chapter 12

I stood there in front of the mirror, my small hands clutching the edges of the sink as I stared at the reflection that didn't quite feel like mine. The room was too big, the mirror too high. My ten-year-old face, with its round cheeks and wide eyes, was foreign and yet achingly familiar.

I splashed cold water onto my face, trying to wake myself up, to shake off the heavy feeling that something was horribly wrong.

'This can't be real. I'm supposed to be… supposed to be dead. Or… or at least something else. What the hell is going on?'

The thoughts swirled in my head, murky and half-formed. I knew today was important. The black suit hanging in the closet, the somber expression on Mom's face—it all pointed to something I didn't want to think about. Something terrible.

The day we buried him.

I shut off the water and stepped back, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't want to go through this again, didn't want to face what was coming. But there was no choice. Mom's voice still echoed in my ears, sharp and demanding. She needed me to be ready. She needed me to be strong.

The suit felt stiff and unfamiliar as I slipped it on, the fabric scratching against my skin. I looked even smaller in it, swallowed up by the dark material. The reflection in the mirror stared back at me, eyes wide with a fear I couldn't fully understand. Not yet.

The house was quiet as I stepped into the hallway, the only sound being my bare feet padding against the floor. Mom was waiting by the front door, her arms crossed, her face a mask of barely concealed grief. She looked up as I approached, her eyes softening for just a moment before hardening again.

"Let's go, Andre," she said, her voice flat and weary.

I nodded, my throat too tight to respond. We both knew what was coming, and neither of us wanted to face it. But there was no avoiding it.

As we reached the front door, the silence was broken by a sound that didn't belong—a knock. A heavy, deliberate knock that reverberated through the house.

Mom stiffened, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward the door. We weren't expecting anyone. There was no one who should be here. Not today.

"Who could that be?" I whispered, my voice trembling. Deep down, I already knew the answer. No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, some things are impossible to forget.

Mom didn't answer. She hesitated for just a moment, then reached for the doorknob, her hand shaking slightly. She pulled the door open, and the world tilted on its axis.

Standing on the front porch, framed by the dull, gray light of the overcast sky, was my father.

But it wasn't really him. It couldn't be.

He was wearing the suit we were supposed to bury him in, the one that had been pristine and pressed when we picked it. Now, it was dirty, torn, and covered in soil and soot. His skin was pale, almost gray, and his hair was matted with dirt. But it was the smile on his face, wide and unnatural, that froze my blood.

He was humming something, a low, eerie tune that I couldn't place but felt deep in my bones. A tune that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Mom gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh my God," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I thought… they said you were dead…"

My father didn't respond, didn't even blink. He just kept smiling, his teeth too white against his ashen skin, and humming that horrible tune. But when Mom threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, he hugged her back. For a moment, it seemed like everything was going to be okay. Like maybe this was some kind of miracle.

But then, as she sobbed into his chest, her legs buckled, and she went limp in his arms. The tears streaming down her face were of relief and overwhelming shock, her body unable to process the reality of what was happening.

"Mom!" I cried out, taking a step forward, but something in the back of my mind screamed at me to stop.

Dad—no, the thing that wore my father's face—turned to look at me, his smile never faltering. His eyes, once warm and familiar, were now dark, empty voids that sent a chill down my spine.

"Come with me, Andre," he said, but his voice was wrong. Distorted, like someone speaking through a broken radio, the sound twisted.

"Come downstairs with us."

I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs. I knew that voice. I had heard it before, in another life, in another time. A time I had tried so hard to forget.

'No… not again. This can't be happening again.'

I shook my head, the memories flooding back, the horror of that night playing out in my mind like a twisted film. The last time I followed him, the last time I didn't resist…

He was inside now, heading down the hallway.

"Come, Andre," he said again, more insistent, his grip tightening around Mom's lifeless body.

He continued moving, slowly descending the stairs that led to the basement. His steps eerily calm, as if he had all the time in the world.

But I couldn't move. My legs were rooted to the spot, my body trembling with fear. I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but follow him. But a part of me, the part that still remembered what had happened the last time, was paralyzed.

'He's going to kill her… he's going to kill her again. And I… I can't let that happen. Not again.'

But even as I thought it, I could feel the grip of the past tightening around me, pulling me toward the same mistake, the same horror. I had been too scared to act before, too weak to save her. And now, here I was, ten years old again, facing the same nightmare.

"No," I whispered, my voice barely audible. Then louder, "No!"

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought against the terror that threatened to consume me. I couldn't do this. I couldn't watch it happen again.

But my body didn't listen. The pull of the past was too strong, dragging me down the stairs, each step feeling like a nail being driven into my heart. The basement door loomed before me, half-open, the darkness beyond it a gaping maw that threatened to swallow me whole.