Siya The Girl 💁‍♀️®

I sat in the kitchen, watching my phone light up. Her boyfriend had called eleven times. The first voicemail sounded concerned. Boyfriend: “Come home. We can talk about this.” The fifth sounded frustrated. Boyfriend: “You’re scaring me. Just tell me where you are.” But the eleventh was different. His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Boyfriend: “I’ll find you. I always find you. I just don’t want to do it that way.” I played it twice. Then I noticed the number it had come from. It wasn’t his cell phone. The voicemail had come from my home phone. I haven’t owned a landline in eight years. I checked the caller information again. The number was correct. I unplugged every cable in the kitchen, checked the old phone jack in the hallway, and locked every door and window. Then I went upstairs to check on my daughter. She was asleep, breathing slowly. I left her bedroom door halfway open and returned to the kitchen. Forty minutes later, I looked up. Her bedroom door was wide open. I was certain I’d left it halfway closed. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. Coming toward me. I couldn’t move. Someone stopped just outside the kitchen. I couldn’t see the hallway from where I was sitting, but I could hear breathing. Then my daughter’s voice whispered: Daughter: “Mom?” I almost answered. Almost. But something stopped me. My daughter always called me Mom in a particular way when she was frightened. Her voice would rise slightly on the word, as if she were asking a question. This voice was perfectly flat. Voice: “Mom.” It repeated the word. Then it added something my daughter had never said in her life. Voice: “Come here, sweetheart. I want to show you something.” I heard a hand slide along the wall. Then the kitchen light went out. I’m typing this on my phone with the screen brightness turned all the way down. I can still hear someone moving around outside the kitchen. I don’t know if it’s her boyfriend. I don’t know if it’s my daughter. I don’t even know whether the person sleeping upstairs is really my daughter. But I know one thing. Whatever came home after that accident has learned how to imitate the people we love. And it knows that the easiest way to get close to someone is to make them believe they’re safe. The footsteps have stopped. Someone is standing on the other side of the kitchen door. And now it’s using my own voice. Voice: “Open the door. It’s me.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. The handle turned slowly. Then the door opened. My daughter stood in the doorway. At least, it looked like my daughter. Same face. Same purple pajamas. Same sleepy eyes. But she was standing too still. Daughter: “Mom, why are you hiding in the dark?” I didn’t answer. She took a step forward. Daughter: “You look scared. Did something happen?” Another step. I stared at her, trying to remember every little thing about the daughter I’d raised. The girl who used to run into my room whenever she had a nightmare. The girl who chose those purple walls when she was twelve. The young woman who had called me at 3:17 AM because she was terrified of the man sleeping beside her. Now something wearing her face was standing in front of me. And I had no idea which one of them was real. If you were that mother, would you risk hugging the girl standing in front of you, or would you ask her a question only your real daughter could answer?