There is something moving under the floorboards of Elizabeth O'Neil's house.
That's what she thinks, anyway, lying in bed next to her husband, listening to the creaks and hums through the building beneath, the way they seem to coalesce into an oncoming panic. Only for a few seconds, of course. It's late, she's tired, and the faintest flicker of panic is gone before it really registers.
The doors are all locked, the windows are shut, the night outside is dark and quiet. They are safe. She closes her eyes and takes deep, slow breaths, in time with Kirby's gentle snores.
Over her bed, she feels a flicker of cold air. She opens her eyes and the window is shut, but perhaps it fluttered open for a few seconds while her eyes were closed. Windows do that, sometimes.
They are safe. They are safe.
 
She thinks there's something wrong with the bathroom mirror. Her reflection flickers every once in a while, almost like it's doubling, the ghost of a face dancing next to her own. She blinks and it's gone, leaving nothing but smooth, neat glass.
Elizabeth washes her hands quickly and brushes her teeth, heading downstairs as for work. She opens the door and there's a woman with long blond hair standing beside the car, resting a hand on the glass.
Her feet jerk and she slips, heel skidding on across the ground, swearing as she struggles to catch herself. When she finally straightens back, there's no woman in sight. Elizabeth rubs her head and reminds herself to stop imagining things.
Still, she makes a mental note to have an appointment with her doctor, see if they can't talk a bit more about her sleeping medication. Not that it makes her see things, of course, but she doesn't like the way her mind...wanders from time to time.
 
"Liz?" Kirby calls, voice ringing through the house. "Can you pass me my sweater?"
She frowns, turning away from the newspaper. "What?"
"Oh." He ducks his head out of the bedroom, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry, though I heard you walking over here." He taps the floor and the boards creak softly, groaning under his feet. "Old house, you know?"
"Yeah, I know." They exchange little smiles and she lets herself think about how cute he is, even now.
He ducks back into the bedroom and Elizabeth takes her newspaper, settles herself down to the chair. It doesn't occur to her until a little while later that she's settled down with her back to the wall, facing the exit. She thinks she's been doing that a bit more recently, lately.
 
It's been three years since Elizabeth's mother died in the hospital. It's been five years since her father crashed by the side of the road. Still, she swears she can hear a familiar-sounding voice murmuring at the edges of her hearing from time to time, when the TV is off and Kirby is out of the house.
Just memories, she thinks. This is the house she grows up in, the house her parents lived so much of their lives in. Don't people say that souls have a habit of sinking into the bones of a place? It's comforting, really, remembering them like this.
Still, she finds herself turning on the radio more often when she's alone, music blasting through the house. She finds herself humming along to the music, tapping her foot to the beat.
"I ain't afraid of no ghosts," she sings, and her lips twitch into a frozen, starchy smile.
 
"Hey, Liz, where'd you put the mail?"
"What?"
"The mail you brought in."
"I didn't bring in any mail."
"Oh. Huh. I could've sworn I saw you out by the mailbox this afternoon. Must've been a trick of the light, y'know?"
"...yes."
"Liz?"
"Mmm?"
"Everything okay?"
"Oh--oh, yeah. Everything's fine. Don't worry."
 
She dreams of walking down the hallway, feet silent on the floor. Her mouth is dry and she has a vague idea of wanting to get a glass of water (she's never felt thirsty in a dream before).
Somewhere down the hall, she hears wood creak, sharp and inescapable of a blade dragged down the hall. She comes to a halt, turning her head, and the thought of every horror movie she's ever watched makes her smile at her own dramatics as she squints into the shadows.
There's a door open, leading down into the basement. She didn't know they had a basement.
A woman half in and half out of the door, facing away, long blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Her back ripples slightly, like she's a heartbeat away from sprouting wings. She turns her head and she is
Elizabeth closes her eyes, squeezes them tight. When she opens them, she's alone. She turns away and heads back to bed, pulling the covers over her head hiding from monsters. And then the dream must end, because next thing she knows she's blinking awake to the gray light of morning and Kirby stirring beside her, pulling her close.
She closes her eyes as he enters her and sees her own eyes, reflected as if in glass.
 
It's strange, the feeling of being washed. More than just a prickle in the back of your neck, it's a strange puff of air against your shoulders, a flicker of off at the end of her mind. Elizabeth turns her head until her neck cracks, but there's no one there.
She's getting jumpier when things clatter downstairs. She checks the locks more times than she used to, enough that Kirby jokes about them getting burglarized by the fey. She sleeps and eats and works and loves her husband, but it's all just a slightest bit off kilter, shifting more out of place with every step.
Elizabeth doesn’t mention it. Words don't make something real, but they do make it much harder to leave it behind. She's seen what it did to her mother, letting the words crawl out and bury themselves under their skin.
In the middle of the night, she finds her hand drifting to the lightshade. Her head aches and it takes a few seconds to realize it's because of how much she's straining her ears, listening to the creak and groan of movement below.
 
They're both half-asleep, shadows rippling around them, and Kirby murmurs, "your lips are like ice, Liz." She keeps lying where she is, facing away from him, and waits to wake up.
 
("They're watching us, Lizzy," her mother sobs, rocking back and forth. There are bruises under her eyes and fresh bandages on her wrists. There are streaks of gray in her long blond hair, but she's too young for dementia.
"Mom." Her hands are shaking as they press against the table, fingers whitening. "Mom, please calm down."
"Your father, he was running from them when he crashed," her mother whispers, shaking her head as her hair flies wildly. "They're coming, they're always coming. They're in the trees, the basement, the stars. They're everywhere, Lizzy."
"We don't have a basement, Mom." It feels like the only half-decent rebuttal to her mother's ramblings.
"From the beginning," her mother whispers, tears shining. "They've been with us from the beginning. There's no getting away from them.")
 
Elizabeth stands before the trees as night falls, hugging herself. She knows every bush, every rock, every graceful trunk and swaying branch, but right now her family's woods feel strange to her. They blur and warp before their eyes, reality twisted up into a strange new shape.
A gust of wind snatches up her hair, tugging it into her eyes. Elizabeth brushes it aside and leans forward, squinting. Looking for something, although God help her if she tried to say what.
Something flickers, a hint of motion. An eye blinks. 
"Deer," she says aloud, to convince herself.
From the house behind her, Kirby calls her name. Elizabeth turns away and walks back to the house, pace picking up against her will until she's almost running.
 
Another dream. She's making her way down the stairs, ears pricked, listening for the little creaks and bumps in the night. They seem to be coming from the living room, as if that's where the house has decided to store its heartbeat for the night.
Elizabeth stops in the doorway. There's a woman pacing back and forth, drumming her hands on her sides, the same way Elizabeth does when she's trying to remember something. She comes to a halt and turns, slowly as a heroine in a horror movie, to look at her.
"Why you?" the woman asks with her voice, through her lips.
"...What?" Her voice is fainter than a ghost's.
"They could have chosen anyone." The woman takes a step towards her, then another. "Any little piece of genetic matter, drifting across the surface of this mud ball. But they chose you, you and your line. Why you?" Her eyes dance as if with the reflection of candlelight, but there are no candles in this room.
"I don't know," Elizabeth forces out. "I don't--I don't know." 
To her surprise, the woman laughs, exactly like Elizabeth's laugh. Her mouth opens to reveal a long, flickering tongue.  "Makes sense. Probably chose you at random, the crazy little bastards."
The woman's hand twists at her side, bending and melting into a swaying purple tentacle. Elizabeth watches it flutter and curl, unable to keep her eyes away.
"Like it, huh?" The woman grins with too sharp teeth. "Of course you do." She keeps moving forward and Elizabeth steps back, back pressing against the wall. The woman's voice turns slow and deep, husky in a way that Elizabeth's sure she never sounds. "We're made for each other, after all."
Her tentacle brushes Elizabeth's face, warm and damp. Elizabeth knows, logically, that this is the time to start screaming and trying to get away, but she just stands there, locked into place. Her nostrils are filled with the scent of her favorite perfume, her favorite shampoo.
"You're terrified, of course," the woman says. Her tentacle rubs gently along Elizabeth's cheek, around the curve of her mouth. "That's why you haven't told anyone. But you're curious, too, aren't you?"
Is she? She can't tell. Her head is ringing, mind swirling, and the woman is standing too close, reminding Elizabeth of a girl pushing her up against a club wall in the years before she met Kirby. Her breath is coming too fast, her legs tremble, fingers shaking at her sides.
"Is that why they chose you?" The woman's eyes are growing, bigger, deeper, tugging Elizabeth in. A pulse beats steady against the curve of her temple. "Because you've got that curiosity in your blood?"
The woman's tentacle flutters across her mouth, down her chin, across her throat. She doesn't break eye contact with Elizabeth.
"This is a dream," Elizabeth tells her, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking. "This is a--"
The tentacle slips into her mouth and she gasps, head falling back. She expects terror, but instead of cold fear a rush of heat swims through her, starting on her tongue and falling through her body like a waterfall. Something too smooth and slimy to be a knee nudges between her thighs and they open on instinct.
"It is a dream," the woman sighs. "But it's also the only reason I'm supposed to wake up." She leans closer, closer enough Elizabeth to see her entire body start to bulge and change, heat pushing against her. "Isn't that funny?"
Their lips touch and Elizabeth gasps automatically. She can feel Elizabeth's tongue sliding her mouth, jabbing too far down her throat, and waiting until Elizabeth's eyes are watering before jerking away.
"They want me to stay with you," she whispers. "Look after you, love you, keep you safe." Her remaining human hand pushes under Elizabeth's shirt. "I can do that. I watch you, I know you. I'll let him stay, even. But you have to stay here, with me." Her voice shakes. "You can do that for me, don't you?"
Something curls between her thighs, rubbing against soft flesh, and Elizabeth moans, more out of surprise than anything. She tries to will herself to push back, push away, but her hands are sliding along the other woman's shoulders again, brushing along the spots Elizabeth knows are the most sensitive.
What do you want? she tries to ask, but there's a flick of motion against her cunt and she lets out another sigh. The other woman hums with delight and pulls her closer, close enough she can see all the places where the skin is smoother than her own, the teeth are far too perfect.
More movement up her thighs, along her throat, the curve of her ass, dripping shiny fluids over her skin. Pressure against all the sensitive parts of her body and she's pushing in without really meaning too, her muscles stripped of all resistance.
"They wanted me to wait until I was ready," her otherself says. "Now I'm all perfect for you." She's got her forehead pressed against Elizabeth's hard enough to hurt. "This is what we're for." 
Her hips are shaking, heat pressing in everywhere at once, and Elizabeth would scream if she could. As it is, all she can do is suck in a sharp burst of air into her nose and watch the world splinter into mad, dancing light before her eyes.
"You'll be good for me," her mirror whispers--her face is the only thing human left among a pulsing, shuddering, grabbing mass of tentacles of. "You'll stay with us, won't you? Won't you?"
And she wants to say no, wants to scream and run, put the pleasure-pain burns all the fear away, leaves her lolling and sagging like a puppet as her feet leave the ground. Her double's lips meet hers and Elizabeth kisses back the best she can with a tentacle down her throat.
 
When Elizabeth wakes up, she's in bed, curled up next to her husband. She's damp all over, damp and sore, in many places she's never really been sore before.
She rises to her feet on shaky legs and totters to the bathroom, flicking on the water in the dark. She scrubs away the dampness, the soreness--the memories. They fall from her like rain and splash around her feet, rushing away in the space between heartbeats.
It was just a dream, she realizes as she dries herself off. Just a very, very odd dream. Not the kind of dream you'd tell your husband or anyone else about, but just a dream. She really does need to see her doctor about those sleeping pills.
By the time she finally spots the faint set of bruises on her thigh, she can't remember where they came from. Must've bumped her leg up against a door at some point and forgotten, she supposes.
Anyway, by then she's distracted by more important things. Like the fact that she's started getting a little sick in the mornings, and that she seems to have missed her period.
 
Her daughter is beautiful, so beautiful it sometimes takes Elizabeth's breath away. She watches April run through the yard on wobbly little feet, waving her arms wildly as she chases a butterfly Her hair drifts her as she runs, tendrils waving as if in excitement.
Sometimes, Elizabeth thinks, her daughter's hair looks like tentacles curling along her scalp. Sometimes her daughter's eyes flash bright, like twin drops of gold. Sometimes, April screams and things break or move in ways that they shouldn't.
It's only a trick of the light, she reminds herself, over and over again. Only a trick of the mind.
The back of her neck prickles, a familiar sensation these days. Elizabeth puts a hand over the back of her neck and watches her husband scoop their daughter up, cuddling her close. He hasn't said much about it, but he's always been so much more comfortable touching April than she is.
Her daughter turns to look at her, pupils winking in the sunlight. She is perfect, perfect, and Elizabeth feels herself start to smile, almost against her will.
(Run, her feet tell her, and Elizabeth knows she won't be able to ignore them for long).