Another Mother

The perspective in those videos was bone-chilling.

It was never a normal, family-style angle. It was always shot from behind a door, or through the gaps in a railing, or from an impossibly low angle, capturing our knees and the undersides of tables from a childlike viewpoint.

The camera was like a silent, peeping eye, always present yet never detected.

In the videos, we laughed and lived, completely oblivious to the unseen observer. We were like puppets on a stage, and someone—or something—was always filming our performance.

Just the thought of it made my skin crawl.

I gripped the edge of the coffee table with trembling hands. "Who could it be? Who would do something like this?"

Cedric shook his head, his face ashen. "I don't know, Kelly. I really don't know." His eyes darted around the room, as if waiting for that unseen presence to reveal itself.

At that moment, Annabelle's note flashed in my mind: "Beware of the Other Mom."

A sudden chill washed over me.

"The Other Mom," I murmured, the words burning like ash on my tongue. "It has to be her. She's been here, watching us, for all these years."

Cedric stared at me, his jaw dropping in disbelief. He looked from the screen down the empty hallway toward Mom's room. "You think... you think Mom...?"

The idea was inconceivable.

But the impossible humming, the fleeting glimpse of Mom being in two places at once, that creepy note, and now these videos... it all converged into one terrifying truth.

A grip of pure terror seized my heart.

"I need some air," Cedric said abruptly, standing up. "I... I can't look at this anymore. Let's try to get some sleep. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced, endlessly replaying the distorted reflection in the mirror, the ominous note, and Annabelle's large, dead eyes.

Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, felt magnified and sinister.

The image of Annabelle crumpled inside the ottoman kept flashing in my mind, her face a stark, horrific contrast to the lively child in the videos.

A soft, muffled thud came from the kitchen downstairs.

My eyes snapped open, straining to listen. There it was again—a rhythmic, wet thudding, like meat being tenderized.

My heart hammered in my chest.

I knew Mom was asleep.

But was she, really?

I slowly got out of bed, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. I crept to the bedroom door and pushed it open, inch by careful inch.

The hallway was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint light spilling from the living room.

The thudding continued, steady and unnerving.

I moved forward, every step a silent prayer.

I reached the doorway of the kitchen and peered inside.

Mom was there, bathed in the soft glow of the under-cabinet LED lights.

She was humming an old lullaby, the melody slightly distorted. It was the lullaby from our childhood.

Her back was to me, bent over the counter. Her arm was swinging in a bizarre, exaggerated motion, hacking at something with a large meat cleaver.

In the silence, the dull thudding was deafening. But what truly froze me in place wasn't the sound; it was the way she moved. Her spine seemed to arch unnaturally, her shoulders pulled too far back, her elbows extending at impossible angles.

It was less a human movement and more the stiff, exaggerated jerking of a marionette.

"Mom?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

She stopped, freezing mid-swing. She slowly turned around. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes glinted with an eerie, unsettling light.

A thin trail of red blood trickled from her temple, running down her cheek and dripping off her chin.

She grinned—a grotesque, overly wide smile that stretched her lips too far apart, exposing too many teeth.

"Kelly, my baby," she said softly, her voice low and raspy, not quite like Mom's. "Do you love your mother?"

I instantly felt a bone-deep chill.

The image of the "Other Mom" from Annabelle's note, the twisted figure in the video reflections—it all knotted together.

"Mom, what are you doing?" I asked, backing away slowly, fumbling along the wall for the light switch.

"I'm making a snack," she said, her head tilting to an impossible angle, her neck seeming to elongate. "For us. For my sweet children."

She took a step closer to me, holding the cleaver loosely in her hand.

Then, she began to move. Slowly at first, then faster, her body twisting and contorting.

She bent backward until her head nearly touched her feet, her spine bowing like a drawn bowstring. Her limbs stretched, elongating before snapping back into place. Her joints seemed to melt and reassemble, twisting into shapes no human could achieve. Her eyes were fixed on me, gleaming with predatory delight.

She laughed—a high-pitched, childish giggle that sent ice water down my spine.

I screamed. The sound was swallowed by the house.

My legs gave out, and I fell backward, scrambling frantically to get away but unable to catch my breath. I was paralyzed, unable to move or speak.

"Kelly! What's wrong?!"

Cedric's voice, thick with sleep and panic, tore through the terror.

He stood in the hallway, blinking against the dim light.

I pointed at him, a choked sound escaping my throat. "Mom! The Other Mom!"

Cedric looked past me, into the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty. The lights were off. The meat cleaver sat perfectly clean on the counter.

There was no one there. No bizarre contortions, no unsettling smiles, no blood. The air was dead silent.

He rushed over and grabbed me, his hands steadying me. "Kelly, what happened? What are you talking about?" He looked around, completely bewildered. "Mom isn't here. What did you see?"

I stared at the empty, ordinary kitchen, then up at Cedric's worried face.

My mind was a chaotic mess. Had I hallucinated? The terror was so real—the impossible, twisting movements, that bone-chilling laugh.

But there was nothing. The kitchen was just a kitchen.

My heart pounded furiously, like a frantic drumbeat in my chest. I felt like I was losing my mind.