The house breathed. Not in the way a living thing does, with lungs and blood and all that messy business—but in the way old houses do when the night stretches too long, and the wind pushes against the bones of the place, and the walls settle just a little deeper into their history.
And in that house, on the third floor, behind a door that used to be white but had turned the color of spoiled milk, a faucet dripped.
Plink…
A pause.
Plink…
Another pause.
The sound threaded its way into Lillian Croft’s dreams, sewing itself into the seams of whatever she was seeing behind her eyelids. And then, just as it always did, the drip twisted itself into a voice. Soft at first, gentle—almost a whisper.
"Sweetheart… you left me waiting."
Her eyes snapped open.
The ceiling fan spun in slow, lazy circles above her bed. The moonlight cut the room in half, bright as bleach where it landed, drowning the rest in deep, swamping shadow. Lillian let out a breath and rolled onto her side. Her phone buzzed against the nightstand.
2:56 AM.
She groaned. Three nights in a row now. The same voice. The same goddamn faucet.
Lillian sat up, raking her fingers through her hair. "Jesus Christ," she muttered.
The faucet was in the guest bathroom down the hall. A room she never used. She didn’t even remember the last time she stepped in there—maybe when she first moved in, checking for mold or spiders or whatever other horrors a hundred-year-old house could cook up. It had passed the test. But now…
Plink…
She shivered.
Okay. Enough was enough.
She threw back the blankets and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel watched like the walls were waiting to hear what you’d do next. Her bare feet whispered against the boards as she stepped out of her bedroom. The hallway stretched ahead, long and dark, with the bathroom door barely visible at the end.
She stood there for a second. Listening.
Nothing.
Then—
Plink…
Her breath hitched.
The dripping faucet was one thing. But this time, after the drop hit the porcelain, she swore she heard something else. Something small. A giggle.
No.
Her fingers clenched into fists. It was just her head playing tricks. Just the house settling. Just some dumb, old pipes that hadn’t been touched in years.
She took a step forward. Then another. The bathroom door loomed closer. It was cracked open, just barely. A sliver of darkness peered back at her from inside.
She swallowed hard.
"Alright, let’s get this over with."
Her hand found the doorknob. It was ice-cold. She pushed, and the door creaked open wider, revealing the bathroom. The air inside was thick, and damp, like someone had just taken a hot shower. Except no one had.
She hesitated.
The sink stood against the far wall, an old porcelain basin with silver knobs that had long since lost their shine. The faucet above it was dripping, the water sliding down the drain in slow, lazy spirals.
Lillian sighed and reached for the knob.
"Don’t."
She froze.
The word hadn’t been spoken aloud. No, it had curled around her skull, whispered right into the soft, meaty part of her brain where reason lived.
A chill licked up her spine.
She looked up.
And for the first time, she saw it.
The mirror above the sink should have reflected her own face. But it didn’t.
It reflected something else.
Something standing right behind her.
And it was smiling.
The bathroom air was thick, damp, and carried a strange smell—like wet leaves rotting in a pile, something just on the edge of decay but not quite there yet. Lillian stood still, her breath caught between her ribs, fingers hovering just inches from the faucet knob.
The dripping had stopped.
That was the first thing she noticed.
The second thing? The floor wasn’t dry anymore.
She looked down.
Her toes were inches away from a puddle. A dark, uneven shape spreads slowly across the cracked bathroom tiles.
Water.
But not clean water.
It was murky, almost black, with little flecks of something swirling inside it. Her stomach twisted. It looked like river water—the kind you find in deep places where the sun never quite reaches. The kind of water that hides things.
Her mouth went dry.
She hadn’t turned the sink on. She hadn’t even stepped in here before tonight. So where the hell had it come from?
Behind her, the house creaked, slow and aching.
Lillian inhaled sharply, snapping her head toward the door. The hallway stretched long and empty, the wood warped in places, peeling like old skin. The dim bulb above flickered, and for half a second, everything was swallowed in darkness.
Then—
A sound.
Wet.
Sticky.
Step…
Step…
Lillian’s pulse lurched.
She turned her head toward the hallway, expecting to see—something. A shadow. A figure. Anything.
But there was nothing there.
Just the long, empty corridor.
And yet… she had heard it.
Hadn’t she?
She swallowed, her throat dry and tight.
Maybe she was still half-asleep. Maybe this was some kind of waking nightmare, her brain stuck between dreams and reality. That happened sometimes, didn’t it? Sleep paralysis, auditory hallucinations—there were explanations for things like this.
Yeah.
Explanations.
Lillian exhaled, forcing herself to relax. Her shoulders sagged slightly, her muscles unclenching.
It was just a house. An old house with bad plumbing and floors that shifted when the temperature changed.
She was being stupid.
She turned back to the sink, intent on shutting the damn faucet off once and for all.
But then—
Another step.
Lillian froze.
This time, it was closer.
Right outside the bathroom door.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Slowly, carefully, she turned her head, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The hallway stretched before her, dimly lit, and empty.
But the floor wasn’t dry anymore.
The same dark water that had pooled beneath the sink had spread into the hallway—long, uneven streaks of it leading from somewhere deeper in the house. The footprints were smeared, dragging slightly, as if someone—or something—had been pulling itself forward.
Her eyes followed the trail, her pulse a frantic drumbeat.
It led toward her bedroom.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no.
She hadn’t heard anything come inside. Hadn’t seen the front door open. There was no way—
Drip…
Lillian flinched.
The faucet had started again.
But it wasn’t just the faucet now.
Somewhere inside the house, past the hallway, past the walls, from whatever deep place this thing had come from—
Someone was whispering.
Soft. Wet. Gurgling.
"This is not fair, sweetheart."
Lillian’s blood ran cold.
The voice wasn’t in her head this time.
It was real.
And it was coming from inside her bedroom.
She took a step back. Her heel hit the wet tile, and her stomach twisted at the squelch beneath her foot.
What was happening?
Her breath came fast now, her chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked bursts. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to think.
She had two choices:
-
She could run.
-
She could see what was in her bedroom.
The smart choice—the obvious choice—was to get the fuck out. Grab her keys, bolt down the stairs, and drive until she sees the sun.
But something held her in place.
Not fear.
Not curiosity.
Something else.
Something deeper.
A feeling she couldn’t quite name.
And that was the worst part.
Because in that moment, Lillian knew—
Whatever was in her bedroom wasn’t a stranger.
It knew her.
And somehow, some way…
She knew it too.
She sucked in a breath.
Then, before she could change her mind—
She stepped into the hallway.
And walked toward her room.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have. Lillian felt it in her bones. The space between her and the bedroom door expanded, stretching like old gum, the floorboards groaning under her feet as if the house didn’t want her to go inside.
But she went anyway.
The door was open. Just a little. A sliver of darkness, split down the middle by the weak glow of the bedside lamp.
And inside—
Crunch.
Lillian froze.
A slow, wet chewing sound filled the room.
Crunch.
Another bite. Another slow, deliberate chew.
She pushed the door open the rest of the way.
And there he was.
Ryan.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed like a kid at a sleepover. Shirtless, in a pair of old, gray sweatpants, his skin damp with sweat like he’d just come in from the rain.
Eating an apple.
Not just eating—devouring. His teeth sank deep, tearing off chunks too big for his mouth, his lips stretched wide in an almost hungry grin. Juice dribbled down his chin, sliding over his bare chest in thin, glistening trails.
For a second, all she could do was stare.
Her brain couldn’t process it.
Ryan wasn’t supposed to be here.
They had broken up. Months ago.
He had left. He had taken his things, slammed the door behind him, and said—
"You’ll regret this, sweetheart."
Her stomach twisted.
“Ryan?” she whispered.
He stopped mid-chew. His jaw froze. His eyes—blue, but too blue, like an over-saturated sky—flicked up to meet hers.
Then, slow as melting wax, he smiled.
“Hey, baby.”
Her mouth was dry. “What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head. “Eating.”
Another bite. The apple crunched between his teeth, loud, wet. The scent of it filled the room, thick and cloying. Sweet, but something beneath it, something sharp and rotten.
Lillian swallowed. Her hands curled into fists.
“This… this isn’t funny,” she said. “How did you get in?”
Ryan chewed, slow and thoughtful, like he was considering the question. Then, with a little shrug—
“You let me in.”
Her skin went cold.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” he said simply. “You always do.”
Lillian took a step back.
Something was wrong.
The way he sat—too still, too patient. The way his skin shone in the lamplight, damp and feverish. His chest rose and fell, but it wasn’t right—like he was remembering to breathe instead of doing it naturally.
She glanced at the nightstand.
No keys. No wallet. No sign that he had come in like a normal person.
Her throat tightened.
“You need to leave,” she said, forcing steel into her voice.
Ryan took another bite.
Then, through a mouthful of pulp—
“Make me.”
The words sent a shiver through her.
She turned, fast, ready to bolt. But—
Thud.
Her feet stuck.
The floor wasn’t dry anymore.
A slow, thick wetness spread beneath her toes. Cold. Seeping into her skin.
She looked down.
Water.
Dark, murky, the same as before. Spreading out from under the bed in thick, lazy veins.
Ryan took another bite. The sound of it was loud in her ears, too loud, echoing inside her skull.
“You’re always running,” he murmured, chewing slowly. “You always think you can just walk away.”
She jerked her foot, but it wouldn’t move.
Ryan grinned, juice dripping down his chin.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he whispered.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He leaned forward. The mattress didn’t even sink beneath his weight.
“You never left me.”
Her breath hitched.
Ryan tilted his head, his damp, too-blue eyes gleaming.
“You can’t leave something that’s inside you, sweetheart.”
A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes.
She gasped—staggering, gripping the doorframe—
And the world lurched.
The walls bent.
And suddenly, everything around her was wrong.
Her room. Her bed. Her body.
The floor stretched, pulling, twisting. The light flickered, and Ryan’s face—his familiar, too perfect face—began to peel.
His grin widened, splitting at the edges, stretching too far, his teeth too white, too sharp, his lips splitting at the seams like wet paper.
And behind it—
Something else.
Something she knew.
Something that had been waiting for her.
Waiting inside her.
Ryan raised the apple to his mouth—
And took another bite.
Lillian ran.
She didn’t think—just moved. Barreled out of the bedroom, hit the hallway with a staggering step, her breath ragged, her pulse hammering.
Behind her, she swore she heard him laughing.
"You never left me, sweetheart."
Her stomach twisted.
No.
No, no, no.
She wasn’t staying to find out what that meant.
She hit the stairs hard, bare feet slapping against the cold wood. The house groaned around her, stretching, and breathing, but she ignored it. She only cared about one thing—the front door.
She could see it from here, a dark rectangle at the end of the hallway, moonlight spilling through the glass panels.
Almost there.
Just a few more steps.
She sucked in a breath, reached for the banister—
And stopped.
A smell.
Thick, warm, curling through the air.
Familiar.
Garlic. Onion. Soy sauce.
Lillian’s stomach lurched.
Her grip on the banister tightened.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be possible.
But she knew that smell.
Chow mein.
Made the way her mother used to make it.
The kitchen light was on.
And there—standing at the stove, stirring a wok like nothing was wrong—
Was her mother.
Her dead mother.
Standing in front of the woven placemat she always used, wearing that old, faded blue apron, the one Lillian had buried with her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Her mother turned, smiling, wooden spoon in hand.
"Sweetheart," she said. "You’re just in time for dinner."
Lillian’s throat locked.
This was a dream.
This was a hallucination, a trick, a—
"You’re not real," she whispered.
Her mother’s smile twitched. "Now that’s just rude."
Lillian took a step back. Her hands were shaking. "You died."
"Well, of course I did," her mother said, stirring the noodles. "You were there, weren’t you?"
Lillian swallowed.
Yes.
Yes, she had been there. Holding her mother’s frail hand in that hospital bed, watching the monitors slow, watching her chest rise and fall one last time before—
She squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
This wasn’t real.
She turned toward the front door.
She would not fall for this.
She would not—
"Come sit," her mother said, voice soft. "You look tired."
Lillian froze.
Something about the way she said it—
You look tired.
Her mother used to say that all the time. When she worked late. When she stayed up cramming for exams. When she came home crying after a fight with Ryan.
It sounded right.
It felt right.
Her mother set a steaming plate of noodles on the kitchen island.
"Come on, sweetheart," she said, tilting her head. "You must be hungry."
The smell of garlic and soy sauce filled the air, thick, rich, the kind of smell that wrapped around you and made you feel safe.
Her stomach twisted.
She was hungry.
She hadn’t eaten all day.
And it smelled so damn good.
Her mother smiled, nodding toward the plate.
"Just one bite."
Lillian took a step forward.
Just one.
The chair scraped against the floor as she pulled it out.
She sat.
The noodles looked real. The steam curled up from the plate, the strands glistening, bits of green onion and cabbage mixed in just the way she liked it.
She reached for the chopsticks.
Her mother’s eyes gleamed.
Lillian hesitated.
Something itched at the back of her mind.
A memory.
The last thing her mother ever said to her.
"You have to be careful, sweetheart."
Her fingers clenched around the chopsticks.
Her mother—her real mother—had looked her in the eyes, barely able to whisper, voice weak and scratchy from the oxygen tubes, but certain.
"It’s not fair, sweetheart. Life isn’t fair."
Lillian blinked.
Her mother—this thing wearing her mother’s face—was watching her.
Waiting.
Lillian looked at the plate.
Then at the woven placemat beneath it.
And suddenly—
She saw it.
The placemat was wet.
A slow, dark stain seeped into the woven threads, soaking the bottom of the plate, and spreading outward like something had crawled up through the table.
The smell shifted.
Not garlic.
Not soy sauce.
Something rotting.
Lillian’s breath hitched.
She dropped the chopsticks and shoved bthem ack from the table.
The chair toppled over.
Her mother sighed.
"Really, Lillian?" she said, voice too flat now. "You always make things so difficult."
Lillian stumbled backward.
Her mother’s smile didn’t fade, but her skin did.
Her arms—her face—grew damp.
Water dripped from the tips of her fingers.
Her feet—bare on the kitchen tiles—left wet prints.
Lillian’s stomach dropped.
This wasn’t her mother.
It had never been her mother.
Something was wearing her.
Her mother tilted her head. Her neck cracked.
"Come here, sweetheart," she murmured.
Lillian turned and ran.
And behind her—
The sound of bare, wet feet slapping against the floor.
Chasing her.
Lillian ran.
Her heartbeat was a hammer in her ears, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The wooden floor was slick beneath her bare feet, damp with that same creeping, dark water. She slipped once, caught herself on the doorway, and lunged forward—down the hall, toward the front door.
Behind her—
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of wet feet.
Too fast.
Too wrong.
And then—
Her mother’s voice.
“Sweetheart, where are you going?”
Lillian didn’t look back. She didn’t dare.
She reached the front door, grabbed the handle—twisted—
Locked.
No. No, no, no.
She clawed at the deadbolt with shaking fingers, trying to yank it free.
Behind her, the voice came again, closer now.
"You always run, Lillian. You always think you can just leave."
Her pulse lurched.
That wasn’t her mother’s voice anymore. Not really.
It was wet now. Slippery. Like words spoken from under deep water, bubbling up, thick and heavy.
She turned her head just an inch.
And froze.
Her mother—or the thing pretending to be her mother—was wrong now.
The dampness on her skin had spread. Her face was sagging, like wet fabric stretched too thin. Her lips peeled apart when she smiled, sticking, strands of black water stretching between her teeth.
And her eyes.
Black.
No whites. No pupils.
Just two dark, endless pits.
Lillian made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob.
Her mother—the thing in her mother’s skin—tilted its head.
“You always make this so hard,” it said. “Just sit down, sweetheart. Eat something. It’s not fair to make me chase you.”
Lillian’s chest seized.
That phrase.
"It’s not fair, sweetheart."
She had heard it before.
Too many times.
The deadbolt clicked under her fingers.
She shoved the door open, and lunged outside.
The night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, real. The porch groaned under her weight.
She ran.
Across the yard, through the overgrown grass, bare feet sinking into the damp soil.
She didn’t stop until she reached the street.
Only then did she turn back.
The house stood quiet.
The front door—wide open—revealed nothing but dark hallways and empty spaces.
Lillian’s breath came fast, her lungs burning. She was shaking—from cold, from fear, from something else.
Her mother—no.
That thing.
It was gone.
She swallowed hard, forcing air into her lungs.
Think, Lillian. Think.
She needed to go. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Her car.
It was parked down the driveway. If she could get to it, she could drive until the sun rose, drive until this whole goddamn nightmare was behind her.
She turned—
And froze.
Her car wasn’t empty.
There was someone in the passenger seat.
Sitting still. Waiting.
Lillian’s stomach twisted.
She knew who it was before she even saw his face.
Ryan.
A shape moved.
The passenger door swung open.
And Ryan—shirtless, damp, smiling—stepped out.
He stretched like he had just woken up from a nap. His movements were slow, fluid, his bare feet leaving wet prints on the pavement.
And in his hand—
An apple.
A fresh one this time. Bright red, gleaming under the streetlight.
He raised it to his mouth.
Crunch.
Juice dripped down his chin.
He swallowed, and grinned at her.
Then said, in that too-familiar voice—
“You always come back, sweetheart.”
Lillian's stomach dropped.
Her whole body screamed RUN, RUN, RUN—
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Because suddenly, the ground beneath her feet felt soft.
Wet.
She looked down.
The street—pavement just seconds ago—was now water.
Dark, bottomless water.
The black reflection of her house shimmered in its depths.
And when she looked closer—
Something was moving underneath.
Something waiting.
She sucked in a breath.
Then—
Ryan took another bite of his apple.
And smiled.
The sound of the doorbell made Lillian jump.
It cut through the thick, damp night like a needle through skin—sharp, unnatural, wrong.
Ding-dong.
She stood frozen in the middle of the street. The pavement under her feet was solid again—not water, not that dark, waiting abyss from seconds ago. But she wasn’t sure how. Or when.
Across the yard, the front door of the house—her house—was still open, gaping like a hungry mouth. The kitchen light flickered inside.
Ryan was gone.
The apple core lay on the driveway, wet and bitten through.
But now—
Now there was someone at the door.
Another ding-dong.
Lillian’s breath came in shallow bursts.
A delivery guy.
A pizza delivery guy.
He stood on the porch, holding a large, grease-stained box in one hand. The other hand hung at his side, fingers twitching, like he was waiting for something.
His uniform was all wrong—an old red cap pulled low over his face, a stretched-out polo shirt, too damp, clinging to his body. The logo on his chest had faded into nothing.
His smile was the worst part.
Too big. Too many teeth.
“Pizza delivery,” he called out.
Lillian didn’t move.
She hadn’t ordered pizza.
Hell, she hadn’t even eaten dinner.
But the man just stood there, smiling.
Waiting.
His head ticked to the side, neck popping like a rusty door hinge.
"You gonna pay, sweetheart?"
Lillian's stomach twisted.
That word.
"Sweetheart."
Her blood turned to ice.
“No,” she whispered.
The man grinned wider.
“Ah. Prepaid, then. Good. Saves us the trouble.”
He stepped forward, crossing the threshold without hesitation.
Lillian gasped.
No one invited him in.
But he came inside anyway.
He kicked the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
Lillian stumbled back. “I—I didn’t order anything.”
The man sighed.
Like he was tired of explaining things to stupid people.
“You sure?” he said, tipping his head. The cap slid back just a little.
And for the first time, Lillian saw his eyes.
They were gray.
Not the kind of gray people had—the kind of gray dead things had.
“You don’t remember ordering?” he asked.
His voice was softer now. Almost gentle.
Like he was coaxing her, like he was trying to get her to agree.
Lillian shook her head fast. “No. No, I don’t.”
The man clicked his tongue. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but this ain't the kind of thing you order with a phone."
He lifted the box slowly.
Offered it to her.
The cardboard was damp. The grease stains were too dark.
Something inside it shifted.
"You should eat," he murmured.
Lillian felt her stomach churn.
"No," she whispered.
The man didn't blink.
Just watched her.
Like he already knew she'd change her mind.
His fingers tapped against the lid—tap, tap, tap—like he was getting impatient.
"It's not fair to waste good food, sweetheart."
Lillian’s heart stopped.
That phrase.
Again.
She licked her lips. "Who… who paid for it?"
The man’s grin stretched too wide.
"You did."
Her pulse lurched.
He pushed the box toward her.
"Go on. Take a bite. You already paid, after all."
Her hands clenched into fists.
She could smell it now.
Not pizza.
Something rotting.
Something waiting.
She shook her head, stepping back.
The man sighed again.
Then—
The box moved.
The lid rose, just an inch.
Something inside it breathed.
A wet, sticky sound.
Lillian choked on a scream.
The delivery man laughed.
"Not hungry?" he asked. "Shame."
Then, slowly—deliberately—
He opened the box.
And inside—
Something looked back at her.
And smiled.
The lid rose an inch.
Not fast. Not sudden.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like whatever was inside wanted to take its time.
Lillian’s whole body locked up. Her breath hitched, her skin cold with sweat.
The delivery man grinned, tilting the box forward just a little.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Take a look.”
Lillian’s mind screamed. Don’t.
But her eyes—her stupid, desperate, terrified eyes—looked anyway.
And inside—
There was something.
Not pizza.
Not food.
Something wet.
Something folded.
A slick, glistening mass of—flesh?
No. No, not flesh.
Hair.
A tangle of long, black strands, shifting, moving like it was breathing.
Lillian’s throat locked.
“What… what the fuck is that?”
The delivery man sighed like she was taking too long to figure it out.
“You paid for it,” he said. “It’s yours.”
Lillian stumbled back.
“No. No, I—I didn’t—”
The man took a step forward.
His eyes—those dead gray eyes—never left her face.
“You don’t remember?”
His voice was soft. Gentle. Like he was talking to a child.
"You ordered this a long time ago, sweetheart."
Lillian’s head shook before she could even think.
“No. I didn’t. I—I don’t even eat pizza, I—”
The hair inside the box twitched.
Lillian saw it.
Not imagined. Saw it.
A small, slow shudder. Like something buried underneath was moving.
Her stomach turned to ice.
The man watched her.
And then—
The hair shifted again.
Only this time, something peeked through the strands.
Something pink.
Something wet.
Something human.
Lillian gagged.
The delivery man just smiled.
"Go on," he said again. "Touch it."
She whipped her head up.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The man’s smile twitched.
His fingers tightened on the box.
“What’s wrong with me?” he repeated, almost thoughtful.
Then he laughed.
A low, wheezing sound, like something stuck in a drain.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
Her chest hitched.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The man didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Instead—
He lifted the box higher.
Until it was right in front of her.
Until the smell hit her full force.
Lillian gagged.
Not grease. Not dough.
Something rancid.
Something old.
And beneath the hair—
Something was moving.
Her stomach twisted.
"Stop," she whispered. "Please—just stop."
The delivery man tipped his head.
Like he was studying her.
Like she was interesting.
Then, in that same soft, coaxing voice—
"It’s not fair to waste it, sweetheart."
The floor beneath her felt wrong.
Soft. Damp.
The air thickened—humid, heavy—like the walls were closer than before.
Lillian’s pulse slammed against her ribs.
No. No, no, no—
She took another step back—
And the floor squelched.
Her breath stopped.
She looked down.
The wood wasn’t wood anymore.
It was soft.
It was wet.
And something underneath it was breathing.
Lillian choked on a scream.
Her feet sank.
Just an inch.
But enough.
Enough to feel something moving below.
Something waiting.
She whipped her head up.
The delivery man was closer now.
His smile was wider.
His teeth are longer.
And his voice—
That same wet, thick whisper she had heard in the hallway, in the kitchen, in the darkness of her own goddamn house.
"You should eat, sweetheart."
Lillian staggered.
The box tilted.
And for the first time—
For the first goddamn time—
The thing inside it looked at her.
And opened its mouth.
Lillian couldn’t move.
Not because she didn’t want to—God, she wanted to—but because the floor was holding her now.
It had changed.
It wasn’t wood anymore. It wasn’t solid.
It was flesh.
Wet. Thick. Breathing.
Her bare feet sank deeper into the pulpy, slick surface. It gripped her like mud, warm and alive, tightening around her ankles.
And the thing in the box—
It was still looking at her.
From beneath the tangle of wet black hair, a mouth had formed.
Not normal. Not human.
Too wide. Too deep. Too hungry.
The lips peeled apart, slow and sticky, strands of something black and wet stretching between its teeth.
And oh, those teeth.
They weren’t sharp.
They were flat.
Blunt.
Like molars.
Like they were meant for chewing.
The delivery man grinned.
“Look at that,” he murmured. “It likes you.”
Lillian’s breath hitched.
Her throat locked.
She tried to tear her feet free, but the floor held her tight.
The delivery man stepped closer.
"You're not even gonna say hello?"
Lillian shook her head.
The man sighed, tipping his cap back. His gray, dead eyes gleamed under the kitchen light.
"You used to be so polite, sweetheart. What happened?"
Lillian’s fingers clenched into shaking fists.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man tsked.
He crouched, setting the box on the table between them. Never taking his eyes off her.
His voice was almost gentle when he spoke again.
"You should. You ordered it."
Lillian’s stomach twisted.
The mouth inside the box twitched.
A wet little smile.
The hair shifted.
Something underneath it moved.
And suddenly—
A hand slipped through the strands.
A human hand.
Small. Thin.
Fingers twitching.
Her breath stopped.
She knew that hand.
The scars. The slight crook in the pinky.
Her own.
It was her hand.
A perfect match.
Rotten and wet.
Lillian choked on nothing.
Her own fingers curled, a slow tremor running through them.
The delivery man watched her.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Then, in a voice as smooth as oil on water—
"You should try a bite."
Lillian gagged.
The mouth inside the box stretched.
The fingers twitched again.
And deep inside the black strands of hair, a voice bubbled up.
Soft.
Gurgling.
"It’s not fair, sweetheart."
Her own voice.
Her. Own. Fucking. Voice.
Lillian screamed.
She yanked, jerked, and fought, but the floor held her.
The delivery man sighed.
"You always run," he murmured. "Even from yourself."
Lillian shook her head.
“No. No, this—this isn’t real. This is a dream. A—a hallucination—”
The man laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just amused.
"Oh, sweetheart," he whispered.
His grin widened.
His teeth lengthened.
"You’ve been chewing on this one for a long time."
Lillian froze.
The thing in the box shuddered.
Its mouth stretched wider.
And before she could scream again—
It lunged.
Straight for her face.
Too fast.
One second it was inside, shifting beneath that slick curtain of black hair—the next, it was on her.
Lillian screamed.
Not just in fear—in pain.
Something clamped down on her cheek.
Teeth.
Her own teeth.
She felt them sink in, deep, past skin, past muscle, hitting bone.
A sudden, horrible pressure—like a dog locking its jaws, refusing to let go.
Her vision blurred.
Her body jerked sideways as the weight of it dragged her down. The air rushed out of her lungs as she crashed against the floor—the wet, breathing, pulpy floor.
She choked on a sob.
Her fingers scrambled against the slick surface, grabbing for anything, anything—
The pain flared, red-hot.
The thing—**the thing with her own face, her own mouth, her own teeth—**was chewing.
Chewing.
Lillian gagged.
The sound of it—**wet, thick, fleshy—**was right in her ear.
She jerked, twisted, thrashed.
And suddenly—
RIP.
The pain went white-hot—then cold.
Like a nerve had been severed.
And then—
Then she heard something hit the floor.
A small, wet slap.
She didn’t want to look.
She had to look.
Her eyes dropped.
And there it was.
A piece of her.
A bloody, ragged chunk of her own cheek.
Lillian’s stomach lurched.
She sucked in a breath—
And the delivery man laughed.
Low, wheezing, delighted.
"Atta girl," he murmured.
Lillian’s head snapped up.
Her vision blurred at the edges—blood loss, shock, the sheer fucking insanity of it all.
But through the haze, she could still see him.
Standing over her.
Smiling.
Watching.
The box dangled from his hand, empty now.
His other hand—long fingers, too long now—reached into his pocket.
And pulled something out.
Something silver.
A fork.
Lillian’s stomach seized.
The delivery man knelt down.
Close. Too close.
His breath reeked.
Not of pizza.
Not of food.
Of old water.
Of damp rot.
His gray, dead eyes gleamed as he held the fork up to her mouth.
"Now," he said, voice almost tender.
"Your turn."
Lillian’s breath hitched.
The fork was slick.
With blood.
Her blood.
Her own goddamn blood.
Something inside her snapped.
A switch flipped.
No.
No.
She wasn’t eating.
She wasn’t chewing.
She was getting the fuck out of here.
Her hand shot up.
Faster than she thought possible—faster than the delivery man expected.
Her fingers clawed into his wrist.
His grin faltered.
Lillian twisted.
Hard.
There was a wet pop, and the fork clattered to the floor.
The delivery man’s smile flickered—just for a second.
Lillian didn’t wait.
She lunged.
Her fingers closed around the box.
Still damp. Still slick.
She swung it.
Hard.
Straight into his face.
The force of it knocked him back.
His cap flew off.
And for the first time, Lillian saw what was underneath.
Her breath stopped.
His head—
His scalp—
Was rotting.
Waterlogged. Blackened.
Like something that had been left in a lake too long.
Lillian gagged.
The delivery man—**or whatever he was now—**tilted his head.
Slowly.
A grin spread across his ruined, sagging face.
And he whispered—
"You’re still hungry, sweetheart."
Lillian’s stomach churned.
The floor was sinking again.
The walls were dripping.
The house was changing.
She had seconds.
She turned—
And ran.
Lillian ran.
Through the kitchen, through the halls, her feet slapping against the damp, breathing floor. The house stretched around her, walls warping, doorways shifting, the air thick with the smell of rot and old water.
Behind her—
The delivery man laughed.
Low. Wet. Gurgling.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be, sweetheart.”
Lillian’s pulse hammered.
She hit the living room, eyes locking on the front door—still open, still waiting.
She could make it.
She had to make it.
Her breath came fast.
One step—two—
And then—
Something grabbed her ankle.
Cold. Wet.
Lillian screamed.
She crashed forward, hitting the floor hard. Her chin smacked against the wood—no, not wood anymore. Something soft. Something pulsing.
A sound filled the room.
A heartbeat.
But not hers.
Lillian kicked, struggled, twisted.
The thing on her ankle wouldn’t let go.
She turned her head—and saw it.
The floor had split open.
A dark, sludgy hole gaped beneath her.
And something inside it was holding her.
A hand.
Small. Pale.
Waterlogged and bloated.
Her breath hitched.
It was her own hand.
It yanked.
Pulled her deeper.
The delivery man sighed.
"You're fighting the wrong person, sweetheart."
She looked up.
He stood over her, arms crossed, watching her sink.
His face was peeling now, layers of dead skin slipping away in wet, curling strips.
His gray, drowned eyes gleamed.
“You’ve been eating this whole time,” he murmured. “You just don’t remember.”
Lillian’s stomach twisted.
“No,” she whispered.
He crouched.
Close. Too close.
"Why do you think you never left this house?"
Lillian’s chest locked.
She tried to speak—couldn’t.
His grin widened.
"You never left because you never could."
The floor yanked harder.
Sinking her.
Lillian fought.
Her fingers dug into the floorboards, but they were soft, crumbling, like wet bread.
She was going under.
Into the hole.
Into herself.
The delivery man leaned in—
And whispered the words she already knew.
"It’s not fair, sweetheart."
The memory hit her.
Like a train.
Like a knife.
Like teeth sinking in.
It all came back.
The last meal she ever had.
Not chow mein.
Not pizza.
Ryan.
Ryan.
His body. Cold. Waterlogged.
Her own teeth in his skin.
Chewing.
Swallowing.
Lillian screamed.
The house shook.
The hole ripped open wider.
She was falling now, tumbling through dark water—black, endless.
She hit the bottom hard.
And when she opened her eyes—
She was back in the dining room.
Sitting at the table.
Her mother stood by the stove, humming softly, stirring a fresh plate of noodles.
Ryan sat across from her, biting into a crisp red apple.
And beside her—
The delivery man set down a pizza box.
Still warm.
Still waiting.
Lillian looked down at her hands.
Her fingers were wet with blood.
The memory pulsed in her head.
She had eaten.
She had always been eating.
And now—
She was hungry again.
The delivery man smiled.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he said.
“Take another bite.”
Lillian picked up the fork.
And did.
The fork felt heavy in Lillian’s hand.
Her fingers curled around the handle, her knuckles bloodless, stiff.
The house had stopped moving.
The walls were still. The air no longer hummed with that thick, pulsing breath.
Everything was calm now.
Her mother stirred the noodles.
Ryan sat across from her, chewing.
And the delivery man—the grinning, waterlogged thing—watched from the head of the table.
Waiting.
Waiting for her to eat.
Lillian’s chest tightened.
She looked down at her plate.
The food is steamed, rich, and fragrant.
It looked normal.
But she knew the truth now.
Knew what she had done.
What she had been doing.
All those months alone in this house.
Eating.
Chewing.
Swallowing what was left of him.
Her stomach lurched.
This wasn’t a dinner table.
It was a grave.
Ryan’s grave.
And she was still feeding.
Her mother smiled.
“You need to eat, sweetheart,” she murmured. “You always do.”
Ryan took another bite of his apple.
The sound of his teeth crunching through the skin made something inside her snap.
No.
No.
Lillian’s fingers clenched around the fork.
She stood up—fast, too fast.
The chair scraped back.
The house shuddered.
The delivery man’s grin widened.
"Oh," he murmured. "This again?"
Lillian’s breath hitched.
He knew.
He knew she was about to run.
Because she always did.
Because she never finished the meal.
And that was the trick, wasn’t it?
That was why she was still here.
Why she was trapped.
She hadn’t eaten all of him.
Not yet.
Her mother sighed.
"Finish your food, Lillian."
Lillian shook her head.
“No.”
The word came out hard. Sharp.
Ryan paused mid-chew.
The delivery man’s gray, dead eyes gleamed.
"You sure about that, sweetheart?"
Lillian lifted the fork.
Her own fork.
The one she had been using this whole time.
She looked at it.
Then at him.
At the thing in Ryan’s skin.
And she made a choice.
She lunged.
The fork plunged into the delivery man’s throat.
His smile froze.
For the first time—**the first time since he came to her door—**his expression changed.
Surprise.
Shock.
And then—
He laughed.
Lillian twisted the fork deeper.
The sound that came out of him was wrong.
A gurgle. A sputter.
Black water spilled from his lips.
It dribbled down his chin, soaking into his uniform, pooling at his feet.
The walls groaned.
The house shuddered.
The table split down the middle.
And then—
Everything collapsed.
Lillian fell.
She sank.
Down, down, down—
Into the dark, into the water beneath the house.
And this time—
She wasn’t coming back.
The house was empty.
For the first time in months, it was silent.
No dripping faucets.
No wet footsteps in the hall.
No whispering in the dark.
Just stillness.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees.
A car rolled by.
And inside—
On the kitchen table—
A pizza box sat untouched.
Waiting.
Still warm.
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