Returning home from work, my husband suddenly froze. He stared at the shirt I was wearing, his face pale: “What… what is that?” I looked down, my heart pounding. “I… I don’t understand… what it is?” He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the mark. “You really don’t see it?” I moved closer—and in an instant, the blood in my veins froze. I understood… that thing was absolutely inexplicable.
Twelve days later, my mother-in-law watched some video and screamed in panic, calling my name repeatedly. Because that was the moment she realized… what the mark on my shirt that day truly meant.
The December snowstorm in Chicago paralyzed everything. When I inserted the key into the lock of my suburban home, the clock showed past 7 p.m. The wind howled through the cracks in the door, icy cold as blades.
I stepped inside, shaking off the thick snow from my coat, breathing a sigh of relief as the warmth from the heating system brushed against my face.
“Honey, I’m in the kitchen!” Mark’s voice called out.
I took off my thick coat, hung it on the rack, and went into the kitchen in my thin white silk shirt. Mark was stirring pasta; he turned and smiled at me, his usual warm smile. But then, that smile vanished.
His eyes were fixed on me. Not on my face, but on my right shoulder. His pupils constricted, and the wooden spoon in his hand fell to the floor with a dry clatter.
“Mark? What’s wrong?” I asked, stepping closer.
He recoiled, his face pale, drained of all color.
“What… what is that, Sarah?” His voice trembled, his finger pointing directly at my shoulder.
I looked down at my chest, seeing nothing. “I… I don’t understand… what it is?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the mark. “You really don’t see it? On your right shoulder. Turn around. Slowly.”
I walked to the hallway mirror and turned around. And in an instant, the blood in my veins froze.
On the pristine white silk fabric of my right shoulder, a handprint was imprinted.
It wasn’t an ordinary stain. It was a dark gray, sticky handprint, as if made from a mixture of burnt grease and coal dust. The fingers were long, gaunt, and strangely thin, each knuckle clearly visible on the fabric. Its location was right below my shoulder blade – a place I couldn’t reach with my hand in that position.
“Did… did you bump into something?” Mark asked, his voice faltering.
“No way,” I stammered, my heart pounding. “I wore my coat all day. I buttoned it up from the moment I left the office until I walked through the door of my house. I never took it off.”
It was true. It was minus 20 degrees Celsius outside. I was wearing a thick coat that covered me completely. If someone had touched me, the stain would have been on the coat, not penetrating 5cm of my stomach to transfer onto the silk shirt underneath without leaving a mark on the outside.
Mark rushed to the coat rack. He flipped my coat over.
Clean.
Inside, outside, lining… not a single stain.
We turned to look at each other. Silence enveloped the kitchen, broken only by the howling wind outside the window.
“Sarah,” Mark whispered, moving closer to me. He reached out with trembling fingers to touch the stain on my jacket.
He recoiled instantly, horror etched on his face.
“It…it’s still wet.”
I shuddered.
If the stain was still wet, and my jacket was dry…that meant the mark wasn’t made this morning. Nor in the office.
It was made right now.
It was made in the brief ten seconds between the moment I took off my jacket at the door and walked five meters into the kitchen.
In those ten seconds, as I walked down the dimly lit hallway before turning on the lights…something was right behind me.
It had touched me.
Mark grabbed a kitchen knife. I trembled and recoiled behind him. We turned on all the lights in the house. We searched every room, every closet, under the beds, the basement, and even the dusty attic.
No one was there. The front door was still locked. The back door was bolted shut. The windows were closed because of the snowstorm.
There were no wet footprints on the hardwood floors. No signs of forced entry.
That night, we huddled in the bedroom, the door locked, Mark’s gun at the head of the bed. I had thrown that shirt in the trash, but the cold, sticky feeling on my shoulder still haunted me.
Twelve days passed. Life seemed to return to normal, but the atmosphere in the house had changed forever.
We tried to explain it rationally. Maybe I had gotten some car oil on me that morning without realizing it? Maybe my jacket was leaking? Maybe Mark misjudged the “wetness” of the stain?
But strange things began to happen.
The cereal boxes in the kitchen cupboard had been moved.
There were very light footsteps on the ceiling at 3 a.m., which Mark insisted were “heat-expanded pipes.”
Our Golden Retriever, Buster, normally very affectionate, now stood growling, staring blankly into space at the bottom of the stairs leading to the basement.
And I always felt like I was being watched.
Every time I showered, I felt eyes peering through the curtains. Every time I slept, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. Mark said I was paranoid due to work stress. He installed security cameras on the front and back doors to reassure me.
But he didn’t install cameras inside the house. He said, “I don’t want to turn our house into a prison, Sarah.”
I wish he had.
On the afternoon of the twelfth day, I was at the office when the phone rang. It was Eleanor, my mother-in-law.
Eleanor lives in Florida, but she has access to the “Pet Cam” system we installed in the living room so she can occasionally watch her pet.
“I’m calling Buster to ease my longing.”
“Sarah?” Eleanor’s voice sounded strange. Not the usual cheerful greeting. Her voice was choked, breathless, and full of fear.
“Yes, it’s me, Mom. What’s wrong?”
“Sarah… where are you?”
“I’m at work. Mark is at work too. What’s wrong, Mom?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I heard her take deep breaths, trying to calm herself.
“I just rewatched the video…” she said, her voice trembling. “I was going to check on Buster because I saw him limping yesterday. I rewound the video from the day before yesterday… and the day before that too…”
“Mom, can you be more specific? What happened to Buster?”
“It wasn’t the dog!” Eleanor shrieked, her scream so piercing I had to hold the phone away. “It wasn’t the dog! It was THAT GIRL!”
My heart skipped a beat. “Which girl?”
“Sarah, listen to me. Don’t come home. Call Mark, tell him not to come home. Call the police immediately.”
“Mom, you’re scaring me. What did you see?”
“I saw…” Eleanor sobbed. “I saw the day you said there were handprints on your shirt… I rewound the video to that exact time. 7:15 p.m. on December 12th.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“In the video… when you walked through the door and took off your coat…” Eleanor said quickly, as if afraid someone would stop her. “You were standing in the hallway. You had your back to the shoe cabinet to hang your coat. And from… from the narrow gap between the shoe cabinet and the wall… it came out.”
“What came out?” I whispered, tears welling up.
“A woman. Thin. Her hair matted. She was wearing tattered gray clothes that matched the color of the walls. She… she came out right behind me. She sniffed my hair.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to suppress a gag.
“And as I was about to turn and go into the kitchen,” Eleanor continued, her voice breaking, “she reached out her dark hand… she held onto my shoulder for balance as she climbed up…”
“Climbed up where?”
“She climbed up the alcove above the shoe cabinet. The ventilation alcove that Mark said was sealed. She lives there, Sarah. She was right behind you. And Sarah…”
“Yes?”
“I watched the other videos. Every night. When you and Mark were asleep… she came out. She went around the house. She ate your leftovers. She… she stood watching you sleep for hours. And… my God…”
Eleanor screamed.
“What else, Mom?”
“In the video this morning… at 8 a.m., after you two went to work. It didn’t go back into the air vent.”
I was speechless.
“It went into the closet in your bedroom,” Eleanor groaned. “It took a fruit knife. It went in there and closed the door. It hasn’t come out yet, Sarah. IT’S WAITING FOR YOU TO COME HOME.”
The phone slipped from my hand, crashing onto the glass office desk with a loud thud.
I dialed 911 with hands shaking so much that I dialed the wrong number twice.
Fifteen minutes later, Mark and I stood across the street, watching armed police surround our house.
They broke down the door. Dogs barked. Screams. The sound of things crashing. And then, two gunshots rang out.
Bang! Bang!
The room was silent for a few long, drawn-out minutes. Then the police chief came out, drenched in sweat despite the freezing weather. He signaled to the medical team.
They carried a stretcher out. On it lay a woman – if one could even call that a human being. She was emaciated, her skin as pale as a fish from a deep cave, her fingernails long and black. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the gray sky, her mouth still curved in a maniacal smile. She was dead.
“We found her in the closet, just as your mother said,” the police chief told us, his voice still tinged with shock. “She was wearing your old wedding dress, Sarah. And she was holding this knife.”
He held up an evidence bag. Inside was our family’s fruit knife. But the most horrifying thing wasn’t the knife.
The most horrifying thing was the Polaroid photos scattered in that woman’s jacket pocket.
The police officer hesitantly showed them to me.
They were photos of Mark and me sleeping. Very close-up. So close I could see the pores on Mark’s face. So close that I realized, to get this angle, she must have been lying right between us on the bed.
And the last photo…
The last photo didn’t show us. It showed a positive pregnancy test on the bathroom sink. The pregnancy test I’d thrown in the trash this morning, planning to surprise Mark with it tonight.
Below the photo, scrawled in black charcoal, was a line:
“OUR CHILD.”
I collapsed onto the cold snow. Mark held me tightly, and we both trembled.
That woman wasn’t just living in our house. She wanted to become me. She wasn’t waiting in the closet to kill me. She was waiting to kill me, skin me alive, and take over my life, my husband, and the child growing inside me.
The black handprint on my shoulder that day… wasn’t an accident. It was a mark.
Like how people mark the items they’ve chosen to buy.
She chose me.
