31 Frights of October

The Uninvited Guest

Hariet laid in his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. Sleep would not come. The events of the past few days swirled in his mind, but there was no peace to be found in his thoughts. Frankenstein—an alien hybrid, a creature made from pain and his father's secret sins—was now back with his kind. Yet, something gnawed at Hariet, an itch beneath his skin that refused to leave him. The air in the room felt too thick, the shadows too long.

He turned to look at the door, slightly ajar. Across the hall, Isabel was asleep. Or, at least, she should have been.

It was quiet in the apartment, so quiet that Hariet could hear his own pulse drumming in his ears. His muscles felt tight, as though something was pressing against him from all sides. The weight of the unknown. The alien ship. Their father's experiments. And Isabel—there was something different about her since they'd returned. Something he couldn't quite place.

His thoughts flickered back to the lab. How she had seemed so calm, so focused, while they helped Frankenstein escape. Hariet had felt his heart pounding the entire time, but Isabel had been steady, unblinking. And now that they were back, she barely said a word. She went straight to her room, locking herself in there as if to shut out the world.

The air shifted suddenly, like a breath exhaled from an unseen mouth.

Hariet sat up, his heart hammering. He didn't know why, but dread was building, slowly creeping into his bones. The silence of the apartment now felt oppressive, as though something was watching, waiting.

"Isabel?" he called out, though his voice cracked. No response.

Hariet swung his legs out of bed and padded to the door, each step hesitant. Something was wrong. He felt it in his chest, a tightness that wouldn't go away. He knocked on her door softly. "Isabel?" he called again. "Are you okay?"

Still no answer. His stomach twisted.

He gently pushed open the door, peering inside. The room was cold—colder than the rest of the apartment, though the windows were all closed. The dim light from the street outside barely lit the corners, but he could see Isabel lying in bed, her back to him, the covers drawn up to her chin.

Something wasn't right.

He took a step inside. The floor creaked beneath his feet.

"Isabel?" he whispered, but she didn't move.

As he drew closer, his breath hitched. There was something unsettling about the way she lay there, perfectly still. No sound of breathing. No twitch of movement.

He reached out to touch her shoulder, the dread now filling his throat, clogging his breath.

"Isabel," he said, louder this time, his fingers brushing against her arm.

And then she turned.

But it wasn't Isabel.

Her eyes—God, her eyes—were black, empty voids, reflecting nothing, seeing nothing. Her skin had turned ashen, stretched too tightly over her bones. Her lips twisted into a smile that did not belong to his sister, a grin that bared too many teeth, too sharp, too wrong.

"Isabel?" Hariet breathed, stumbling backward. But the thing that had once been his sister only sat up, its head tilting inhumanly to one side, its eyes fixed on him. It smiled wider, as if mocking him.

Hariet's heart thundered in his chest. "What—what's wrong with you?"

Isabel—no, the thing inside Isabel—let out a low, guttural laugh, a sound that sent ice crawling down his spine. It was wrong, all wrong. Her laugh, her face, her very presence. Hariet backed away, his hands shaking.