The Mimic at the Window
My blood turned to ice. I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, the words burning into my retinas. Why are you holding a bat? And why are you outside my window?
My hand twisted the doorknob, and I threw the door open.
Chloe was backed into the far corner of her room, her knees pulled tight to her chest, trembling violently. The phone was clutched in her hands like a lifeline. Her terrified eyes darted from me, panting in the doorway, to the window across the room.
I followed her gaze.
Standing on the lawn, illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp, was me.
The figure outside wore my exact oversized gray cardigan and faded sweatpants. In its right hand, it gripped a wooden baseball bat, mirroring my own white-knuckled stance. But its face—God, its face was a nightmare of wrong proportions. The eyes were too wide, unblinking, stretching the pale skin tight across its cheekbones. And it was smiling. It was a jagged, impossible grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, revealing too many teeth.
“Mom?” Chloe whimpered, her voice cracking as she looked between me and the window. “Which one…?”
“Don’t look at it,” I ordered, my motherly instinct violently overriding the paralyzing terror. I stepped fully into the room and locked the door behind me. “Chloe, get up. Grab your shoes. We are leaving through the front door right now.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was sharp against the glass. The thing outside was casually rapping the windowpane with the tip of its bat, its head tilted at an unnatural, broken angle.
Then, my own voice filtered through the thin glass. It sounded distorted and hollow, like a recording played over a busted speaker.
“I’m coming, keep your door locked! Open up, sweetie. Mom’s here.”
Chloe clamped her hands over her ears, a sob ripping from her throat.
I grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. “Come on. Keep your eyes on my back and run.”
We bolted out of her bedroom into the dark hallway. Just as we cleared the doorframe, the tapping at the window shifted to a violent, deafening smash. CRACK. The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood echoed through the house. The heavy thud of boots hit the bedroom floor.
It was inside.
I pushed Chloe ahead of me toward the front door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Fumbling frantically with the deadbolt, I heard the dragging sound of the bat against the hallway walls.
“Where are we going, Chloe?” the thing called out from the darkness of the hall, its voice now sickly sweet and sickeningly perfect. “Don’t you want a hug from Mom?”
The lock clicked. I ripped the door open, shoved Chloe out into the cool night air, and followed her. I pulled the heavy front door shut behind us, wincing as a pale, heavy hand slammed against the wood from the inside.
We didn’t stop running until we reached the car. I threw it into gear and sped down the street, leaving the house—and whatever had just stolen my face—far behind in the dark.
