I first noticed it in the kitchen.
My sister was putting the final touches on a batch of Christmas cookies. Turning to get more icing, she bumped the plate with her hip, and it flew into the ground.
“Oh, gosh darn it.”
“Uh, what? ‘Gosh darn it’?” I chuckled. “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
Britney stared at me, blankly.
Look, I know my sister. She swears like a fifty-year-old sailor drunk on cheap beer. Ruining an hour’s work of cookie-making should have at least elicited a “fuck”.
But it didn’t.
“Ah, I see. This this an act for Jonathan.” I winked at her. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
I bent down, picking up shattered pieces of cookie. “You know. Your constant swearing. Your secret’s safe with me.” I reached for another piece of cookie. Picked it up, threw it towards the garbage. Instead of falling in, it ricocheted off the edge. “Ah, fuck.”
I froze.
At the exact moment I’d said “fuck,” a car horn had blared outside. Drowning it out completely.
I frowned.
“Fuck.”
Another car horn.
“Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.”
A strangely loud flock of geese cawed outside the window.
“What the–” dog bark– “is going on here?” I stared at Britney, eyes wide.
She ignored my question.
“We have to bake more cookies,” she continued, as if I hadn’t said anything. “If the Christmas celebration tonight doesn’t impress Christopher, he’s going to shut down the community center. Forever.”
“The community center? When have you given a–” train whistle– “about the community center?”
“Since I started Woofies.”
“What?”
“You know. My business. Baking dogs Christmas cookies.”
I frowned. “These cookies are for dogs?”
She nodded.
“Okay, look. What has gotten into you?” I stood up, brushing the crumbs off my hands. “You don’t even like dogs. You say they make too much noise and poop everywhere. You don’t even like animals, period. Or kids.”
“That reminds me. Christopher’s nephew is going to be at the celebration. He’s an orphan and he loves dogs too. I think I’m going to surprise him with a puppy from the shelter!”
I stared at her. “Uh, what?”
“It’s going to be so awesome! Ah. Don’t you love Christmas?”
I threw up my hands. “You’re acting really weird right now. I’m going to, uh, go rest for a while, okay?”
She nodded, eyes wide and a perky smile on her face.
That’s when I noticed something else. She wasn’t wearing her usual outfit of a black tank top and skintight jeans. Instead, she was wearing a bright red sweater and a neat skirt. Her hair–which was usual tied up in a messy bun–fell in perfect, loose waves around her face.
“You’re dressed weird,” I muttered.
She just smiled back at me.
I trudged out of the kitchen, through the family room. I was about to climb the stairs, when I stopped.
Something’s different.
Well, for one, my mom’s house was clean. Which was super weird, because she’s a borderline hoarder who keeps everything from twenty-year-old Christmas cards to free pens. The clutter was gone, a fire was going in the fireplace, and a fluffy red throw sat across the sofa.
Weird.
But there was something else. My gaze caught on the mantle above the fireplace. Even from a distance, I could tell the photos were different. I’d seen the photos there a million times–the dorky photo of me in braces I hated, the photo of the four of us and our cat. They were burned into my brain.
Not one of the familiar photos remained.
I stepped closer, studying the photos. A girl with braces playing outside. A mother and father sitting on a sofa, two toddlers between them. Two girls holding hands while sitting on a swing.
My heart dropped. Every muscle in my body paralyzed.
They weren’t us.
They looked like stock photos. Stock photos of a family that roughly, very roughly, resembled ours.
I ran up the stairs, my head spinning, my throat dry. What’s going on here? Nothing made sense. Not the way Britney was acting, not the way she was dressed, not my mom’s house, not our photos. It all clashed in my brain, so wrong.
I collapsed into the bed. The bed of my childhood room–the only thing that felt familiar in this house. My stuff had been boxed up long ago, but the walls were still the shade of lavender I’d picked out in middle school. The bedspread was still deep purple. The mattress was still soft as a feather.
I lay in the silence. Funny how now, there were no random car horns or flocks of Canadian geese. I was almost drifting off to sleep when I heard it.
Footsteps, in the hallway.
“Britney?” I called.
But they sounded louder. Heavier. Like a man’s footsteps.
I shot up in bed, my heart pounding. Our father had passed away several years ago. Christmas dinner wasn’t for a few days; too early for our uncles to be here. I backed away, heart drumming in my chest.
“H-hello?” I called out.
The footsteps paused.
“Who’s there?” I shouted.
The footsteps resumed. Closer, now–so close that they were right outside the door. “Britney!” I shouted, hoping she could hear me. “Britney, there’s someone–”
The door opened.
My voice died in my throat.
A man stood there. A naked man, with only a small towel wrapped around his waist. He stared at me with dark, hungry eyes.
Then he smiled.
“Hey, honey. Are you okay?”
I screamed.
“Honey? What’s wrong?” The man was rushing towards me. I ducked underneath his outstretched arms and ran to the door. Down the stairs, out the front door. I heard Britney shouting behind me. But I didn’t listen.
I kept running, and running. In a few blocks, I reached town. But it wasn’t our town. It was a cutesy little town that time forgot, with shops lining the sidewalk and tinsel strung up between the streetlamps. Gone were the liquor stores, rowdy teenagers, and endless supply of litter.
And, yes–there was even a community center. But not our community center of stained concrete and smashed beer bottles in the parking lot. No—it was now a darling brick building, a Christmas candle burning in each window.
No. No, this can’t be. What the fuck is happening?
I hurried forward. As I walked, snowflakes began to fall from the gray sky. A few landed on my bare arms.
They didn’t melt.
“Hey!” I called out to the nearest person. A woman waiting to cross the street, with perfect wavy hair and a bright-red peacoat. “Hey! Can you help me?”
She turned towards me, a smile plastered on her face. “Of course! What do you need?”
“I don’t think I belong here. This isn’t–this isn’t my town. It’s–”
I faltered.
Her grin had faded. She now stared at me, face set in stone, eyes burning with hatred. Then she took a step towards me.
I ran.
And that brings us here. I’ve been hiding out behind a perfectly-decorated Christmas tree in someone’s yard. Don’t worry–the house isn’t actually occupied. Despite all the cute lights and candy canes, I looked in the windows. The house is completely empty, on the inside.
So I’m safe. For now.
But I don’t think it’ll be long. There’s a ring on my left ring finger, probably belonging to the man back at my parents’ house. He’ll probably call the police around here and tell them I’m missing. That I seem mentally unstable. That I should be apprehended immediately.
At least the internet seems to work. But calling Britney’s number, and my mom’s, has only resulted in static.
All I can do now is ask for your help.
If you turn on your TV, and see a Christmas movie featuring a short girl with a mole on her right cheek and an AC/DC t-shirt, that’s me. Help me. Please.
Help me leave this place, before it’s too late.