My husband came home from his business trip a day early. Moments later, someone knocked on the front door. “It’s Dad, Mom!” a voice called out. But my 8-year-old daughter squeezed my hand and whispered, “Mom… that’s not Dad. We need to hide.” I pulled her into the kitchen cupboard. What followed shattered everything I thought I knew.

he recovered. He was tall, clean-shaven, wearing a leather jacket that looked almost identical to one Daniel owned. His hair was the same shade of brown, cut in the same style. From a distance, in the dim light, he was a perfect copy. But up close, the eyes were wrong. They were flat, dead things. Cold obsidian voids devoid of warmth or recognition.continue reading …