[I WROTE A STORY INSTEAD OF A POEM, APOLOGIES]

“What’s for dinner?” I querie, in hopes my wife will respond. Yet, she’s silent, her eyes fixated on the ivory painted wall. “Don’t like the colour anymore?” Still no answer, still silent. I stalk closer, standing behind where she’s sitting on the sofa. “Are you… okay, babe?” Then I notice how still she is, it doesn’t even look as if she’s breathing. “Babe?” My voice is pitched higher now, more panicked, a hand hesitates on its journey to reach for her. I steel myself, taking a breath and poking my head around to meet her face.

I bite back a scream. My eyes meet her dull ones, staring, glazed over at the concrete. Her skin is pale, paler than usual, looking waxy and much like a model of herself. She’s unblinking, not faltering from her frozen motion, her body limp, propped up against the sofa much like that of a doll.

“Sorry, love, what were you saying?” Her cracked lips seperate, forcing into a thin smile. It’s as though she’s not fully there, like something else is controlling her brain. “Not to worry, I was just saying that I was going to pick up some milk, from the shop.” I play it off, acting casual in front of the thing that’s pretending to be my wife. It nods, only replying with an “Okay” before turning back to look at the walls.

I fumble through my pockets, rapidly searching for the keys as I walk to the door, faking composure. My finger hooks through the loop, finding them in a jingling bundle, I bite my lip to contain a triumphant noise. Once I’ve pulled it out, I jam the key into the door and twist, despite the shaking of my hands,** **listening for the click of the opening lock.

The hinges squeak as it drifts open. Relief bubbles up in my chest as my foot crosses the threshold, meeting the tarmac. I turn back, taking a reluctant glance back at what once appeared to be my wife. Its hair is falling out of its head, its skin withering and melting. My gaze averts back to the shiny surface of the car, parked a few feet away from where I’m stood. Then I speed up, stumbling as my pace quickens and I force my way into the motor vehicle.

The engine starts with a roar as I pull out of the drive, speeding down the road. For a while, all seemed calm, the only sounds being my breathing and the engine. Then, as though to prove me wrong, a figure emerges in the road. My foot pushes into the break and I close my eyes, tight enough to hurt, against the fear of hitting something.

When I hesitantly open them again, I’m met with silence. I stare, probably looking feverish, in front of me. The figure’s skin is so white it could be made of snow, it’s eyes huge and black, from the pupil to the sclera. It’s devoid of hair and the only clothes it wears are billowing black trousers and a too-long red shirt. It has razor sharp teeth, stained yellow and covered in blood.

My mouth opens to scream, but nothing comes out. It’s eyes flash, momentarily showing that of my wife’s. In that crucial second she looked almost human.