My sister is dead. Torn into pieces, flushed down the drain. The police searched for three days and only found a snippet of her pinky finger – Still wearing the strawberry hair tie I gave her for her birthday. No one in our family seemed sad, except for me. Mom made me a strawberry cake, and Dad put an arm around my shoulder, whispering, “Don’t be scared, we’re here for you.” But just a week ago, they’d twisted my hair and cursed me, calling me a “worthless freeloader,” Saying they should have just dumped me somewhere and left me to rot. As the funeral incense burned late into the night, my phone suddenly vibrated. It was a timed message. Sender: My Sister. “Sis, I found out Mom and Dad’s secret, they’re not even—” It poured rain at Lily’s funeral. I stood under a black umbrella, watching the small casket slowly lowered into the earth, and couldn’t stop the tears. It felt like just days ago, Lily and I were playing games together, those moments still so vivid. Now, she was gone, separated by life and death. I wished so badly that this was all a terrible dream. “My deepest condolences,” the relatives recited their platitudes mechanically, like NPCs completing a quest. I turned to look at Mom and Dad standing next to me. Mom wore a black suit, her makeup so perfect it looked like she was going to a gala; Dad stared blankly at the tombstone, his eyes hollow, as if looking at an ordinary rock. There wasn’t a trace of grief on their faces. Ding-dong, my phone buzzed. It was Lily’s timed text message. “Sis, I found out Mom and Dad’s secret, they’re not even—” The message cut off abruptly right there. I felt a chill crawl over me and looked up, only to find Mom and Dad staring intently at me. I stood frozen, afraid to move.
Mom walked over, took my hand, and gave me a dazzling smile: “Don’t be sad, Chloe. When we get home, Mom will make you a strawberry cake, your favorite, remember?” I froze. Strawberry cake? Mom hadn’t made me any desserts since I was ten. She always said sweets would make people stupid, and I needed to keep my mind sharp to get into a good university. Dad, too, was unusually affectionate, putting an arm around my shoulder and softly saying, “Tonight, Dad will play games with you. We can even play all night, no problem.” A shiver ran down my spine. My dad was a stern man. Growing up, the most common phrase he ever said to me was “Go study.” He even threw my secretly bought game console out of the window when I was in middle school, shattering it. On the way home, I sat in the backseat, looking at Mom and Dad’s backs in the front, feeling an indescribable creepiness. They were acting too strangely today, so strangely… they didn’t seem like themselves. A week ago, they were pointing fingers at me and yelling: “You good-for-nothing! If you don’t get into a good university, get out! If we hadn’t had to raise you, we’d be living in a mansion by now!” And now, they were being so kind it sent shivers down my spine.
Back home, Mom really started making the strawberry cake. I stood at the kitchen doorway, watching her hum a tune as she stirred the batter, my hands trembling involuntarily. “Mom, aren’t you sad? Lily… she was buried today,” I cautiously asked. Mom paused her movements for a second, then turned her head, her face still wearing that unnatural smile: “Sad about what? She just went ahead of us, that’s all. Come, taste this cream, is it sweet enough?” She held out a spoon with cream on it towards my mouth, her eyes disturbingly eager. I instinctively took a step back. “I’m not hungry yet… I’ll just go back to my room first.” I practically fled upstairs, only to bump into Dad at the staircase landing. In his hand was the Candyland board game I loved to play when I was little – he’d thrown that game into the trash when I was eight because he said it would distract me from studying. “How about we play this tonight?” Dad’s voice was unfamiliar in its tenderness, “Just like when you were a kid.” My heart was pounding hard. Something was wrong, everything was wrong. I forced a nod, hurried into my room, locked the door, and leaned against it, gasping for breath.
It was too bizarre. What was going on with Mom and Dad? And that text message from Lily, Mom and Dad’s secret, what could it be? That sentence, “they’re not even—” Not even what? A pile of mysteries swirled around me, making me toss and turn, unable to sleep. When the clock struck 1:17 AM, I couldn’t take it anymore. I carefully slipped out from under my covers, planning to go to Lily’s room to see if I could find any clues. The hallway was pitch black. I crept along the wall, holding my breath as I passed Mom and Dad’s room. No light seeped from under their door, and I could hear their steady breathing, so they must have been asleep. Lily’s room was at the end of the hallway. A thin layer of dust had settled on the doorknob; no one had gone in since the funeral. When I turned the knob, the metal made a faint scratching sound, piercingly loud in the silence. “Lily, it’s me…” I whispered, as if she could still hear me. The room remained exactly as Lily had left it that day. The bed was neatly made, and her unfinished math homework was spread out on her desk. I opened the drawer of her nightstand and my fingers brushed against a hardcover notebook – Lily’s diary. I opened to the first page, dated three months ago. “May 12th, Sunny. Saw that man in black again after school today. He was standing under the sycamore tree by the school gate, wearing sunglasses, but I could feel him watching me. This is the third time…” A man in black? Lily had never mentioned this. Could he have killed her? I flipped to the next page. “May 15th, Cloudy. I told Mom and Dad someone was following me, but they just said I was imagining things. But tonight, when I got up to use the restroom, I saw the kitchen light on. Dad was standing there… What was he eating? Something red, dripping liquid… I quietly slipped back to my room, pretending I hadn’t seen anything.” A shiver ran down my back. I remembered a metallic smell in the kitchen that morning. Mom had said she accidentally cut her finger. The next few pages were torn out. I quickly flipped through until I saw the entry from a week ago. “June 3rd, Rainy. I know. They’re not human. Last night, I pretended to be asleep and heard strange noises coming from their room. I peeked through the keyhole… Oh my god, what was that? Dad’s face… melting like wax and reforming… Mom said, ‘There’s not much time left, we can’t show any flaws.’ What are they talking about? Tomorrow, I need to ask Chloe for help…” Reading this, my throat tightened, and my fingertips went cold. Mom and Dad weren’t human. Then what were these things I’d been living with for the past few days? Monsters? Why were they being so nice to me now? I trembled as I turned to the last page. There were only a few shaky lines, as if written in a hurry: “If you see this, the rules are still in effect. Remember these three, and never break them, no matter what happens: 1. After midnight, if ‘Mom and Dad’ come to tell you to go to sleep, do not look at their feet. If they are standing side-by-side in black slippers, immediately close your eyes and count to 100. Those are not the real Mom and Dad. 2. Every morning, you must check the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. If you find meat wrapped in red cling film, immediately sprinkle salt on it and then tell Mom, ‘Today’s milk is spoiled.’ Do not ask where the meat came from. 3. The family photo in the living room must always show 4 people. If it turns into 3 or 5, find the person who is extra or missing from the photo before sunset.” Just as I was about to look for other clues, a faint sound suddenly came from behind me.
Click. I slammed the diary shut and spun around to face the door. I had locked it just moments ago, but now it was ajar. “Chloe?” Mom’s voice drifted from outside, impossibly soft, “What are you doing in Lily’s room so late?” My heart pounded like a drum. I slowly looked up and saw Mom and Dad standing in the doorway. Mom wore a white nightgown, Dad blue striped pajamas. Their faces looked eerily pale in the dim light of the hallway lamp. “I… I just…” My voice caught in my throat. My gaze uncontrollably dropped downwards – two pairs of black slippers, standing side-by-side on the threshold, toes pointing directly at me. The diary slipped from my trembling hand. “It’s time for bed, Chloe.” Dad said, his lips stretched into an arc, but his eyes held no trace of a smile, “You have school tomorrow.” They both took a step forward simultaneously, their movements so synchronized it was like they were one person. I suddenly noticed that their eyelids didn’t blink, and their chests didn’t rise and fall with breath. The first rule from the diary flashed in my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut and began counting silently in my head: 1, 2, 3… “Chloe.” Mom’s voice was suddenly right beside me. I smelled a strange, metallic sweetness, “Why aren’t you looking at Mom?” Icy fingers brushed my cheek, sticky and cold. I gritted my teeth and continued counting: …54, 55, 56… “She found out.” Dad’s voice came from the other direction, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather, “Should we start over?” “Not yet,” Mom’s reply carried a strange, eerie laugh, “Let’s wait a bit longer.” My counting was interrupted. I opened my eyes just a slit – and saw their feet. Above the black slippers, their pale ankles each had a ring of stitches, looking like they’d been severed and sewn back on. “Go back to your room, Chloe.” They said in unison, their voices resonating eerily in the air, “Now.” I stumbled out of the room, my heart threatening to burst through my chest. The hallway walls seemed to breathe, and a family photo in the darkness seemed to watch me. I instinctively glanced at the closest one – in the photo, Lily stood on the far end, and where I should be, there was a blurry, unrecognizable figure. After rushing into my own room and locking the door, I slid to the floor, my back against the door. Lily was dead. I had to survive.
That night, I slept restlessly, constantly feeling like someone was watching me in the dark. Early in the morning, a series of knocks woke me from my sleep. Thump. Thump. Thump. “Chloe? Breakfast is ready.” Mom’s voice came through the door, “Mom made your favorite omelet.” I stared at the doorknob, hesitating whether to open the door. Last night’s experience felt like a nightmare, but the crumpled diary page in my pocket proved it wasn’t an illusion. “Coming!” I tried to make my voice sound normal, while quickly stuffing the diary page under my bedsheet. The moment I pushed the door open, a sweet aroma wafted towards me. Mom stood in the hallway, wearing a sunflower-print apron, smiling at me. Sunlight slanted in from the window behind her, casting a golden glow around her, making it look like an ordinary morning. If only I hadn’t noticed the unnatural angle of her left pinky finger – that finger had been perfectly fine yesterday. “Hurry and get ready.” She reached out to touch my head, but I instinctively tilted my head away. Her smile froze for a second, then quickly returned, “What’s wrong? Not feeling well?” “No, I’m fine, just… didn’t sleep well.” I lowered my head and squeezed past her, deliberately avoiding physical contact. In the kitchen, two omelets steamed on gold-rimmed white porcelain plates. I stared at them, suddenly remembering the second rule from the diary. While Mom turned to pour milk, I quickly pulled open the bottom shelf of the refrigerator— Red cling film, like a block of solidified blood under the cold light. Something on the surface of the irregularly wrapped meat glinted faintly. I leaned in closer and almost screamed: it was a half-missing fingernail embedded in the meat.
“What are you looking for?” Mom’s voice suddenly exploded in my ear. I slammed the refrigerator door shut and bumped into her shoulder as I turned around. “I… I wanted to get some ketchup…” My voice was trembling. Mom tilted her head, watching me, her pupils an unnatural gray in the sunlight. She slowly held up the glass of milk in her hand: “Drink your milk first. Fresh milk today.” The second rule from the diary flashed in my mind: If you find meat wrapped in red cling film, tell Mom, “Today’s milk is spoiled.” “Today’s milk… is spoiled.” I struggled to force out the words. Mom’s lips twitched. For a moment, her entire face distorted like a TV screen with bad reception, then it snapped back to normal. “How can that be?” She placed the milk glass in front of me, some milky white residue floating on the surface of the liquid, “Dad just bought it.” I stared at the glass, my stomach churning with nausea. Across the dining table, Lily’s seat was empty, but the tableware was neatly set, as if waiting for her to sit down at any moment. “I need to use the restroom!” I pushed my chair back and dashed towards the hallway. Behind me, Dad called out: “Eat it while it’s hot, Chloe.” As soon as the bathroom door locked, I stuck my fingers down my throat to try and gag. Even though I hadn’t eaten anything, the violent retching made me feel a little better. When I looked up, I noticed finger marks on the mirror. Leaning closer, I saw three shaky words: “Look at the photo.”
The family photo in the living room. The third rule from the diary. I wiped the saliva from my mouth and tiptoed through the hallway. The living room was eerily quiet, sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The huge family photo hung above the TV: four people – Dad, Mom, me, and Lily – all smiling brightly in the picture. I counted: 1, 2, 3, 4. The number was correct. Just as I let out a sigh of relief, I caught a glimpse of something moving at the edge of the photo. Focusing my eyes, I saw that “my” face in the picture was slowly blurring. It wasn’t fading, but rather like an invisible eraser was wiping it away, bit by bit. Even more terrifying, Lily, who had been smiling on the far edge, was slowly shifting towards the center, filling the blank space left by “my” disappearance. In the blink of an eye, there were only three people left in the photo. My knees went weak, and I had to lean against the wall for support. Just then, the sound of porcelain shattering came from the kitchen. I quickly ran out, “What happened?” “Nothing, your mom just accidentally dropped a plate. No worries, sometimes a little breakage can clear the way for good things, right?” Dad said, setting muffins on the table, his face perfectly serene. It was too bizarre. Before, if I just used a little too much dish soap when washing dishes, Dad would yell at me, saying I was trying to poison the family and kill everyone. Now, he wasn’t even angry about a broken plate. As the muffins were placed on the table, I noticed Dad’s hands – long, clean, without a single wrinkle or blemish. This wasn’t right. Dad should be fifty-two this year, but these hands looked no older than thirty. “Is it not good?” Dad asked. “It’s nothing.” I lowered my head, cutting a muffin, “It’s just… you’ve both been so nice to me lately.” Mom and Dad exchanged a look. I’d seen that look too many times – like a silent conversation, a code I didn’t understand. “We’ve always loved you, Chloe.” Mom said, her hand covering mine, “We’ve just… learned to express it better lately.” Dad echoed her, “That’s right, Chloe, Mom and Dad are the best in the world to you.” Bang, bang, bang, a violent knocking at the front door interrupted our conversation.
��I’ll get it,” I started to stand up, but Mom’s hand suddenly clamped onto my wrist, her grip so strong it hurt. Her expression turned unusually serious, her lips barely moving: “He’s here.” “Who?” “Him.” Dad repeated, his eyes wide with apparent fear, “The one you created.” An icy chill crept up from my feet. The one I created? The floodgates of memory swung open. The novel I wrote a month ago, the serial killer character I named Caleb. The person outside seemed to have tired of knocking and stopped. Just as I let out a breath of relief, the sound of a hammer smashing the door exploded through the quiet house. I jumped, nearly knocking over my orange juice. Mom and Dad’s expressions froze. Mom’s hand was still gripping my wrist, but its warmth was rapidly draining away. “Don’t open the door.” Dad said, his voice suddenly mechanical, “Remember, this isn’t real.” The doorbell rang again, three sharp, urgent rings, like a warning. I tore myself free from Mom’s hand and walked towards the foyer. Through the peephole, a tall figure stood on the porch, a black trench coat, holding something – a toolbox? I squinted, adjusting the angle to try and see his face. In that second, he looked up. Bloodshot eyes stared directly into the peephole, as if he could see me through that tiny hole. A crescent-shaped scar above his right eyebrow – exactly as I’d described it in my novel. My breath hitched, blood roaring in my ears. “I know you’re in there, little writer.” His voice was low and pleasant, “Are your parents doing well? I’d very much like to meet you.” I stumbled backward, bumping into something hard. Turning, I saw Dad – no, not Dad. This person’s features looked like they were made of wax, slowly melting in high heat, only two black holes where his eyes should be. “Wake up.” The wax-like Dad said, his voice coming from a distant place, “You are sleeping. The real us… we’re not like this.” Behind me, I heard the lock turning on the front door. I looked back and saw the doorknob slowly pressing down on its own. “Run!” Mom’s voice suddenly shrieked from the kitchen, sharp and inhuman, “Upstairs! Lock the door!” My legs finally found their sensation, and I dashed for the stairs. In the mirror in the upstairs hallway, I saw the front door open, and the corner of a black trench coat flash. Then, the mirror suddenly cracked, and at the center of the spiderweb-like fractures, a line of blood-red text appeared: “Final rule: Escape the novel world.”
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