Sarah bolted down the stairs so fast she fell the last six steps, shoulder cracking against the banister. The children didn’t chase; they just giggled, the sound sliding down the walls like syrup. She hit the foyer, grabbed her keys, and yanked the front door. Locked. Deadbolt turned by itself while she watched. From the dining room came Mike’s voice, calm and happy: “Honey, come help us hang the family portrait.” She looked. On the far wall, where bare plaster had been yesterday, a massive framed photo now hung. It showed Sarah and Mike on moving day, smiling in the foyer, except four pale children were already photoshopped in between them, arms around their waists like they belonged. The Sarah in the picture was crying. Real-time tears rolled down the canvas version of her face while the real Sarah watched. Mike stepped into frame beside the portrait, head tilted at the exact same unnatural angle as the kids. “We’re almost a complete set,” he said softly. “Just need you in the middle.” The frame’s glass rippled like water. A small, cold hand slid out of the photo and beckoned with one crooked finger. Sarah felt her feet start walking toward it without permission.
