You lie down on your bed, promising yourself you'll only rest for a moment. But as your head hits the pillow, your body sinks heavily into the mattress, the day's events pulling you into a deep, heavy sleep. The room around you fades, and in the quiet darkness, a faint, pulsing red glow catches your eye. You pry your eyes open just enough to glimpse the clock on your nightstand: 11:11. The numbers sear into your mind, crisp and unchanging, almost as if they're trying to tell you something. But before you can process it, you slip further into unconsciousness.
When you awaken, it feels like you're in the same room, but there's an unmistakable shift in the air. The warmth is different, the shadows in the corners slightly skewed. You sit up slowly, rubbing the haze from your eyes, and realize the layout isn't exactly like your room. It's familiar, yet off. The furniture is arranged in a way you don't recognize, and the walls are painted a shade warmer than they should be. Your heartbeat quickens as your gaze drifts around, taking in the unsettling familiarity.
This doesn't feel like a dream. Everything feels far too tangible—the weight of the blanket, the coolness of the air, the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the house.
A soft laugh reaches your ears, startling you. You hear children's voices, faint and muffled, but distinctly coming from down the hall. You slip out of bed, creeping toward the door, every step cautious. As you approach, you see pictures lining the hallway walls. Family photos, some showing you with two young boys, both with features that tug at something deep within you, as if you know them intimately. Your own face in the photos looks older, softer, with the traces of years you haven't yet lived. Each frame captures moments you don't remember, memories you never had the chance to make. It's you, undeniably, but a version of you that feels foreign and surreal.
A flicker of movement catches your eye, and you turn to see the boys from the photos standing at the end of the hallway, watching you. They look to be about eight or nine, dressed in matching pajamas, their bright eyes wide and curious. They don't seem at all surprised to see you there.
"Mom?" one of them calls, his voice soft yet full of warmth.
The word hits you like a jolt, sending shivers down your spine. "Yes?" The word slips out before you can think, almost as if on instinct.
The boy's face lights up, and he takes a few steps toward you, his gaze bright with affection. "Are you okay? You look... lost."
Lost. The word feels fitting. You nod, unsure how to answer, feeling like an intruder in your own skin. The boys share a look, a silent conversation passing between them, as if they're trying to gauge your reaction.
"Where's... where's your dad?" The question feels heavy on your tongue, and you're not even sure why you ask it. Some part of you feels compelled, as though knowing the answer will ground you in this strange, distorted reality.
The older boy's expression hardens, his eyes darkening with something you can't quite place. "Dad's in the bathroom," he says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
A chill runs through you at his tone, and you find yourself moving almost on autopilot, walking down the hall toward the closed bathroom door. The closer you get, the stronger the sense of foreboding grows, as if the air itself is warning you to stop. But you push forward, hand trembling as it reaches for the door handle.
You push it open, and immediately, the smell hits you—pungent, nauseating, a rancid stench that makes your stomach churn. You take a step inside, and the sight that greets you is one of pure horror. Slumped over the toilet is a man, his skin pale and lifeless, his body unnaturally still. Vomit covers the floor around him, splattered on the walls and pooling on the tiles. His lifeless eyes are half-open, staring into nothingness.
