Another Mother

My mother had always been fiercely protective of me. She was a partner in Erich's (our father's) firm.

Erich was charismatic, but he was always focused on his career, leaving everything at home to Christine. She shouldered all the emotional labor and practical matters, raising three kids on her own while he busied himself building his business empire.

Despite her rebellion, Annabelle had a deep bond with Mom. They often had screaming matches, but they always ended in hugs.

But this time, Annabelle never came back.

The gruesome reality of her being stuffed into that ottoman clashed violently with Mom's gentle nature.

The image of the "Other Mom" from the laptop note, combined with the impossible glimpse of two of her existing at once, sent shivers down my spine.

"Mom, do you have any idea who did this?" I asked, keeping my tone flat. We were sitting at the kitchen table.

It had been two days since Annabelle was found. The house was still suffocated by an oppressive atmosphere, as if hiding an unspeakable horror.

Mom stared into her teacup, her hands trembling slightly. "No, Kelly. I... I can't imagine. Annabelle was a good girl, really. Just a little mischievous."

I nodded, pretending to accept the answer.

But she had been brutally murdered, her body shoved into a piece of furniture in our living room. The audacity of the killer, to just leave her there like that, was bone-chilling.

This wasn't about being mischievous; it was about some bottomless evil lurking within this house.

"Did she have any enemies?" I pressed, trying to keep my voice steady. "Any weird friends? Or was she in some online groups?"

Mom shook her head. "I didn't really know her friends these days. She kept to herself mostly. Only Cedric really understood her tech stuff."

Her eyes were hollow, as if shrouded in a fog of grief. She sighed deeply, a heavy, exhausted sound. Her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly drained, completely broken by the loss of a loved one.

My resolve wavered.

This was my mother, drowning in her sorrow.

Should I really be suspecting her? The thought was horrifying.

I tried to shake off the chill brought on by the "Other Mom" and the impossible humming.

Grief makes people act strangely. Trauma causes disorientation and memory lapses. I tried to analyze it all rationally.

"Mom, go get some rest," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. Her fingers were cold and frail. "We'll figure this out."

She managed to force a smile. "Thank you, Kelly. You're a good daughter."

She slowly stood up from the table, her footsteps heavy as she headed toward her bedroom. At the doorway, she paused and looked back at me.

For a split second, her eyes seemed to darken, deep as ink pools, before returning to their tear-filled state. Then, she vanished from sight.

That fleeting moment of strangeness sent another wave of dread washing over me.

I found Cedric in the living room, surrounded by old photo albums and a stack of dusty VHS tapes.

He was usually so meticulous, so organized. Now, the messy room reflected his inner turmoil. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse. "Found these. Mom's old hard drives. I thought maybe... maybe some old videos could help. Remind us of the good times."

I sat down on the floor next to him. "Good idea," I said, even though my stomach churned. Thinking of those happy memories felt almost like a betrayal right now.

He tapped the keyboard a few times, and an old home video began playing on the laptop screen.

It was Christmas from years ago. Annabelle, a tiny, mischievous little girl, was trying to open her presents early. Cedric, a lanky teenager, was laughing while trying to stop her.

Mom and Dad were in the background, smiling, their arms wrapped around each other. Dad, Erich, was always so charming and full of energy, even back then. The memory evoked a bittersweet nostalgia within Cedric.

"Look at that," I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek. "How happy we were back then." That innocence felt like a lifetime ago.

Cedric said nothing, just stared at the screen, his hand resting on my arm.

He clicked play on the next video. It was Annabelle's fifth birthday. She was blowing out the candles, her face smeared with cake. We were all cheering. Those familiar, warm memories—the simple joys of a whole family—temporarily soothed our souls.

But then, a subtle shift occurred.

"Wait," I said, a prickle of unease rising on the back of my neck. "Did you see that?"

Cedric paused the video and frowned. "See what?"

"The angle," I whispered. "Who's filming?"

He shrugged. "Probably Dad. He always had the camcorder back then."

I shook my head. "No. Look. Dad's in the shot. Mom's in it too. Annabelle and I are there. But the camera... it's positioned too high, too steady. And the way it pans, it's like it's trying to hide, like it doesn't want to be seen in the frame."

A chill began to coil in my chest. My eyes scanned the edges of the footage.

Cedric leaned closer, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He rewound it, playing it frame by frame.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice tight. "This is... really weird."

Our entire family was in the frame, so who was recording us?

Cedric froze the video on a frame where the camera tilted briefly.

In the reflection of the polished wooden cabinet, a distorted, blurry figure could faintly be seen. It looked human, but stretched and warped. The face was obscured, cloaked in shadow, but the eyes seemed to gleam with a faint light.

I gasped, a visceral terror surging within me.

I instinctively covered my mouth and whispered, "Who is that? Who is filming us?"

Cedric turned pale. He looked at the screen, then at me, then back at the screen, a flash of pure fear in his eyes.

"This... this is impossible," he choked out. "That's not Dad. That's no one we know!"