Horrors from Around the World

Night 041 - The Visitors

No one noticed when they first arrived.

There were no grand entrances, no flashes of light across the sky, no flying saucers descending from the clouds. They didn't announce themselves. They didn't need to. They slipped in quietly, unnoticed, blending into the rhythms of the world as if they had always been there.

It was subtle at first. The changes. People became distracted, lost in their own heads, staring off into the distance with blank expressions, forgetting simple things—where they'd placed their keys, what they'd had for breakfast. A slight shift in behavior, but nothing alarming enough to raise suspicion. We all just assumed it was stress, fatigue. Life was hard, and people were tired.

But then more went missing—memories, details, fragments of people's lives just... vanished. Entire conversations were forgotten, relationships that once meant everything now felt like distant dreams. And yet, no one questioned it. No one noticed the growing holes in their lives.

Except for me.

It started with Lily, my daughter. One night, she came into the kitchen, her eyes wide with fear, clutching her stuffed bear tightly. She was trembling, though she tried to hide it, her tiny body shivering like a leaf.

"Mommy," she whispered, "someone's in my room."

I frowned, my stomach twisting. We lived in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where everyone knew each other, the kind where doors stayed unlocked. But the look in her eyes... it wasn't just a nightmare.

"What do you mean, sweetie?" I asked, crouching down to her level, smoothing her hair. "What did you see?"

She swallowed hard, her voice shaky. "They stand in the corner. They don't move. But they're there, every night. I can feel them."

I wanted to brush it off, to tell her it was just her imagination, that she was safe. But something in her eyes made me stop. It wasn't fear of shadows or the usual monsters under the bed. This was deeper—colder. A primal terror that sent a shiver down my spine.

I spent the night in her room, sitting on the floor by her bed, but saw nothing. The next morning, she seemed fine, as if the fear had been a fleeting thing. She didn't mention the figure again. In fact, she didn't mention much of anything.

I tried to ask her what she wanted for breakfast, but she just stared at me blankly, as though I was a stranger.

"Lily?" I waved my hand in front of her face.

Nothing. Just an empty gaze, her eyes hollow.

My heart raced, panic clawing at my chest. I knelt in front of her, gripping her shoulders. "Lily, what's wrong? Talk to me."

She blinked, once, slowly, and then her mouth twisted into a small smile. A mechanical smile, like she'd learned it by watching others, not from feeling it herself.

"Everything's fine, Mommy," she said softly.

I should've known then. I should've done something, but I convinced myself it was just a phase, a child's way of dealing with nightmares. Kids get weird sometimes, right?

But it wasn't just Lily. Over the next few days, I started noticing it with others. Neighbors. Friends. Coworkers. They were changing, too. They still went about their routines, went to work, ran errands, smiled and waved when we passed each other on the street. But something about them was wrong. It was in the way they moved—just slightly off. Too smooth, too deliberate. Their conversations were empty, their laughter hollow, as if they were trying to mimic what it meant to be human but couldn't quite grasp the nuances.

I confided in my husband, but he brushed it off. Said I was overthinking it. Paranoid. I wanted to believe him, but deep down, I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Then, one night, I woke up to find him standing by the window, staring out into the darkness. I called his name, but he didn't respond. His back was to me, his silhouette illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. I sat up, my skin prickling with unease.

"Honey? What are you doing?"

Slowly, he turned around, but his face was... blank. His eyes, those same eyes I had loved for years, were empty. Soulless. And then he smiled, that same hollow smile I had seen on Lily's face.

"Everything's fine," he said.

The next day, he didn't remember any of it. He laughed it off, told me I'd been dreaming. But I knew better. I could see it in the way he looked at me. The way they all looked at me.

Something had taken them.

I don't know when it started, or how long they've been here, but it's clear now that they're not from this world. They don't need to invade with force or weapons. They're smarter than that. They slipped into our lives, into our minds, replacing us piece by piece, until there's nothing left of who we were.

I don't know why they're doing it. I don't even know what they are. All I know is that they're here, and they're patient. They're waiting for the right moment.

And no one else sees it.

I've tried to leave, but I can't. They watch me now, everywhere I go. Even Lily, my sweet little girl, watches me with those cold, empty eyes. My husband—he's one of them now. He smiles and tells me everything's fine, but I know better. I see the way he stands by the window at night, the way his body moves just a little too perfectly, like a puppet on strings.

There's no one left to turn to. They're all gone, replaced by whatever these things are.

And I think I'm next.

Last night, I felt it. The cold presence in the room, standing at the foot of my bed. I didn't dare open my eyes, but I could feel them—watching, waiting.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on. My thoughts are slipping, memories fading. I can't trust myself anymore.

Maybe they've already started.

Maybe... maybe I'm one of them now, too.