Dark fiction, horror, and the uncanny. Stories that live in the wrong light.
Something was living in the house before we were. Something was patient.
She looked exactly like my mother. She even knew the things my mother knew. That was the problem.
After the accident, she couldn't stop touching her own face.
They all agreed: the light at dusk was wrong that summer. It had a weight to it.
The town had a word for the smell. They didn't teach it to children.
She had been wearing her own face wrong for years. Nobody noticed until the mirror did. That was the beginning of the unraveling.