, but her eyes up.

She hardly noticed her father or sister at the table with them.

Jade watched Miranda carefully out of the corner of her eye. She’d been watching for weeks, studying her, waiting for her to slip up and expose herself. Even going as far as to get herself grounded so it wouldn’t look suspicious if she was home every single day after school or on the weekends.

Who are you, and what have you done with my mom?

Russ took a turn, sharing the mundane details of his day. “Well, I certainly had a productive day. I finished the first draft of my latest manuscript. I talked to my agent this afternoon and he says my publisher is ready for me to submit it. Two weeks before the deadline, too. I’m pretty impressed with myself. I have a meeting with them tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful, honey,” Miranda said. “I knew you would finish it before the deadline. And I’m sure your publisher is going to love it. Absolutely love it. And I already laid out your clothes for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. But it’s just the first draft. They have to proofread it and then they’re going to want me to hear their feedback. It’ll be a few more months before I submit another draft.”

“Well, I know I can’t wait to read it.”

“You’ll have the very first copy,” Russ said with a warm smile. “So Jade, how’s school?”

“Fine,” Jade said.

“How was that test you took on Friday?” her mom followed up.

“Got a 98,” she said, short and sweet.

“Not the loquacious type, huh?” her father quipped. “Do you know what loquacious means?”

“Yes,” Jade replied. Jade was fourteen and exceptionally well read. Whenever she came across a word she never heard before, she’d scribble it down in a notebook and look up the definition. No Google searches, either. She did it the old fashioned way, with a dictionary.

“How about you, Julie?” Russ asked. “How was school today?”

“Great!” Julie exclaimed. “We’re learning the multiplication tables. And this Thursday is show and tell. I have to find something to bring into class.” Julie was so young, so innocent. So the opposite of what Jade had become in such a few short years.  

“Why don’t you bring in my old Walkman. Kids nowadays have never seen anything like that. It’ll blow their minds.”

“Yeah, right,” Julie chuckled. “I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole classroom.”

“Hey, it might seem funny now, but Walkman’s were all we had growing up. Until the Discman came out.”

“The Discman,” Julie repeated and burst out laughing.

“You want to see my CDs after dinner?” Russell asked.

“No thanks,” Julie said, shaking her head. She took a sip of her Coca Cola, gargling before she swallowed. She took another sip and let out a tremendous belch and giggled. She didn’t know any better at her age. Her father thought it was adorable and giggled along with her; her mother was cross.

“What do we say?” her mother asked.

“Excuse me,” Julie said, still giggling.

“What about you, Jade? Do you want to see my CD collection after dinner? I’ve got all the hits. Led Zeppelin. Pink Floyd. The Rolling Stones. Your old man knows how to rock.”

“No,” Jade said, poking at her food. She was suspicious of everything, even her own mother’s cooking.

“You know, you’ve been so good lately,” Miranda pointed out. “And I feel terrible about grounding you. Maybe tomorrow, after your appointment, you can take a ride with me and we’ll get our hair done.”

Who are you, and what have you done with my mom?

Jade had a whole host of wild theories to answer those questions. Was she a body snatcher? An alien who had assumed the form of her mother? A shapeshifter? A doppelganger? Something not of this earth? A hideous, grotesque monster hiding behind a façade of human flesh?

“That would be great,” Jade said through gritted teeth. “May I be excused?”

“Sure,” Miranda said. “Don’t forget to finish your homework.”

“Already done,” Jade said, getting up from the table and never looking back at her family.

“Is it just me or is she acting strange?” Russell asked.

“She’s always strange,” Julie said and giggled.

“It’s not just you,” Miranda said. “Something’s going on with her. I can sense it. Maybe I should talk to her.”

“No, let her be for now. We’ll deal with it when the times right.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Miranda agreed. “I’ll try to talk to her doctor tomorrow when I take her to her appointment. Privately, of course. I’ll see what he thinks about her recent change in behavior.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jade didn’t sleep that night. She got up at midnight and crept into the hallway. She passed Julie’s bedroom, the door ajar, a nightlight shining in the corner of her pink painted bedroom. She passed her parents room on the left, the door closed. She slipped down the stairs and went to get a bottle of water from the fridge. She only drank from bottles that were sealed.

Her mother was still awake, enjoying a glass of wine at the kitchen table.

“Oh, Jade, what are you still doing up? You scared me.”

Her father was asleep. Julie was asleep. This was the perfect opportunity to confront the thing that had taken over her mother.

“I scared you? That’s hilarious. I’m onto you. Don’t think for one second that you’re fooling me. I know what you are, I just can’t prove it. Not yet. But mark my words, I will expose you.”

“Jade, what on earth are you talking about?”

“You’re not my mother!”

“You’ve lost your mind. Go to your room. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

Jade turned her back and heard a hiss. “Sleep tight, Jade,” it whispered.

Jade’s entire body spun around in an instant. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Miranda said innocently, her voice normal again.

“I knew it. I’m not going to let you hurt us. I’m going to put an end to this, right here, right now.” Jade moved faster than Miranda could’ve imagined, reaching into her nightgown and drawing a pair of scissors.

Russell was half asleep when he saw all the blood. Julie stood on the landing of the staircase, quivering. “Go back to your room!” her father cried.

Jade stood indifferently over her mother’s body, clutching the bloody pair of scissors in one red hand.

“Jade, what did you do? Why, why would you do this?” He rushed to call an ambulance. But it was already too late. Miranda Langermann was gone.

 

 

***

 

 

“The patient, one Jade Langermann, is suffering from what’s known as Capgras syndrome. It’s a form of brain damage that severs the connection between the visual cortex and the emotional center of the brain. However, the link to your higher cognitive areas remains intact. For example, you can see your own mother, know for a fact that she looks identical to your mother, but something will feel off. You’ll be convinced that she’s a fake, an imposter.

An individual suffering from Capgras syndrome will form an elaborate theory or fantasy to further perpetuate these delusions. And once they do, it’s almost impossible to convince them otherwise. In most cases, the sufferer becomes increasingly paranoid and isolated, and usually lashes out in violent ways. What we’re looking at here is nothing more than a tragic accident that could’ve been averted with a proper diagnosis.

Several months ago, Jade was involved in a bad car accident with her father. An elderly gentleman blew a stoplight and collided with them at an intersection. The man was ejected from the vehicle. Russ Langermann was treated for cuts and minor bruises. Jade suffered a concussion, but no other apparent injuries. It would appear that the blow to the head was more significant than they first thought. It’s likely this blow to the head is what triggered this particular syndrome.”

“Will the patient recover, Doctor Moss?” one of several medical students asked. They had all formed a tight semi-circle around Moss outside of Jade Langermann’s room.

“There’s no timetable for Capgras syndrome,” Moss replied. “No way to determine if the patient will ever truly recover, or if she’ll remain like this indefinitely. Right now, it’s not looking good. See for yourself.”

They observed Jade through an unbreakable glass window. The door was secure, but Jade could see them through the glass.

“They’re all imposters!” she cried out. “Mom, dad, Julie, Mrs. Benson who teaches history at school! They’re all phonies! Don’t let their appearance deceive you. They’re all monsters. Monsters! You’re not safe around any of them! They’ll kill you all! Kill every single last one of you! Save yourselves! RUN!”