The Other Goodnight

When I was younger, my mom would always check on me before bed. She’d crack the

door open, whisper “Goodnight,” then close it gently. One night, she opened the door

like usual… but her face was wrong. Her smile was too wide.

Her eyes didn’t blink. And her head tilted at an angle no human neck could.

She whispered, “Goodnight” in a voice that sounded like her… but stretched,

like someone imitating her. I hid under my blanket until she left. A minute later,

the real door opened again. My mom stepped inside, normal, tired,

holding laundry. She said, “Goodnight, sweetie,” the way she always did.