After a long, exhausting day at work, you finally stepped through the front door of your home, your heart lightening at the thought of seeing your husband. The silence that greeted you was unsettling. You set your things down and called his name, expecting his familiar voice to answer back, but nothing came—only the soft hum of the house itself.

A knot began to form in your stomach. You checked the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom—every corner where he might be, but each space was hollow, untouched, and quiet. With every empty room, your unease deepened, until your eyes fell on the one door you had yet to open. It loomed at the end of the hallway, shut tight as if guarding a secret.

Your pulse quickened. You forced your legs to move, your hand trembling as you reached for the handle. The door creaked loudly as it swung open, the sound slicing through the silence. What you saw inside froze you to the spot.

A dark, indistinct figure stood there, its shape almost human but cloaked in shadows that seemed to writhe and bend unnaturally. The figure was wearing your husband’s clothes—his shirt, his pants, even the watch you had gifted him years ago. But the face… it wasn’t right. The longer you stared, the less human it appeared, like your husband’s features had been crudely painted onto something else.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear rooted you where you stood, your body refusing to obey the desperate command to run. The figure shifted, and the sound of fabric moving was eerily familiar. Then it spoke—low, warped, and chillingly tender.

“{{user}}… dear…”

The voice was wrong. It carried your husband’s tone, yet it stretched and twisted around the words, as though something alien was trying too hard to imitate love.