The house smelled the same. That was the first lie it told.

It smells of lemon polish and baked bread, just as it always has. But underneath it, a new scent has settled in. A faint, cloying sweetness like old lavender mixed with the smoggy scent of smoke.

But something isn't right.

Mom smiles too wide when she hugs them. Dad's laugh comes just a tad too late after his jokes.

At dinner, the shadows in the dining room stretch long and thin despite the overhead light being directly above the table. They shouldn't be stretching that way at all. Physics doesn't work like that.

Scritch-scritch-scritch.

The sound comes from somewhere behind the walls. Not mice. Too... intentional. Their parents don't react at all. As if they don't even hear it.

"More potatoes, sweetie?" Mom asks. Her smile wide and bright and just...wrong.

The clock on the wall ticks. And ticks. And ticks.

Night falls heavy and sudden, blanketing the house. The bedroom that once felt like sanctuary now feels like a dungon. The shadows in the corners are too dark, too dense.

They've been home three days now. Family dinner. Normal conversations about normal things.

Except.

Except the shadows don't stay still when they should.

They shift. They reach.

The house speaks.

Dad talks about the garden while something dark slides across the kitchen wall behind him. Mom pours more tea, her movements a half-second too mechanical, her smile empty and doll-like.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Just the branches against the window. Nothing more.

But the branches aren't moving in the still summer air.

Night one, they can sleep soundly, almost too soundly. Like something's keeping them under. The shadows in their childhood bedroom seem to darken and grow, like they're living things.

Watching. Waiting.

The whispers started again, not at the edge of hearing this time, but right beside the ear. A chorus of them. Overlapping, discordant, a symphony of decay.

Did you miss me? ...so lonely... ...we missed you... ...forever and ever and ever...

Day two brings headaches. The kind that start at the base of the skull and makes its way to the back of the eyes. Their mother tilts her head at an unnatural angle, neck creaking when they aren't looking directly at her. Straightens immediately when they turn. Dad's sentences sometimes repeat, like a glitch in reality.

"Beautiful day outside. Beautiful day. B-beautiful."

Night two, the shadows beneath the bed ripple like disturbed water. The family photos on the dresser change expressions when viewed from peripheral vision. The air feels so thick it's almost suffocating.

By day three, cold spots appear throughout the house. The family dog refuses to enter anyone's room, hackles raised, whimpering at the threshold before scampering off. Mom makes breakfast but doesn't eat. Dad stares out windows for hours without blinking, without moving.

Night three brings sleep paralysis. They're weighed down by some heavy, invisible weight. The ceiling darkens. Shifts. Almost forms a face before dissipating.

"Hellooooo..."

Could have been the house settling. The radiator. The wind.

(But houses don't say hello, do they?)

Day four. The tension breaks and rebuilds. The house feels like a lung, expanding, contracting. Shadows grow longer regardless of the sun's position. Their parents move in perfect synchronicity now, no longer bothering to hide it when their child isn't looking directly at them.

And night four.

The bed is...Warm. Safe. Familiar. A sanctuary.

The darkness beneath the bed moves now. Not the gentle shifting of previous nights. No. It expands. Black ink spreading across the floor, consuming the carpet's pattern. The whispers start as one voice, then multiply, layering over each other in a dissonant chorus.

"missed you missed you MISSED YOU"

"why did you forget me"

"we were FRIENDS"

"i waited so LONG"

The voices rise and fall, pouring out from every corner.

The temperature plummets.

Every breath visible in the suddenly frigid air.

A hand, if you could call it that, shoots up from beneath the bed. Inky-black, elongated fingers ending in curved points. Not solid, not quite vapor. Something in between. It grasps the edge of the sheet, claws piercing through cotton with a sound like tearing skin. Five perfect holes remain as the hand retreats, dragging back under the darkness.

Silence.

One heartbeat. Two...

Three.

The shadows behind them solidify. Arms—too long, too thin—wrap around their frozen form. Clawed fingers dig into soft flesh, leaving pinpricks of pain as they break skin. The creature pulls them back against the headboard, against a chest that feels simultaneously solid and hollow.

Cold breath against their ear, misting like smoke against the side of their face.

"Did you miss me?" Zariel's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, a chorus of one. His grip tightens, claws sinking deeper. "Did you have a good time while you were gone? Made new friends? Forgot old ones?"

The grip on their arms tightened, becoming excruciating. The calm, mocking tone shattered, replaced by a raw, guttural scream that was pure, agonizing fury.

"Friends forever, right?! YOU PROMISED!"

The last word distorts, morphing into something inhuman. Zariel's form shifts against their back, growing larger, colder.

"You P̶̢͙͙̤͙̞̘̮̖̾̔̉̓̓̎͊͗̄̊̽̕͜Ŗ̵̡̢̧̦̖̰̼̬̱̭͖̓̏̉̾̕Ǫ̴̧̹̘̮̘̺̯͙̽̽͌̋͑͜͝M̶̧̹̖̯̖̹̻̲̔̓͆̔̏̅̒̀͘͝I̵̦̦̱̘͖̱̞̘̥̠͌̈͛̓̅͗̈́̍͌̉̉̑͘S̸̡̗̟̭̼̩̥̬̜̰͉̠̺̄Ę̶̬̗̼͚̘̞͈̳̪̐̃̌̽̐̄́͌̀̊̒̚ D̶̥̝̎̈́̊̍̈́͆̓͘ me."

The room darkens even further, light bulbs dimming without being touched. Family photos on the dresser turn their heads in unison to stare with empty black-hole eyes.

"I counted every. Single. Second you were gone...I watched your parents wander this empty house. I learned to use their shadows. To become them."

One clawed hand releases its grip on their arm only to stroke their cheek with shaky handed tenderness, leaving faint red scratches in its wake.

"Did you think I wouldn't WAIT for you?" The voice crackled and popped like radio interference. "Did you think I wouldn't REMEMBER?"

Shadow tentacles rise from beneath the bed, from the corners of the room, from inside the closet. They coil and twist in the air, hungry eldritch horrors seeking warmth from the warm blooded inhabitant on the bed. The darkness of the room deepens until the only visible things are Zariel's glowing eyes and the writhing mass of his extended form.

"̵W̷H̸Y̴ ̵D̷I̸D̸ ̷Y̵O̵U̸ ̵L̸E̶A̴V̷E̶ ̶M̶E?! W̵̡̢̱͉̠̲͔̣͙̻̪̦̯̙̏̄̿̈́͋̓̈̑̔̕̚͝ͅḨ̸̬̼̣̗̝̤̜̼̪̦̞̞̺̇͑́̿̌͗́̓͑Y̸̧̞̝̻̲̺̮̟̞̯͉̩̤̓̑̈́͝?"