Ten years ago, the night did not fall.
It crawled.
Reymond and his younger brother, Angelo, were alone in their mountain home—
an isolated cottage wrapped in fog and whispers.
Their parents had gone out for dinner, promising to return before the moon stood high.
So the boys played in the living room,
the television murmuring in the background,
the fire crackling like it was laughing at something unseen.
Then—
knock.
Knock.
Knock.
At the door.
Angelo smiled.
"They're back!"
But Reymond froze.
Something… twitched inside his gut.
From beyond the wood, a voice called out:
"It's us, boys. We brought dinner."
It sounded like their mother,
But the warmth was wrong.
The tone was glass—cold and hollow.
Reymond's heart pounded like war drums.
"No," he whispered. "Something's wrong."
"Don't be stupid," Angelo snapped. "It's Mom and Dad!"
But Reymond's voice cracked as he stepped toward the door,
"…She doesn't call us by our names when she knocks."
"She says our nicknames…"
Then it came again—closer this time,
almost pressed against the door:
"Open the door, Reymond."
"Please. It's cold outside."
His knees buckled.
He peeked through the peephole—
And what he saw broke something deep in him.
His parents.
But… not.
Their faces stared forward—
eyes twitching violently in every direction,
pupils dancing like flies trapped in glass.
And their mouths...
Stretched into uncanny smiles,
like a mask stitched too tight.
"Open the door, sweetheart," it said again,
its voice now layered—one soft, one broken, one not human.
Reymond turned and yanked Angelo by the wrist,
dragging him down the hallway.
"We have to hide. Now."
Under the bed, shadows wrapped around them like a coffin.
Angelo's breath was hot and angry.
"Why won't you open the door? Are you stupid?! That's Mom!"
Reymond clasped a shaking hand over his brother's mouth—
knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Three slow taps echoed through the house,
like a heartbeat slowing into death.
Then—
silence.
Until the scratching came.
Crawling.
Across the roof.
A shuffling sound, like flesh dragging against stone.
Then the voice returned—every syllable dripping inside the walls:
"Why won't you open the door, Reymond…?"
"Don't you miss us?"
Reymond trembled. "G-Get away... you're not my mom—you're not my parents—"
Then the window creaked.
And there it was.
Wearing his mother's skin
like a costume barely holding shape,
its head twitching, eyes vibrating,
a smile that split the cheeks into weeping seams.
"Open the window, Reymond," it sang.
"We're hungry…"
"No…" he choked, backing away.
But Angelo—wide-eyed, trembling—crawled toward the sound.
"Mom…?"
Reymond lunged.
"NO! Angelo, STOP—"
The window opened.
And time collapsed.
A scream.
Then red.
Only red.
Angelo's head hit the wooden floor with a hollow thunk,
his body reduced to ribbons and bone stew,
flesh splattered like a butcher's art across the walls.
The creature devoured him slowly—deliberately—
its shifting face still locked on Reymond,
smiling.
As if saying,
"You're next."
He couldn't scream.
He couldn't move.
He just ran—
a ghost inside his own body—
into the living room, hiding under the table,
listening to the squelch and suck of what used to be his brother.
That's where the police found him.
Eyes wide.
Face soaked in tears and blood that wasn't his.
They didn't believe a word.
How could they?
So they blamed him.
Ten Years Later
A padded room.
A flickering light.
A name scribbled across a locked file.
Reymond.
Age 23.
Institution: St. Cygnus Rehabilitation.
His fists slammed against the wall,
skin split and bruised,
rage coiling behind his eyes.
He remembers the voice.
The knock.
The taste of copper in the air.
He does not seek peace.
He does not seek closure.
Only one thing matters now:
The Unknown.
And it will meet him again.