My mother had always been fiercely protective of me. She was a partner in Erich's (our father's) firm.

Erich was charismatic, but he was always focused on his career, leaving everything at home to Christine. She shouldered all the emotional labor and practical matters, raising three kids on her own while he busied himself building his business empire.

Despite her rebellion, Annabelle had a deep bond with Mom. They often had screaming matches, but they always ended in hugs.

But this time, Annabelle never came back.

The gruesome reality of her being stuffed into that ottoman clashed violently with Mom's gentle nature.

The image of the "Other Mom" from the laptop note, combined with the impossible glimpse of two of her existing at once, sent shivers down my spine.

"Mom, do you have any idea who did this?" I asked, keeping my tone flat. We were sitting at the kitchen table.

It had been two days since Annabelle was found. The house was still suffocated by an oppressive atmosphere, as if hiding an unspeakable horror.

Mom stared into her teacup, her hands trembling slightly. "No, Kelly. I... I can't imagine. Annabelle was a good girl, really. Just a little mischievous."

I nodded, pretending to accept the answer.

But she had been brutally murdered, her body shoved into a piece of furniture in our living room. The audacity of the killer, to just leave her there like that, was bone-chilling.

This wasn't about being mischievous; it was about some bottomless evil lurking within this house.

"Did she have any enemies?" I pressed, trying to keep my voice steady. "Any weird friends? Or was she in some online groups?"

Mom shook her head. "I didn't really know her friends these days. She kept to herself mostly. Only Cedric really understood her tech stuff."

Her eyes were hollow, as if shrouded in a fog of grief. She sighed deeply, a heavy, exhausted sound. Her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly drained, completely broken by the loss of a loved one.

My resolve wavered.

This was my mother, drowning in her sorrow.

Should I really be suspecting her? The thought was horrifying.

I tried to shake off the chill brought on by the "Other Mom" and the impossible humming.

Grief makes people act strangely. Trauma causes disorientation and memory lapses. I tried to analyze it all rationally.

"Mom, go get some rest," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. Her fingers were cold and frail. "We'll figure this out."

She managed to force a smile. "Thank you, Kelly. You're a good daughter."

She slowly stood up from the table, her footsteps heavy as she headed toward her bedroom. At the doorway, she paused and looked back at me.

For a split second, her eyes seemed to darken, deep as ink pools, before returning to their tear-filled state. Then, she vanished from sight.

That fleeting moment of strangeness sent another wave of dread washing over me.

I found Cedric in the living room, surrounded by old photo albums and a stack of dusty VHS tapes.

He was usually so meticulous, so organized. Now, the messy room reflected his inner turmoil. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse. "Found these. Mom's old hard drives. I thought maybe... maybe some old videos could help. Remind us of the good times."

I sat down on the floor next to him. "Good idea," I said, even though my stomach churned. Thinking of those happy memories felt almost like a betrayal right now.

He tapped the keyboard a few times, and an old home video began playing on the laptop screen.

It was Christmas from years ago. Annabelle, a tiny, mischievous little girl, was trying to open her presents early. Cedric, a lanky teenager, was laughing while trying to stop her.

Mom and Dad were in the background, smiling, their arms wrapped around each other. Dad, Erich, was always so charming and full of energy, even back then. The memory evoked a bittersweet nostalgia within Cedric.

"Look at that," I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek. "How happy we were back then." That innocence felt like a lifetime ago.

Cedric said nothing, just stared at the screen, his hand resting on my arm.

He clicked play on the next video. It was Annabelle's fifth birthday. She was blowing out the candles, her face smeared with cake. We were all cheering. Those familiar, warm memories—the simple joys of a whole family—temporarily soothed our souls.

But then, a subtle shift occurred.

"Wait," I said, a prickle of unease rising on the back of my neck. "Did you see that?"

Cedric paused the video and frowned. "See what?"

"The angle," I whispered. "Who's filming?"

He shrugged. "Probably Dad. He always had the camcorder back then."

I shook my head. "No. Look. Dad's in the shot. Mom's in it too. Annabelle and I are there. But the camera... it's positioned too high, too steady. And the way it pans, it's like it's trying to hide, like it doesn't want to be seen in the frame."

A chill began to coil in my chest. My eyes scanned the edges of the footage.

Cedric leaned closer, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He rewound it, playing it frame by frame.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice tight. "This is... really weird."

Our entire family was in the frame, so who was recording us?

Cedric froze the video on a frame where the camera tilted briefly.

In the reflection of the polished wooden cabinet, a distorted, blurry figure could faintly be seen. It looked human, but stretched and warped. The face was obscured, cloaked in shadow, but the eyes seemed to gleam with a faint light.

I gasped, a visceral terror surging within me.

I instinctively covered my mouth and whispered, "Who is that? Who is filming us?"

Cedric turned pale. He looked at the screen, then at me, then back at the screen, a flash of pure fear in his eyes.

"This... this is impossible," he choked out. "That's not Dad. That's no one we know!"

The perspective in those videos was bone-chilling.

It was never a normal, family-style angle. It was always shot from behind a door, or through the gaps in a railing, or from an impossibly low angle, capturing our knees and the undersides of tables from a childlike viewpoint.

The camera was like a silent, peeping eye, always present yet never detected.

In the videos, we laughed and lived, completely oblivious to the unseen observer. We were like puppets on a stage, and someone—or something—was always filming our performance.

Just the thought of it made my skin crawl.

I gripped the edge of the coffee table with trembling hands. "Who could it be? Who would do something like this?"

Cedric shook his head, his face ashen. "I don't know, Kelly. I really don't know." His eyes darted around the room, as if waiting for that unseen presence to reveal itself.

At that moment, Annabelle's note flashed in my mind: "Beware of the Other Mom."

A sudden chill washed over me.

"The Other Mom," I murmured, the words burning like ash on my tongue. "It has to be her. She's been here, watching us, for all these years."

Cedric stared at me, his jaw dropping in disbelief. He looked from the screen down the empty hallway toward Mom's room. "You think... you think Mom...?"

The idea was inconceivable.

But the impossible humming, the fleeting glimpse of Mom being in two places at once, that creepy note, and now these videos... it all converged into one terrifying truth.

A grip of pure terror seized my heart.

"I need some air," Cedric said abruptly, standing up. "I... I can't look at this anymore. Let's try to get some sleep. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced, endlessly replaying the distorted reflection in the mirror, the ominous note, and Annabelle's large, dead eyes.

Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, felt magnified and sinister.

The image of Annabelle crumpled inside the ottoman kept flashing in my mind, her face a stark, horrific contrast to the lively child in the videos.

A soft, muffled thud came from the kitchen downstairs.

My eyes snapped open, straining to listen. There it was again—a rhythmic, wet thudding, like meat being tenderized.

My heart hammered in my chest.

I knew Mom was asleep.

But was she, really?

I slowly got out of bed, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. I crept to the bedroom door and pushed it open, inch by careful inch.

The hallway was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint light spilling from the living room.

The thudding continued, steady and unnerving.

I moved forward, every step a silent prayer.

I reached the doorway of the kitchen and peered inside.

Mom was there, bathed in the soft glow of the under-cabinet LED lights.

She was humming an old lullaby, the melody slightly distorted. It was the lullaby from our childhood.

Her back was to me, bent over the counter. Her arm was swinging in a bizarre, exaggerated motion, hacking at something with a large meat cleaver.

In the silence, the dull thudding was deafening. But what truly froze me in place wasn't the sound; it was the way she moved. Her spine seemed to arch unnaturally, her shoulders pulled too far back, her elbows extending at impossible angles.

It was less a human movement and more the stiff, exaggerated jerking of a marionette.

"Mom?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

She stopped, freezing mid-swing. She slowly turned around. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes glinted with an eerie, unsettling light.

A thin trail of red blood trickled from her temple, running down her cheek and dripping off her chin.

She grinned—a grotesque, overly wide smile that stretched her lips too far apart, exposing too many teeth.

"Kelly, my baby," she said softly, her voice low and raspy, not quite like Mom's. "Do you love your mother?"

I instantly felt a bone-deep chill.

The image of the "Other Mom" from Annabelle's note, the twisted figure in the video reflections—it all knotted together.

"Mom, what are you doing?" I asked, backing away slowly, fumbling along the wall for the light switch.

"I'm making a snack," she said, her head tilting to an impossible angle, her neck seeming to elongate. "For us. For my sweet children."

She took a step closer to me, holding the cleaver loosely in her hand.

Then, she began to move. Slowly at first, then faster, her body twisting and contorting.

She bent backward until her head nearly touched her feet, her spine bowing like a drawn bowstring. Her limbs stretched, elongating before snapping back into place. Her joints seemed to melt and reassemble, twisting into shapes no human could achieve. Her eyes were fixed on me, gleaming with predatory delight.

She laughed—a high-pitched, childish giggle that sent ice water down my spine.

I screamed. The sound was swallowed by the house.

My legs gave out, and I fell backward, scrambling frantically to get away but unable to catch my breath. I was paralyzed, unable to move or speak.

"Kelly! What's wrong?!"

Cedric's voice, thick with sleep and panic, tore through the terror.

He stood in the hallway, blinking against the dim light.

I pointed at him, a choked sound escaping my throat. "Mom! The Other Mom!"

Cedric looked past me, into the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty. The lights were off. The meat cleaver sat perfectly clean on the counter.

There was no one there. No bizarre contortions, no unsettling smiles, no blood. The air was dead silent.

He rushed over and grabbed me, his hands steadying me. "Kelly, what happened? What are you talking about?" He looked around, completely bewildered. "Mom isn't here. What did you see?"

I stared at the empty, ordinary kitchen, then up at Cedric's worried face.

My mind was a chaotic mess. Had I hallucinated? The terror was so real—the impossible, twisting movements, that bone-chilling laugh.

But there was nothing. The kitchen was just a kitchen.

My heart pounded furiously, like a frantic drumbeat in my chest. I felt like I was losing my mind.

I knew what I saw. It wasn't a hallucination. My body still ached with the phantom pain born of sheer terror.

My sanity clung to an impossible truth: there were two mothers. One who held me in grief, and another who moved like a broken toy and smiled with too many teeth.

Cedric's hands gripped my arms tightly. "Kelly, you're shaking. What exactly happened?" His eyes were full of concern, but tinged with something else—I recognized it as fear.

I backed away slightly, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "I just... I just need to be alone for a minute, Ced. Please."

I couldn't tell him yet. It sounded too crazy. He was already so fragile right now.

He hesitated, his gaze searching my face. "Okay, Kelly. But... don't do anything stupid." He squeezed my arm once more before turning and heading back to his room, leaving me alone in the silent, oppressive hallway.

Alone again. My conviction hardened.

The "Other Mom" was real. She was here, in this house, living among us, waiting to consume us.

Annabelle knew. Annabelle had tried to warn me. I had to find out exactly what she knew.

I crept back into Annabelle's room. The laptop still sat on her desk. I woke it up, the screen still displaying that cryptic note: "Beware of the Other Mom."

I searched around, hoping to find more clues or hidden files. Nothing. I went through her drawers, her closet, her books. Just the usual teenage clutter.

I remembered the day Annabelle disappeared. It was a Friday. She had gotten into a screaming match with Mom about curfew, like always, and stormed out.

We thought she'd be back by morning. When she didn't show, we called her friends. No one had seen her. We called the police and filed a missing persons report. We figured she was just being rebellious, maybe shacked up with a new boyfriend just to spite us. We believed she'd eventually call. She was just mad.

But now she was dead, stuffed inside that ottoman.

My search yielded nothing, and frustration gnawed at my heart. I sat on Annabelle's bed, burying my face in my hands. Suddenly, a jarring, loud noise shattered the silence.

Annabelle's phone. It was sitting quietly on her nightstand, gathering dust like an antique.

The phone was ringing, playing her custom ringtone. It was distinct, loud, and unmistakably hers.

My heart sank. Who was calling? Her phone had been dead for days, maybe weeks.

I stared at the screen. The caller ID glowed brightly: Annabelle.

I reached for it, my hands shaking violently. My fingers fumbled, slick with cold sweat.

This was impossible. Annabelle was dead.

I answered, my voice a raspy sob. "Annabelle?"

A burst of static. A harsh, buzzing interference, like signal jamming.

Then, a voice came through. Annabelle's voice.

But it was distorted, shrill, and frantic, as if spoken through a broken walkie-talkie.

"Kelly! Listen! She's coming! The Other Mom! She's not... she's not real! She's evil! She killed me! She burned down the house! Kelly! The Other Mom killed us! She burned down the house! She's hunting us! She wants to keep us quiet! She wants to protect Mom! Don't let her win! Wake Mom up! The truth! She's the weakness! The truth will make her disappear! Tell Mom we love her! We never blamed her! Tell her... tell her..."

The call abruptly cut off, replaced by a digital dial tone.

My hand slipped, and the phone clattered to the floor.

It was a message from Annabelle. A pre-recorded message.

I scrambled to pick the phone up, my heart pounding like a war drum. I checked the call log.

It wasn't a phone call. It was a scheduled message, set to play at a specific time, on a specific date.

Annabelle had planned this. She knew. She had foreseen her own death. She left a warning, a desperate SOS broadcast from beyond the grave.

I gripped the phone tight, my fingers digging into the plastic casing. Every single word echoed in my mind.

She killed us all.

She burned down the house.

Five years ago. We're all dead.

What did that mean? I couldn't comprehend it at all.

I plugged Annabelle's phone into her laptop and transferred the audio file. My fingers flew across the keyboard, opening an audio editing software. I extracted the track, running noise-reduction filters and pitch correction. I listened to it again carefully.

The distorted voice became clearer.

"Kelly... please... listen carefully. She killed us. Five years ago, Mom killed us. This isn't real. She had a mental breakdown. The 'Other Mom' is just a manifestation of her guilt. She's trying to stop you from remembering the truth. She hunts us, makes us disappear, so Mom never has to face what she did. Kelly, wake Mom up. The truth is her weakness. Tell her we love her. Tell her we never blamed her. She needs to know. You need to know too. She's coming for you, Kelly. She's coming... for both of you..."

I paused the audio. My chest heaved violently. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. I was cold and clammy all over.

I'm dead? We're all dead?

But I'm clearly alive. What on earth did Annabelle mean?

And then I heard it. In the audio. A faint, wet, scratching sound, almost like a guttural whimper. It was layered underneath Annabelle's frantic message.

I rewound it, isolated that specific sound, and amplified it.

It was distinct, and non-human. A low snarl, a hungry, wet sniffing. It was the sound of an intense, predatory hunger.

I played it over and over, confirming the horror.

It was there, embedded in Annabelle's final message. My body trembled uncontrollably. The chill in the room deepened.

My gaze drifted past the laptop screen, toward my own reflection in the mirror.

In the mirror, Christine was standing right behind me. Her head was tilted, her mouth slightly ajar, mimicking the wet sobbing sound from the recording. Her eyes were wide, pitch black, and utterly devoid of life.