The moment the officer spoke, the world seemed to tilt off its axis. His words struck with such force that my knees nearly gave out. Our bedroom — once a sanctuary of laughter, warmth, and quiet evenings — had become something unrecognizable, cloaked in dread. I could barely breathe as I stood in the doorway, the familiar scent of lavender and candle wax now tainted by the metallic tang of fear.
I replayed the night in my mind. I had checked on her not long ago — she had been sleeping peacefully, her breathing even, her form still beneath the blanket. Nothing seemed out of place. But now, as the officer edged toward the bed, his flashlight beam cutting through the dim light, the stillness felt wrong — too deliberate.
He moved slowly, as though afraid to disturb what he might find. “Sir,” he said quietly, “please stay here.” His voice was steady but cautious. I couldn’t obey. My legs carried me forward on instinct, my heart pounding in my ears.
When the officer lifted the blanket, I saw what lay beneath. My breath caught — and the room spun. It was her — or so I thought. Her hair, her nightgown, the familiar curve of her shoulder — all perfectly arranged. But as the light hit her face, the truth tore through me. It wasn’t her at all. It was a mannequin — cold, lifeless, and horrifyingly human in its imitation.
My mind refused to process it. Who would do something like this? Why?
The officer turned to me, his voice now low and urgent. “Sir, I need you to come with me,” he said. “We’ll figure out what happened — but we need to move quickly.”
Numbly, I followed him down the stairs. The house felt different now — unfamiliar and hostile. My wife was gone, replaced by a chilling imitation that raised more questions than answers. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes like whispered warnings.
In that moment, one thought consumed me: she was out there somewhere. And I had to find her — before it was too late.