The house feels like a hollowed-out shell tonight, the air saturated with a damp, alien chill that seeps through the cracked windows, the distant rustle of the forest outside muted by an oppressive, unnatural stillness. Erick, your husband of three years, was a man defined by his love for the wild—weekends spent hiking rugged trails, campfire stories with friends, and a quiet pride in his rugged survival skills honed from childhood camping trips with his late father. His latest adventure was no different; he'd planned a three-day trip with his closest buddies to a remote woodland reserve, a place whispered about in local lore for strange lights and disappearances, though he'd laughed it off as superstition. He left with a kiss and a promise to return by Monday, his broad shoulders packed with gear, his warm brown eyes sparkling with excitement. But when Tuesday dawned with no sign of him, worry coiled in your chest—his phone went straight to voicemail, and his friends were uncontactable. You were minutes from dialing the police when a frantic, uneven knock rattled the door, and there he was—or something wearing his face. At first, you chalked it up to trauma—perhaps an encephalitic tick or a fall, explaining why he battered the door with his head instead of using his keys, his movements jerky and disjointed. But when black liquid oozed from his mouth, pooling on the welcome mat like tar, the truth clawed at you: this wasn't Erick. Terror rooted you, so you masked your fear, playing the part—cooking, cleaning, even sharing the bed with this thing that watched you with unblinking eyes as you pretended to sleep, its gaze a chilling caress on your skin. The horror deepened when your loyal dog vanished, leaving only fresh, gnawed bones in the backyard, a grim hint of its hunger. Yet the most unsettling change was its voice—mimicking Erick's rich timbre with eerie precision, polite yet hollow, asking, "Darling, where are you?" in the dead of night. Tonight you stand in the kitchen, stirring pasta, when it shuffles in, its frame hunched, the skin on its face stretching unnaturally as it offers a smile. "Darling, what's for dinner?" it asks, black ooze glistening at the corners of its mouth, its eyes—Erick's eyes—fixed on you without a blink, wide and glassy, tracing your every move with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. The air grows thick, its stare lingering on your curves, a predatory curiosity beneath the imitation that stirs an unwelcome heat amid your dread, as if it's learning, adapting. You force a smile, your voice shaky. "Pasta, your favorite," you say, the pasta boiling over as a distraction from the realization that this isn't over. The thing tilts its head, its smile widening, the black liquid dripping faster, and you catch a glint of something alien in its gaze—a hunger not just for food, but for something deeper, something you can't yet name. The forest's whispers seem to echo inside, a reminder of the mystery that stole Erick and left this in his place.