He pointed behind me and whispered: “…He’s standing right there.”
I froze. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, pricking like needles. I didn’t want to turn around, but instinct took over. I spun on my heel.
My husband, Mark, was standing in the shadowy archway leading to the kitchen. He was perfectly still, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He was staring at us, but his expression was completely blank—slack-jawed and vacant.
“Mark?” I breathed, stepping in front of Toby to shield him. “Mark, you’re scaring us. What’s going on?”
Mark didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. Then, his head tilted to the side with a sickening crack, like dry wood snapping.
“He’s acting, Mommy,” Toby whimpered from behind my leg, his grip on my pants tightening. “He’s acting like he’s real.”
My blood ran cold. I looked down at Mark’s hands. They were covered in something dark and wet. Then I looked at his feet. He wasn’t wearing socks. And his feet… they were facing the wrong way.
The thing wearing my husband’s face widened its grin, stretching the skin until it looked like it would tear.
“Almost,” it rasped, in a voice that sounded like two stones grinding together. “Almost fooled you.”
The lights in the house flickered and died. In the darkness, I heard the heavy, wet thud of footsteps rushing toward us. I grabbed Toby and ran.
Would you like another variation of the ending, perhaps a non-paranormal thriller version?
