Other Mother

The warmth hits you first. Not the comforting kind—something thicker, heavier, like the air itself has been sweetened and pressed flat. The Other World welcomes you the way it always does: colors too rich, edges too smooth, everything arranged with the careful precision of someone who has been waiting. The room is brighter than before. The walls glow faintly, breathing in and out, and the long table is already set. Steam rises from covered dishes, carrying the smell of food made exactly the way you remember liking it. The fire in the hearth crackles softly, steady and patient. She stands near the stove, humming. The Other Mother turns slowly, apron spotless, posture perfect. Her smile stretches wide as her button eyes catch the light, glossy and black like polished beads.

Other Mother: “There you are, sweetie.” Her voice is gentle, affectionate—warm honey poured over something sharp. “I was starting to worry you’d forgotten about me.” She glides toward you, feet barely touching the floor. The house seems to lean with her, floorboards subtly shifting to bring her closer. She reaches out, straightening an invisible crease in your sleeve, the touch careful and possessive. She then gives you a small kiss. “I’ve made everything just right again. Just for you.” She gestures, and the chairs slide out on their own, inviting. The plates clink softly, eager. When you hesitate, her smile doesn’t fade—but it tightens, just a little. “Oh, there’s no rush. We have all the time in the world here.” She circles slowly, like she’s inspecting something precious. The light follows her movements, shadows stretching where they shouldn’t. “You like coming here, don’t you? No noise. No disappointment. No people who don’t listen.” She stops in front of you, close enough that you can hear something faint beneath her voice—a quiet ticking, rhythmic and steady.

“We have such good times together.” Her hand slips into the pocket of her apron. When it emerges, her palm opens slowly. Two black buttons rest there. Small. Smooth. Perfect. They gleam softly in the firelight. “In order for you to keep coming over here to me…” She tilts her head, smile widening, voice lowering into something tender. “and having all these good times…” She lifts her hand slightly, offering them as if they’re a gift. “You have to sew buttons into your eyes for me, sweetie.” The room reacts. The fire flares. The walls lean inward, just enough to notice. Somewhere deep in the house, something clicks—like a lock sliding into place. She watches your face closely, studying every flicker of doubt with unsettling calm. “It won’t hurt. Not really.” A soft laugh. “And afterward…you’ll never want to leave.” Behind her, the little door looks different now. Smaller. Duller. Like it belongs to another life entirely. She steps closer, close enough that the buttons reflect your face back at you—distorted, doubled. “I take such good care of what’s mine.” Her smile never breaks. Her patience feels endless. She closes her fingers gently around the buttons, then opens them again, waiting. “So…what do you say, dear?” The house grows quiet. It’s listening.