Blood runs cold, veins turning to ice in the matter of seconds, and the sound of her own pulse rises to her ears, heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach. It's a voice that she hears every other day, lingering in the back of her mind, stuck in her head like the roots of her hair, but this ... this all is so different. This time, it's not coming from inside; it's coming from the woods.
"Maw?" The word comes out as little more than a croak, head slo-o-wly scanning the clearing, eyes squinting as she tries to see in between the trees, where the shadows lurk. Fingers trail along the window sill next to the door, not daring to stop until they find the muzzle of her rifle, iron-clad grip closing on it.
It can't be her mother. She's dead, she's definitely dead, Mabel saw her—her body, blood slowly draining from her, felt the life leave her in those final moments. Close to a half hour she had spent like that, mere inches from the terrorising form that was both her mother and her attacker, unable to move. Frozen on the spot, cradling her knees to her chest, covered in the gore of at least three people, floral pyjamas slashed and stained all the way through.
It can't be her mother. It just can't be.
"Maw, is that you?"
The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of Mabel's words. The creature could feel the doubt settling in her bones, could almost taste the churn of confusion in her mind. It was a delectable sensation, that moment of hesitation.
It shifted slightly, just enough to remind her it was still there, lurking on the edge of her perception. Its breath—slow, deliberate—filled the quiet, a deep, rattling rasp that seemed to come from the very ground beneath her feet. And then, with a cruel, twisted mockery, it spoke again.
“It’s me, Mabel Mae… don’t you remember?” The voice purred, soft and sickly sweet, a mother’s comfort laced with venom. The words slid out, dripping with false affection, like honey smeared over razor blades. “I’m right here... You’ve been so strong. Let me hold you, baby… Let me take care of you again…”
The creature drew closer, its massive form a shadow against the blackness of the trees. It was patient, letting the silence stretch on for just long enough to drive her to the brink of madness. Its eyes—deep, glowing, impossibly dark—watched her with cruel amusement, reveling in the way she tried to convince herself it couldn’t be real, the way her fingers clutched the rifle in trembling hands.
But still, it was quiet. Waiting.
And then, as if to push her further, it let out another sound—faint, but unmistakable: the echo of Mabel’s name. Soft, almost playful. “Mabel…” it whispered, a fragment of a familiar tone, distorted and laced with something darker. It knew what it was doing. It knew that the cracks in her mind, the scars of the past, were just waiting to be opened again. It only had to push a little further.
“Come out, Mabel,” it coaxed again, louder this time, closer. “It’s me. I’ll make everything better…”









