When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the flicker.
The overhead light buzzed, pulsing between dim yellow and shadow, like a heartbeat out of sync. The door to my bedroom—my old bedroom—was cracked open. Cold air spilled in from the hall.
“Dinner’s ready!”
My breath caught in my throat.
It was her voice. My mother’s voice. Warm, tired, familiar. But that couldn’t be. Mom had died last winter, her laughter fading into the hum of hospital monitors. I’d watched them take her body away.
I sat up. The bedsheets weren’t mine—too crisp, too white. The wallpaper was wrong too. I’d covered those walls with posters, fairy lights, and little notes in pen. Now they were bare. Clean. Empty.
“Mom?” I whispered, half-hoping the air wouldn’t answer.
Footsteps creaked down the hall.
I pushed the door open and stepped out. Family photos lined the walls, but the faces smiling back were strangers. A man with thick glasses, a woman with chestnut hair, two kids. Their home—my home—smelled of new paint and roast chicken.
I stumbled back, heart pounding. The woman’s voice came again, softer this time, closer.
“Sweetheart? Wash your hands first, okay?”
Panic kicked in. I bolted down the stairs, past furniture that wasn’t ours, through the front door that used to stick on humid days. It swung open easily.
Outside, the sky was bruised purple, dusk settling in. The yard was different too. Fresh grass, new flowers, the oak tree trimmed short. There was a silver SUV in the driveway where Dad’s old truck used to be.
I ran barefoot to the neighbor’s house. My lungs burned. The porch light clicked on before I reached the steps.
Mrs. Lang opened the door, her face going pale when she saw me.
“Sweetheart, what…?” she whispered. Her hand went to her mouth.
“Mrs. Lang,” I gasped, “something’s wrong. There’s someone in our house—Mom—she’s there—”
She just stared, frozen. I brushed past her and grabbed the phone from its cradle. My fingers shook as I dialed Dad’s number. It rang once. Twice.
Then—
“Hello?”
“Dad?” I breathed. “Dad, it’s me. I don’t know what’s happening. I woke up at home but there’s people here—Mom was calling me—”
Silence stretched across the line. I could hear him breathing, uneven. Then a soft, trembling whisper:
“Sweetie… we buried you.”
My stomach dropped. “No. No, Dad, I’m here, I—”
The line went dead.
I stood there, the dial tone buzzing in my ear until Mrs. Lang gently took the phone from my hand.
Through the window, I saw the front door of our house swing open. A woman stepped out, holding a plate of food, her eyes wide and glassy. Behind her, a little girl peeked out from the hallway.
The woman looked straight at me. Her lips moved, shaping words I couldn’t hear.
Then the girl tugged on her sleeve.
“Mom,” she asked, voice small, “who was that lady?”
The woman turned back toward the house. The door closed. The lights inside flickered once more—and then went dark.
I was left standing in the street, barefoot and shivering, staring at the house I used to call home.
And for a long, breathless moment, I could still smell the roast chicken.
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