A Breathless Prose Domestic Psychological Horror Story

I walk in, drop my bag by the door, smell dinner on the stove, feel the warmth of the lights on my face, hear her footsteps in the hall, her voice calling my name, soft, familiar, but when I turn to look at her something is wrong, something is wrong, because the way she smiles is not the way she always smiles, and the way the lamp sits in the corner is not the way the lamp always sits, and the color of the curtains is not the color of the curtains we picked out together, and she is standing in front of me now, waiting for me to say something, waiting for me to recognize her, waiting for me to tell her I had a good day at work, that I am hungry, that I love her, but the words catch in my throat because I don’t know who she is, I don’t know why her eyes look too deep, too dark, too knowing, and I turn away, try to gather myself, try to tell myself I am just tired, just imagining things, but then I see the photos on the wall, the wedding picture in the frame, the couple smiling, our wedding picture, but the man in the photo is not me, not quite, his face just a little different, his jaw too sharp, his shoulders too broad, and the woman, the woman is exactly the same, and when I turn back to her she is still smiling, still waiting, and she asks me what’s wrong, asks me why I am shaking, asks me why I am acting so strange, and I open my mouth to answer, to explain, to ask, but then she laughs, a warm, perfect laugh, and says, Oh, darling, are you doing this again?

I blink, try to process her words, try to understand, but she is already stepping forward, already reaching for me, her hand resting lightly on my chest, fingers spreading as if she is measuring something, checking something, and she sighs, tilts her head, presses her palm against my ribs as if feeling for a heartbeat, and I jerk back because her touch is too cold, too unfamiliar, and I do not understand, do not know what is happening, do not know why my stomach is twisting with a fear I cannot explain, but she just watches me, her face unreadable, something like pity in her eyes, and she tells me it’s all right, tells me I always take a little while to settle in, tells me that I will remember soon, and I don’t know what that means, don’t know what she expects me to remember, don’t know why I suddenly feel lightheaded, untethered, disoriented, as if I have stepped into someone else’s dream and cannot wake up, and I take a step back, another, trying to put distance between us, but my foot catches on something, on the rug, no, not the rug, the floor, because the floor was smooth when I walked in, was hardwood, was polished and familiar, but when I look down now I see carpet, thick and soft and beige, and my breath stutters, my pulse skips, because I know, I know, that our house does not have carpet, has never had carpet, because we tore it out when we moved in, didn’t we, yes, we did, I remember the dust, the nails, the piles of ripped fabric, but now it is back, now it is as if it was never gone, as if the house is shifting under my feet, rewriting itself, and when I look up at her again I see it, see the flicker of something not quite right behind her eyes, something watching from beneath the surface of her skin, something waiting for me to understand, and I do, I do, but I don’t want to.

Because this is not my house.

Because I have never been here before.

Because the man in the wedding picture is not me, not quite, but maybe he was, maybe he is, maybe he will be again, because she is watching, waiting, waiting for me to settle in, and I do not know what will happen if I refuse, do not know what happens if I fight this, do not know what happens if I let this go on one second longer, so I turn, run for the door, reach for the handle, but it isn’t there, isn’t where I left it, isn’t anywhere at all, and her voice is behind me, gentle, patient, loving, as she says, Darling, you know that won’t work.
And I do, I do know, because this has happened before, hasn’t it, because I have run before, haven’t I, because I have stood in this room and looked at this picture and smelled this dinner and heard this voice so many times before, and yet I never remember until it is too late, until the house has changed, until the floor is carpeted and the curtains are the wrong color and she is standing in front of me waiting, always waiting, and my mind is spinning, my body shaking, my voice breaking as I whisper, What is this, what are you?, and she just smiles, Oh, love, don’t do this again, don’t make this difficult, just let it happen, just let yourself remember, just let yourself be who you are supposed to be, and I do not know what that means, do not want to know, do not want to give in, but the walls are closing in, the pictures are changing, the house is settling around me, reshaping itself, folding over me like a blanket I cannot escape, and I try to hold onto something, onto anything real, onto anything that proves I am still me, but I feel it slipping, feel my name slipping, feel my memories blurring, feel my reflection in the glass shifting, and she is still watching, still waiting, and I understand now, understand that I have always been here, will always be here, will always come home to her, whether I want to or not, whether I remember or not, whether I accept it or not, because this is not my house, no, not yet, but it will be, it always will be.