quick someone write a short horror story based on this gif
I am certain of one thing and one thing only: I am still alive.
Everything seems to be the same and everything is different.
I awake at exactly 12:52 AM. My husband is asleep beside me. He is cold; his typical comforting warmth appears to be gone. Maybe he’s dead. I can’t bring myself to check. I am unbearably, inexplicably calm. My mind refuses to feel the fear that I know is there, directly under the thick layer of apathy that coats my consciousness like thick gray paint.
My eyes glance over the room, searching for something. What something, I don’t know. Nothing is out of place. Nothing has moved. Nothing had any reason to move, and yet I feel like something should have. Something should have changed, moved, fallen, broken, but nothing has. I am overwhelmed with the sense that nothing has ever changed and nothing ever will change. I start to think that maybe I’m alone. I start to think that maybe I’m not alone. Both scare me more than I’m willing to admit.
I can’t hear the city outside. Perhaps it’s not there.
I get out of bed. I walk, not of my own accord but of some urge that I cannot and refuse to attempt to explain, down the hallway. I stop at the door to my son’s bedroom.
I look inside. There is a boy asleep on the bed. He is smallish and blonde, and he looks like my son. He looks exactly like my son. But there is something off, something different, something I can’t put my finger on. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I am struck by a thought that sends a chill down my spine.
That is not my son.
The trance breaks and suddenly everything is clearer, and the fear hits and I’m running and running and I don’t remember running to the fire escape, but here I am, and the next second something pushes me over the railing, something that looks like my son.
I awake at exactly 12:52 AM.
It was only a few hours until my sleep that night was interrupted by the sluggish nudging from a pair of hands at my side. Groggy but awake enough to be concerned, I looked over. The lady was there, rubbing one eye lazily with her wrist. She sniffled and said, “Your son is crying in his room; I thought you might like to know.” My heart dropped. I shook my wife awake and then swung my legs over the side of the bed. Snatching my phone off the nightstand I walked, quick-paced, to the other guest room. At the closed door, I turned on the flash on my phone’s camera and began taping. Muffled sobs could be heard within.
By this time, both my wife and houseguest were by my side yet only my wife was confused. I slowly opened the door, hoping not to alarm anyone. Stepping into the room, I saw what I dreaded.
A boy of about nine years was on the bed, facing the wall. He had light hair and was not dressed for sleeping. His cries stopped and he seemed to hold his breath.
I could only manage to say one thing.