A woman entered carrying a ceramic bowl, yet terror seized my heart instantly because the face before me bore no resemblance whatsoever to Margaret Turner, whose familiar softness had defined safety throughout my entire existence. Crimson lips stretched unnaturally across sharp, predatory features radiating something cold, calculating, profoundly alien.
“Abigail, are you alright?” she asked softly, her voice flawlessly identical to my mother’s tone, cadence, and gentle melodic warmth that now resonated through the room with horrifying precision.
“Just tired, Mom,” I murmured carefully, forcing steadiness into trembling words while staring blankly beyond her shoulder, praying performance would mask the terror threatening catastrophic exposure.
She hesitated, scrutiny flickering behind unfamiliar eyes, before placing the bowl upon my nightstand with unsettling deliberation that amplified every instinct warning of concealed danger lurking beneath this grotesque imitation.
“Eat while it is warm,” she replied calmly.