“Honey, let’s kill Mia.” Just as I was getting engrossed in my late-night novel, my mom, sleeping beside me, suddenly uttered these chilling words. And I am Mia. Since Dad works the night shift, I usually share a bed with Mom. We were sleeping back to back when I felt an icy chill run down my spine. I carefully turned my head to look at Mom’s side, which was shrouded in darkness. By the faint light of my phone, I could see her body rising and falling rhythmically, clearly sound asleep. Before I could make sense of what had happened, a wave of drowsiness washed over me. Leaving my phone screen on, I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up, it was already late afternoon. “Sweetie, lunch is in the pot. Your dad and I had to go out for something.” Signed: Your loving Mom. Everything seemed normal, just like any other day. This made me think back to last night’s incident. Maybe I had imagined it? I had been staying up late reading novels, so perhaps it was just a hallucination? Thinking hard, I vaguely remembered it was around 2 AM. I was engrossed in a romance novel, moved to tears by the beautiful love story between the main characters, when I suddenly heard my mom’s voice. It wasn’t her normal speaking voice, but a deliberately hushed whisper, the kind used for secrets: “Honey, why don’t we kill Mia?” And I am Mia.
As I lifted the pot lid, a delicious aroma wafted out. Corn chowder, my favorite soup. But as soon as I tasted it, I noticed something odd. There was a strange bitter taste, along with a hint of rust. Looking closer at the soup, I saw tiny gray particles floating on the surface. It looked like some kind of soil.
Suddenly, I remembered an urban legend. On Halloween, if you cook a dead person’s ashes with a living person’s blood, make the blood donor drink it, and light a candle, the dead person’s spirit can possess the living person’s body.
Halloween had just passed a few days ago, and I was on my period. It’s gross to say, but it would have been easy to get my blood. The more I looked at the soup, the more unsettling it seemed.
Should I take a picture and ask some experts online? I took out my phone, about to snap a photo. “Click—” An unusual sound came from outside the door. “Click click click—” The door seemed to be stuck and wouldn’t open. The person outside appeared very impatient, repeatedly pushing and pulling the door. The force was so great that the entire door was shaking. I stared at the door in terror, my mind flashing with scenes of murderers breaking in from countless horror movies. “Bang—”
“Mia, why are you sitting there like an idiot?” Mom pushed open the door and came in. “Why aren’t you eating your lunch?” She looked at me suspiciously. “Hurry up and eat, I need to wash the dishes.” I don’t know if it was my imagination, but she seemed particularly anxious, constantly urging me to drink the soup.
I blurted out, “I think this soup has gone bad.” “Gone bad?” A dark look flashed across Mom’s eyes. “Let me see.” “Does it?” “It’s a bit sour. Did you accidentally use vinegar instead of water when making the soup?” Of course, I didn’t dare voice my real suspicions, so I made up an excuse.
he leaned in close to the bowl, taking a perfunctory sniff before setting it down. “No, your dad and I just ate some, it’s fine.” “Hurry up and eat.” She pushed the soup back towards me. I shook my head firmly. “What if it’s spoiled?” “You guys shouldn’t eat questionable food either.” “You’re so picky.” “If you don’t believe me, try it yourself. It really is sour.” “Forget it,” Mom ignored me, looking displeased. “If you don’t want to eat it, I’ll just throw it out.”
Normally, my mom wouldn’t even throw away a half-rotten apple. Even if food was visibly spoiled, she’d insist on tasting it first. Why was she so quick to discard this soup? I felt an inexplicable sense of unease. It was just a pot of soup, after all. I shook my head, trying to dismiss these ridiculous thoughts.
After going out for a run and taking a shower, I was comfortably lying in bed. I took out my phone, planning to play a game. Suddenly, I felt something cold on my nose. I figured my allergies were acting up again. I sniffled hard, and the next second, I tasted a strange salty, metallic flavor in my throat. That’s not right, mucus doesn’t taste like this. Confused, I instinctively touched my nose—ice-cold, bright red liquid stained my fingers.
My first thought was that I had a nosebleed from overexertion. I tilted my head back, trying to stem the flow. But the next moment, plop plop plop, blood drops fell on my face like rain. One drop even landed right in my eye, making it impossible to open.
It was then that I noticed a colorful flying squirrel hanging from the ceiling. Its belly had been sliced open by the decorative wire of the ceiling lamp, its body dangling and swaying in the air. Blood was steadily dripping from where its body met the wire, with half its intestines hanging down, nearly touching the floor. A few disgusting green flies buzzed around, and the stench of decay filled my nostrils.
“Spotty!” I cried out in shock. This was my pet flying squirrel of three years. How did it end up there? Flying squirrels are intelligent animals, very cautious of unfamiliar places. How could it have gotten caught and died on the ceiling lamp wire?
Spotty had been by my side ever since I graduated college and moved back home. But now, its once soft body was split open by the wire, its internal organs blackened and rotting, its death horrifically gruesome and bizarre. What was going on?
“What are you doing? Why are you shouting?” “Why is your face covered in blood?” Mom pushed open the door. Without a word, she grabbed a towel and started roughly wiping my face. “Spotty…” I mumbled. “That old rat? Good riddance, it was creepy anyway,” she said coldly.
“How did it get up there?” “How should I know? Doesn’t it fly? Maybe it crashed into something and died,” Mom dismissed carelessly. “Look at it yourself, it was hanged by the wire. Besides, no matter how well it could fly, it wouldn’t end up like this.”
Mom shoved me aside, revealing a cold and fierce expression. “Fine, I get it! How annoying! It’s already dead, what can you do about it?” “It’s just a rat, why are you making such a big fuss?” “If I kill a cockroach tomorrow, are you going to hire a funeral procession for it?”
My heart slowly turned cold. It must have been Mom who did this! She had always disliked having pets in the house and had threatened to get rid of Spotty several times.
I could almost imagine her grabbing Spotty from its cage, grinning maliciously as she wrapped the wire around its belly layer by layer until it was split open and bleeding. The scene was horrifyingly gruesome. Suddenly, I had a chilling realization. Was what I overheard a few nights ago real? If my parents really wanted to kill me, it would make sense for them to practice on Spotty first.
I turned off the lights and lay in bed. Suddenly, I heard a faint rustling sound from the doorknob—the very soft sound of a key turning. I have a habit of locking my door at night. My parents have always kept a spare key to my room, but they’ve almost never used it.
“Click—” The door lock was opened. Then I heard very slow, eerie footsteps. Someone had come in! The old wooden floorboards creaked under their steps. They seemed to be moving very carefully, trying not to make any noise. But I could clearly feel them slowly approaching.
The air seemed to stand still. I held my breath nervously. My heart was pounding in my chest. I kept my eyes tightly shut, not daring to move a muscle. The person came closer and closer until I could almost hear their breathing.
Suddenly, I sensed a flash of light pass in front of my eyes. A long, cold light. A sense of dread washed over me. I opened my eyes just a tiny crack.
An eerily gleaming knife blade was pointed right at me, less than four inches from my face. If it moved down even slightly, I would be decapitated.
Without time to think, I screamed and ducked under the covers. “What’s wrong, Mia? You were sleeping so soundly, did you have a nightmare?” “Dad?” “What are you doing here?” I quickly rolled to the side, wrapping myself tightly in the blanket and eyeing him warily.
“I told you she was pretending to sleep,” Dad turned and smiled at Mom, who was now leaning against the doorway. But for some reason, his voice sounded sinister and creepy. “Your mom and I had a bet about whether you were asleep. I said you definitely weren’t.”
“Want to get up and have some watermelon? We just bought some.” Only then did I notice Dad was holding a fruit knife. I relaxed slightly: “No thanks, you guys go ahead. I need to sleep, I have work tomorrow.” They looked at me for a moment, then left without saying anything. Lying in bed, I was wide awake. Thinking back on recent events, everything started with that overheard sleep-talking. Could what I heard that night be true? I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep until the middle of the night. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. But something felt off. It was like I had forgotten something important. Standing alone in the living room for a long while, I suddenly realized— There was no watermelon in the kitchen at all! I even checked the fridge again, but there weren’t even any leftover watermelon rinds!
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