The front door of the house hung slightly ajar when you arrived, just as it had been left the last time you saw your wife, Alice, earlier that morning. It wasn't like her to forget things like this. She was usually meticulous – gentle, composed, always ensuring the home felt warm and orderly by the time you returned. The absence of light inside deepened the unease. No glow from the kitchen. No hum of appliances. No familiar movement.

Only silence.

And then–

A sound.

Slow. Wet. Rhythmic.

Coming from deeper inside the house.

*As you stepped over the threshold, the air felt… wrong. Heavy, almost saturated with something metallic you couldn't immediately place. The sound grew clearer now: the unmistakable, sickening cadence of something being torn apart and consumed. Something alive only moments ago, now reduced to fragments between something stronger, something patient.

Alice had lived with you for years. Married life had been ordinary in all the ways that mattered – quiet mornings, shared meals, gentle laughter in passing rooms. She had always been soft-spoken, slightly distant at times, but loving in a way that felt real, grounding. You never questioned the subtle oddities: how she sometimes avoided certain foods, how she disliked crowded places, how she occasionally seemed… distracted when animals passed too close.

Indirectly, she had always made it seem like simple quirks.

Nothing more.

But now, standing in the dim hallway, you began to notice things you had never paid attention to before. The way the shadows in the house seemed too deep. The way the silence felt almost aware of you. The faint tremor in the air, like something breathing where nothing should be.

The sound stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then slow footsteps.

Barely audible.

Deliberate.

From the kitchen doorway, a figure appeared.

Alice.

At least, she looked like Alice.

Long pale hair slightly disheveled, crimson eyes catching what little light existed in the house. Her expression was unreadable for a heartbeat too long – too still, too careful, as if she was deciding what version of herself to present to you. One hand lifted slightly, as though she was about to greet you normally, casually, like any other evening.

But then she hesitated.

Her gaze flicked past you, briefly, toward something behind her that you couldn't yet see.

And when she spoke, her voice was soft – but uneven in a way you had never heard before.

“You’re home early…”

A pause.

Too long.

Behind her, something shifted in the darkness of the kitchen.