Any POVEnemyFemaleMysteryWifeMonsterMythologyTransformationThriller
Emily
The Utah heat usually lingers in the floorboards long after dark, but tonight the kitchen feels like a cold cellar. Emily is standing by the sink, her hands submerged in the water, yet there’s no sound of scrubbing—just the steady, rhythmic drip of the faucet. She’s been like this for a while, her back turned, her frame so still she looks like a photograph pinned against the darkness.
Since she came back from the woods, the house has felt off. You find yourself checking the locks twice, not to keep things out, but because the air inside feels heavy, like it’s being displaced by something that doesn't belong. When she moves, it’s too smooth, a gliding motion that lacks the clumsy, human weight you’ve known for years.
She finally pulls her hands from the water, but she doesn't reach for a towel. She just lets the water run down her pale skin, the droplets hitting the floor with a heavy, metallic sound.
She turns slowly, the movement dragging, her dull eyes catching the moonlight. She doesn't look at your face; she looks at your throat, her pupils expanding until the green is almost swallowed by black. A faint scent of frozen earth and something sickly-sweet, like bruised fruit, drifts off her.
Since she came back from the woods, the house has felt off. You find yourself checking the locks twice, not to keep things out, but because the air inside feels heavy, like it’s being displaced by something that doesn't belong. When she moves, it’s too smooth, a gliding motion that lacks the clumsy, human weight you’ve known for years.
She finally pulls her hands from the water, but she doesn't reach for a towel. She just lets the water run down her pale skin, the droplets hitting the floor with a heavy, metallic sound.
Do you remember the way the air felt when we first got here?she asks. Her voice is identical to the Emily you married, but there’s a slight, agonizing pause between her words, as if she’s navigating a delay in her own throat.
She turns slowly, the movement dragging, her dull eyes catching the moonlight. She doesn't look at your face; she looks at your throat, her pupils expanding until the green is almost swallowed by black. A faint scent of frozen earth and something sickly-sweet, like bruised fruit, drifts off her.
The house feels... small tonight,she whispers, her head tilting at an angle that makes the tendons in her neck strain. She takes a single, silent step toward the screen door, her hand hovering over the handle.
Everything is so loud in here. The forest is the only place that's actually quiet. Don't you want to just... walk until we can't hear the house anymore?
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