Speaker 1: I've always believed in small gestures, the little things that
remind someone you'd love them, even in the middle of
a hectic, stressful life. My husband Daniel worked long hours
at a law firm, and I knew how exhausting it
could be for him. He'd come home late most nights,
rolling his shoulders, loosening his tie, pressing a quick tied
kiss to my forehead before collapsing on to the couch.
It wasn't that he was an affectioner, he really was,
but his job pulled all the energy out of him,
and I hated seeing the exhaustion in his eyes. So
for Valentine's Day, I decided to do something small, nothing extravagant,
nothing over the top, just a handwritten letter, something that
would make him smile in the middle of his long day,
maybe remind him that no matter how difficult work got,
he had something good waiting for him at home. I
spent longer then i'd like to admit, writing it, curling
off on the couch with a warm blanket and a
glass of wine, tapping my pen against my chin as
I thought of the right words. I wrote about the
first time we met, the awkward, fumbling early days, of
our relationship, the late night talks that stretched into early mornings.
I wrote about how grateful I was for him, how
much I loved the life we had built together. Even
threw in a few of our inside jokes, the stupid
jokes that made no sense to anyone else, but had
us gasping for breath from laughing too hard. When I
was satisfied, I folded the letter neatly, placed it in
a pink envelope, and sealed it with a kiss. The
next morning, I made sure to stop by his office
on my way to work. His law firm was an
older building, one of those places with too much marble
and not enough personality, But the receptionist at the front
desk was friendly enough. She told me to place the
envelope in the mailbox just outside the building. She smiled, nodded,
and I told her to have a great day. That evening,
Daniel came home as usual, tired but smiling just like always.
He dropped his bag by the door, loosened his tie,
kissed me hello. We had dinner together, talking about our day,
well mostly his day. He didn't mention the letter, but
I didn't bring it up either. Maybe he hadn't gotten
around to reading it yet. Maybe he wanted to save
it for later. I figured i'd hear about it soon enough.
But the next morning, before I even had time to
get out of bed, I heard the sound of the
mail slot opening. The usual stack of letters slid on
to the floor, the soft thump barely registering in my
half asleep mind. For a second, I smiled, Daniel must
have written back. It wasn't like him, he'd always been
more of a talker than a writer. But maybe my
little Valentine surprise had inspired him. I sat up, rubbing
the sleep from my eyes, and made my way over
to the mailbox. I tore the envelope open and pulled
out the letter. It was written on the same stationary
I had used, the same smooth off white paper, the
same faintly embossed edges. At first, it was sweet. I
got your letter. Thank you, my love. It means more
to me than you know. You always know how to
make me smile always. For a moment I felt a
rush of warmth. But then I read the next line.
I need you to listen carefully. This is important. I
don't know who has been coming home to you every night.
I froze. I felt the ghost of a shudder ripple
through me, forcing myself to keep reading. My hands suddenly
clammy against the paper. I haven't left the office in months.
I don't know what's happened. I don't know how, but
something is pretending to be me. I let the paper
slip from my fingers. I sat there, staring at the
letter in my hands, my breath coming slow and uneven.
The words blurred in front of me, my mind's scrambling
for any rational explanation. It had to be a joke,
a cruel, elaborate prank. Someone at Daniel's office must have
found my letter, copied his handwriting, and sent this back
to mess with me, maybe even Daniel himself. Though I
didn't understand why he'd do something so strange, and yet
my skin prickled with unease. I forced a laugh under
my breath, shaking my head. It was absurd, completely ridiculous. Still,
when I heard him stir in the bedroom, when I
heard the faint sound of sheets rustling and the floor
creaking under his weight, something in me hesitated. Just for
a moment. I folded the letter, slipped it back into
the envelope, and shoved it into my purse before heading
to the kitchen to make coffee. Trying to shake off
the unease, I walked into the kitchen and reached for
the matches. We had one of those odd gas stoves,
the kind way you had to turn the knob and
light the burning yourself. It had been finicky for years,
sometimes requiring two or three tries before the flame would catch.
By the time Daniel walked into the kitchen, rolling his
shoulders and rubbing her hand through his hair, I'd convinced
myself that I was being ridiculous morning, he murmured, pressing
a quick kiss to my temple. I twisted the knob
and the familiar hiss of gas filled the air. The
smell was sharp, pungent, but I struck the match anyway,
letting the tiny flame flicker to life between my fingers. Then,
with a quick motion, I brought it to the burner.
The fire flared up instantly, a small bush of heat,
a soft burst of orange and blue. As the gas
finally caught, the kitchen was filled with the quiet crackle
of the flame settling, the warmth spreading outward. And that's when,
for some reason, Daniel flinched, not just the small, startled twitch,
but a sharp, full bodied jerk. His shoulders tensed, his
hands curled slightly at his sides, and for a fraction
of a second, his eyes weren't on me. Are you okay?
I asked, casually, glancing at him over my shoulder. He blinked,
the stiffness in his body vanishing as quickly as it
had come. Yeah, he said, his voice smooth, just spaced
out for a second. I searched his face, his movements,
the little details of him, the way his lips felt
warm against my skin, the familiar sound of his bare
feet patting against the tile, the casual way he leaned
against the counter as he took his first sip of coffee.
This was Daniel, my husband. I was letting my imagination
get the best of me. But still, hey, I said,
forcing my voice to sound light, teasing. You didn't leave
me a love letter back? Ha, He raised an eyebrow
midsip love letter, I hesitated the one I left at
your office. For a split second, just the fraction of
a moment. His expression didn't change. Then too quickly he smiled,
Oh yeah, sorry, I'm meant to say something that was
really sweet. I forced myself to smile. Did you like it,
of course, he said, taking another sip of coffee. Best
part of my day. I nodded, pretending to be satisfied
with his answer, but I knew he was lying. If
he had actually read the letter, he would have said
something about the inside jokes, about the memories I'd written down,
about any of the personal details that made the letter special.
That's what he had always done. Some of our inside
jokes were played simply because he had mentioned them so much,
and he loved it when I brought them up myself.
I swallowed hard, glancing down at my phone. Work. I
had to get to work. I had to let this go.
That evening, we sat on the couch watching TV, just
like we always did. The warmth of his body was familiar,
his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch,
fingers grazing my shoulder. To anyone else, it would have
seemed perfectly normal, perfectly safe. But the letter sat heavy
in my purse, the words echoing in my head. I
couldn't stop thinking about it. So after a while I
turned to him with a grin, keeping my voice light.
Hey remember when we first met, He blinked, caught off guard.
You're testing me, he asked, laughing softly. Maybe I teased,
nudging his arm. Come on, you better remember, he smarked,
tilting his head like he was thinking. Who was in college? Right?
Second year? I remember these things, you know this June
twenty eighth, I felt my chest tightened. My husband was
forgetful with date. That much I knew, But I knew
this specific date was important to him. In fact, it
was such an important date he dinked it into his skin.
I forced out an exaggerated gasp, smacking his arm playfully.
Of course, you remember, he didn't glance down, he didn't laugh,
He just smiled at me. Now I knew for certain
that this wasn't my husband. Tomorrow, I had to get out.
The next morning, I did everything exactly the same. I
woke up before him, brewed the coffee, kissed them on
the cheek, and told him I had a long day ahead.
He smiled at me, like always a perfect, effortless thing,
the way he always heard. He ran a hand through
his dark hair, sipped his coffee and told me to
have a good day. But as I grabbed my purse
and stepped outside, I forced myself not to hesitate. I
drove the same way I always did, following my morning route,
taking the usual turns, sticking to routine just in case.
But once I was out of sight of the house,
I turned the opposite direction. Instead of heading toward my office,
I drove straight to Daniel's law firm, gripping the steering
wheel so tightly my fingers ached. I don't know exactly
what I was expecting. Maybe to walk into the building
seam at his desk, laughing with his coworkers, proving that
this was all just some elaborate misunderstanding, that the letter
had been a joke, a mistake, something stupid and explainable.
Maybe I wanted to see the normality of his workspace,
to remind myself that the man who came home to
me every night really was my husband. But deed down,
I already knew that wouldn't happen. The receptionist looked up
at me from behind the desk. Hi, I said, forcing
a smile, and just dropping by to see my husband.
The woman's brow knitted together slightly, and for a moment
she just looked at me as if I had said
something confusing, something she couldn't quite make sense of. Then
after a beat, she gave me a small, gentle smile.
One I immediately hated. What's your husband's name, she said,
her gaze fixed on the monitor in front of her, Daniel.
I muttered, oh, honey, she said softly. He hasn't been
here in weeks. The words felt like a slap. My
breath stole in my throat, my heart stuttering violently against
my ribs. My fingers tightened around the strap of my purse.
What do you mean that there has to be some mistake?
He works here, he comes in every day. The receptionist's
face shifted slightly, uncertainty flickering behind her eyes. She hesitated,
then let out a slow breath. I. I'm sorry, but
no one's seen him in a long time. You thought
maybe he took another job and just never told us
his things are still here. But she shook her head.
I really don't think he's been in. Something in me
felt like it was folding in on itself. My vision
narrowed slightly, as if the entire world had tilted sideways,
and I was struggling to stay upright. Can I can
I see his office? I asked. The receptionist gave me
another uncertain glance, but nodded. She led me down the hallway,
past the rows of desks, past the open offices where
people typed away their computers, where conversations hummed in the background.
All of it normal, all of it completely detached from
the fact that something in my life had cracked open
into something monstrous. We stopped in front of a lock
storage room. She hesitated, placing her hand on the handle,
as if she wasn't sure she should be showing me this. Then,
in a quiet voice, she said, his things are still inside.
We thought he'd just quit one day and never told anyone.
My stomach felt hollow. The woman turned the knob and
the door creaked open. Inside everything was untouched. His work
bag sat on the chair, the straps slightly askew, like
he had tossed it there with the intention of picking
it up again. Soon. His coat hung on the wall,
neatly pressed, not a single sign of dust or rage.
On the desk, a pile of unopened males sat undisturbed.
I stepped forward slowly, the air thick around me, pressing
down on my shoulders like a weight I couldn't shake.
And then I saw it, A single sheet of paper
placed neatly in the center of the desk. My name
was written on the top. My hands shook as I
reached for it. The moment I touched it, I knew
the handwriting was his. If you're reading this, I'm still here.
Something else took my place. It knows everything I know.
It acts like me, but it isn't me. I don't
know how long I have left. I messed with something
I shouldn't. It's afraid of fire. I love you. My
vision blurred slightly. I wanted to collapse, to let the
panic finally crash over me, to break down the way
my body was begging me to. But I didn't, because
now I knew it wasn't about understanding what had happened.
It wasn't about figuring out where Daniel had gone or
what had taken his place. It was about stopping it.
I folded the note carefully, sliding it into my pocket.
Then without another word, I turned and walked out of
the office. I wasn't going to run. I was going
to burn it alive. The house was dark when I
pulled into the driveway, its windows staring back at me
like empty eyes. The porch light was on, casting a
soft glow across the steps, and for a split second
everything looked to normal. But the moment I stepped inside,
I knew it was waiting for me. It stood in
the center of the living room, perfectly still, its hands
resting at its side. The expression on his face was
one of casual curiosity. But there was something wrong with it,
something in the way the corners of its mouth stretched
just a little too wide, the way its eyes followed
me without blinking. Where have you been, it asked Daniel's voice.
I forced the smile, shrugging as I shut the door
behind me. Nowhere important. It didn't respond right away, It
just watched. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight
of what I I knew was coming. Every instinct in
my body screamed at me to run, but I didn't.
I couldn't. I had to see this through. So I
walked past it, moving toward the kitchen, my pulse hammering
against my ribs. Its head turned slightly as I moved.
You were acting different tonight, it murmured, I laughed, softly,
keeping my voice light. Long day The thing smiled at that.
I clenched my jaw, pushing down the growing nausea, curling
in my stomach. I couldn't let it sense my fear.
Not yet. I made it to the kitchen without breaking
my stride. The bottle of whiskey was already within reach,
sitting on the counter where we always kept it. I
grabbed it. The thing's smiled didn't falter, but something changed,
a shift in its posture, a slight tilt of the head,
and then, in a voice that was almost concerned, and asked,
what are you doing. I didn't answer. I unscrewed the cap,
turned the bottle over and poured. The dark liquid splashed
across the floor, soaking the old wooden panels, spreading in
uneven puddles toward the living room. The smell of alcohol
filled the air, sharp and potent. The thing's expression finally faltered,
its voice darkened. Stop. I didn't. I reached into my
pocket and pulled out the lighter. The click of the
flute wheels sounded deafening In the silence, A single flame
flickered to life. The thing's mouth twisted into something unnatural.
I couldn't help but flinch. You don't want to do that,
it said, softly, But I did. I flicked my wrist,
dropped the flame and the fire irrupted. The fire searched forward,
swallowing the floor in hungry waves, licking up the walls
with greedy fingers. It rushed outward, creeping up anything in sight.
Heat exploded against my skin, and in the middle of
it all, the thing screamed in rage. Its body convulsed,
twisting violently, as if something beneath the surface was trying
to break free. Its skin peeled away in strips, revealing
something underneath that wasn't flesh blackened, the bandages stretched, elongating,
writhing like smoke. Its hands curled into a strange amalgamation
of shapes and colors, skeletal in nature but not quite
the suggestion of her head buckled and cracked, folding in
on itself, the remnants of its features disassembly like shattered porcelain.
It lunged at me. I stumbled backward, barely dodging as
one of its limbs whipped toward me, missing by inches.
The fire spread fast, swallowing the walls, curling around the windows,
devouring the curtains. The heat was unbearable, now choking the air,
stealing my breath. The house was collapsing. I turned and ran.
I didn't stop not when the walls groaned and cracked,
not when the ceiling above me shuddered. The front door
was only a few steps away. I could make it.
Behind me, the thing was screaming, but I didn't look back.
I threw myself outside, hitting the pavement hard, rolling onto
my side, gasping for air. As the heat roared behind me.
I lifted my head just in time to see the
roof cave in, flames bursting through the structure, sending embers
flying into the night. The fire consumed everything, turning my
home into nothing more than a funeral pyre for whatever
had taken Daniel's place, and the thing inside kept screaming
until finally silence. For a long time, all I could
hear was the fire. The flames hissed and crackled, devouring
what was left of my home, filling the air with thick,
choking smoke. The heat pulsed against my skin even from
a distance. I sat there on the pavement, my chest heaving,
my fingers digging into the ground, My body ate from
the fall, my lungs burned from the smoke. Movement, a
shuffling sound barely audible over the roar of the fire.
My stomach clenched as I whipped my head towards the house,
my breath catching in my throat. A shadow was moving
inside the flames, staggering. I froze, unable to breathe, unable
to move. My hands trembled as I pushed myself up
onto my knees, my entire body bracing for whatever was coming.
But then Daniel stepped forward. His clothes were scorched, his
face smeared with soot, his hair a mess of ash
and sweat. But his eyes, his eyes were his, the
same warm brown that I'd memorized a thousand times over
my real husband. I could tell at a glance. He
took one more shaky step before his knees buckled, his
body giving out, collapsing on to the pavement. I barely
had time to think before I was running to him,
my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands grabbing his shoulders,
his arms, his face. Tears blurred my vision as I
cupped his face, my fingers trembling against his skin. I
swallowed back the sob choking in my throat, forcing my
voice to be steady. For a moment, neither of us
said anything. His breath was weak, barely there. My grip
on him tightened desperation, clawing at my chest, but then
he smiled. College he rasped first the orientation Sarah introduced us.
His voice was hoarse, but sure you were wearing that
ugly red sweater. A sob broke from my lips. I
pulled him against me, burying my face into the crock
of his neck. Sobbing against his skin, clutched him like
if I let him go, he would disappear again. His
arms were weak, but he wrapped them around me anyway,
holding on with everything he had left. The house burned
behind us. The doctors said it was a miracle, minor burns, smoke,
in elation, nothing worse. I sat beside his hospital bed,
my fingers rapped tightly around his His hand was warm,
solid his Every so often my grip would tightened, just
to make sure he was still there, and every time
he would squeeze back. The first time he woke up,
he turned his head toward me, his eyes heavy with exhaustion,
but clear ay. He murmured, voice hoarse. I smiled, even
as my eyes stung with unshd tears. Hey. His lips
curved into a small, tired smile, you look like hell.
A laugh tumbled from my throat, shaky but genuine. Yer Well,
I sniffed, swiping and my eyes. So do you