The Wrong Face

Mia woke to the sound of her roommate, Claire, shuffling around in the kitchen.

She groaned, glancing at her phone. 3:12 AM.

“Claire?” she called groggily. “Why are you up?”

No response. Just the quiet clatter of plates.

Mia sighed, tossing the covers off and padding toward the kitchen. The apartment was dim, only the faint glow of the fridge light spilling across the floor.

Claire stood by the counter, her back turned.

“Hey, you okay?” Mia asked, rubbing her eyes.

Claire didn’t move.

Mia took a step closer. “Claire?”

Slowly, Claire turned.

Mia’s breath caught in her throat.

Claire’s face was wrong.

Her features were stretched, slightly blurred, as if someone had tried to paint her from memory—but got the details almost right.

Her eyes were too wide. Her mouth, a fraction too large.

Mia’s stomach twisted. That thing standing in her kitchen wasn’t Claire.

The lights flickered.

The thing tilted its head.

Then, it smiled.

A slow, unnatural curl of lips that stretched too far.

Mia stumbled back. Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone and dialed Claire’s number.

The ringtone came from behind her.

Mia turned slowly, her breath frozen in her chest.

Claire stepped out of her bedroom, blinking sleepily.

“Why are you calling me?” she mumbled.

Mia’s blood ran cold.

She turned back to the kitchen.

The thing was gone.

The fridge door hung open, casting a pale light on the empty space where it had stood.

Claire frowned. “Mia? What’s wrong?”

Mia could barely speak.

Because behind Claire, just beyond the shadowed hallway—

Two too-wide eyes watched them.

And then—

The lights went out.