My name’s Jack. I’m nineteen. They say you’re grown at that age, but nothing makes you grow up faster than being left alone in the middle of nowhere, responsible for more than just yourself.
Mom and Dad went away for their anniversary just three nights, that’s all and left me to watch Toby. He’s fourteen, still small for his age. I promised I’d keep him safe. I really believed that was enough.
The first night, it happened. After midnight, we heard a voice outside, drifting through the fields. It is called, soft and familiar, “Toby! Come on out here, son!” and for a second, it sounded just like Dad.
But something about the way the words dragged, the hush after, made my skin crawl. I locked the door and pressed my back to it, whispering for Toby not to move, not to answer.
He stared at me, eyes wide and scared. “It sounds just like him, Jack. It’s Dad. Why won’t you let me open the door?”
I called our parents not to tell, just to hear their voices. They were fine, their phone signal jumpy but clear, asking about chores and saying goodnight. The voice outside faded to a hush.
But when I woke later, the door was half-open, a cold breeze swirling in. Toby was gone. I ran out into the night, searching, calling his name until my throat went raw. The only answer was the wind and the cry of a night bird somewhere deep in the woods.
Now, he’s back or at least something came inside wearing his pajamas, smiling too wide, moving just out of sync with how Toby used to. He says all the right things, but I keep catching him watching me, studying me, as if learning the part.
I don’t know what’s worse: the thought that I let my brother vanish, or the terror of not knowing if I’m even alone in this house anymore.
And outside, on the porch, I swear I still hear another voice, sometimes soft as a memory, calling out my name next.
I tried to convince myself I was imagining things. Maybe Toby was just shaken up, maybe the night wind had made us both jumpy. But the more I watched him, the colder that hope became.
He sat at the breakfast table, silent, just staring at a bowl of cereal until the flakes turned to mush. Usually he’d beg for pancakes, complain about chores. Now, his face was blank, smile too stiff, and he barely touched his food.
“Toby? Are you feeling okay?” I asked, forcing calm into my voice.
He blinked slowly, deliberately. “I’m fine, Jack.”
His voice was right, the words perfect, but the pitch was slightly off, syllables clipped in ways Toby never used. When I left the kitchen, I caught him staring after me, eyes too focused, too still, as if he didn’t need to blink at all.
That afternoon, I noticed muddy footprints in the hallway, trailing from the front porch to the stairs. They were too big for Toby’s feet or at least, they looked wrong somehow, the toes splayed, the gait uneven.
At dusk, he sat on the porch swing, humming a song Dad used to sing a song Toby never liked. When I called out to him, he turned too quickly, his grin hitching a little too wide.
That night, I slept with a lock on my bedroom door, eyes open, clutching the bat Dad kept beside his headboard. Through the thin walls, I heard the hiss of footsteps in the hallway, soft as threat.
Around midnight, I crept to Toby’s door and listened. There was a scratching sound, like fingernails against wood, then a low, crooning whisper in a voice almost but not quite my own.
“I’m still here, Jack. You’re not alone.”
My skin prickled. I staggered back, heart pounding, and pressed my hands against my ears.
Whatever was in that room wasn't really my brother. At least, not anymore.
Now, every instinct screamed at me not to let it see my fear. Not to let it know I realized the truth.
Tomorrow, I’d search for the real Toby. But tonight, I left the light on and prayed whatever wore my brother’s skin wouldn’t try the door.
The next morning, sunlight crept through the curtains, painting long shadows across my bedroom floor. I moved quietly, listening for any sounds from the rest of the house. The thing wearing Toby’s face was already in the kitchen when I came out sitting perfectly still, hands folded on the table, eyes following my every move.
“I’m going to check the property,” I muttered, grabbing my boots and the old flashlight. “You, uh…stay inside. Okay?”
He just nodded, a smile never touching his eyes.
I stepped outside, shutting the door a little too firmly behind me. The air was sharp and clear. I started calling for Toby, my real brother, though I knew, deep down, he wouldn’t answer.
I circled the house, checking for signs I’d missed in the dark. Near the porch, I found faint scuff marks in the dirt, as if someone or something had been dragged toward the edge of the woods. A set of muddy footprints split off toward the barn. Some looked almost human, but wider and splayed, each toe a little too long.
My stomach knotted. I followed the strange tracks toward the barn. Inside, a musty smell hit me: old hay, animal musk, and something sour beneath it all. The hayloft ladder had deep scratch marks around the first few rungs, and something dark mud, I hoped, streaked the wood.
Tucked under a loose board, I found a scrap of flannel: the shirt Toby wore last night. It was stretched, torn, as if someone much larger had struggled to pull it on. My hands shook as I pocketed the cloth.
Back in the house, I heard humming my own voice, echoing from the living room. “Toby” was standing in front of the mirror, grinning, tilting his head practicing different expressions, turning his face this way and that as if adjusting a mask.
He looked over his shoulder, smile set and eyes bright.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Jack?”
My blood ran cold. I forced a smile, hiding the scrap of flannel behind my back.
“Not yet,” I lied, keeping my distance, my mind racing.
If the creature could mimic anyone, maybe it could sense my suspicions. I’d have to act fast, but carefully if there was still a way to save my brother, I had to find it before I lost myself, too.
I moved carefully, every nerve stretched tight, determined not to let the thing wearing Toby’s skin know what I had found. My only hope was to search the woods, the place where the footprints led and pray I wasn’t already too late.
After breakfast, I faked a casual yawn. “I need to check the fence line. Rabbits have been digging again and Dad’ll have my head if the cows get out. You wanna help, Tob?”
He tilted his head, lips peeling back in what I think was supposed to be a smile. “You go ahead, Jack. I’ll wait here.”
That was all the confirmation I needed. The real Toby would never miss a chance to tramp through the woods.
I grabbed the flashlight, my bat, and the torn scrap of shirt, then slipped out the back door, counting my breaths as I crossed the field. The woods loomed dark and tangled ahead, the silence broken only by distant bird calls and the snap of a branch under my feet.
I followed the messy trail, calling quietly for Toby as I went. “Toby! It’s me, Jack. If you can hear me, call back please!”
Farther in, the canopy thickened. I spotted more flannel scraps snagged on a low branch, then muddy fingerprints streaked down the bark. My heart pounded. I called again, softer now, afraid to draw the wrong attention.
A small voice whimpered from beneath a fallen tree, a voice rough and hoarse, nothing like the too-perfect mimic in the house.
“Jack ? Is that you?”
I dropped to my knees and peered into the hollow. There was my real brother, pale and shaking, dirty but alive. His eyes brimmed with tears.
“Don’t let it take you,” he whispered, grabbing my arm with surprising strength.
I wrapped him in my arms, whispering comfort, but we both jumped at a sudden sound from behind. Leaves rustled. Something was coming, fast and purposeful.
“We have to run,” I hissed, pulling Toby to his feet. “Stay behind me, okay?”
We crashed through the underbrush, branches clawing at our faces. The farmhouse came into sight with a straight shot across open ground, but horribly exposed. Behind us, we heard footsteps now shifting, now pounding, sometimes impossibly fast. And above it all, a voice called out:
“Jack! Toby! Come back. I know you’re out there. Come home.”
It was our mother’s voice perfect down to the smallest crack of worry in each word.
But I gripped Toby’s hand tighter. “Don’t answer, no matter what. We keep moving.”
We sprinted for the house, the sound of hunting feet and voices not our own chasing us back into the morning light, desperate to outrun the stranger still smiling in my brother’s skin.
We burst through the back door, gasping for breath. For one heart-stopping moment, the house was eerily silent. Then, from the hallway, “Toby” emerged with our mother’s gentle eyes and father’s half-smile twisted onto his young face. Its hands curled around the stair rail, knuckles pale.
Jack, it said in that aching, perfect Mom voice, “Where were you boys? You made us so worried.”
Toby cowered behind me, voice trembling. “It’s not real, Jack. Don’t listen.”
I put myself between them, me, the bat, and fear. “I know what you are. You’re not our family. Leave us alone.”
The creature’s smile faltered, shifting Dad’s scowl, Toby’s pout, my own crooked grin all mashed together. Its voice now layered, pleading, dark. “But I’ve learned so much. I can be better than them. I could be the brother you want wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Get out!” I shouted, heart hammering. “You’re not wanted here.” I tightened my grip on the bat as Toby pressed a trembling palm to my back.
The skinwalker took a step forward, features blurring. The house filled with voices: Mom urging us to dinner, Dad telling a childhood story, Toby giggling then, suddenly, my own voice, pleading and brittle: “Don’t send me away, Jack. Please.”
Toby’s hand found mine. “Don’t listen,” he whispered, squeezing so hard it hurt.
I braced myself as the skinwalker lunged, distortion flickering over its face. I swung the bat, the blow echoing through the kitchen as it struck. The thing howled with a thousand voices at once, recoiling as if the touch itself burned.
Sunlight from the kitchen window spilled across the floor. The creature sputtered, shrank from the light, its form twisting and convulsing unable to settle, masks falling away like melting wax.
Jack, Mom’s voice whimpered, “Don’t you love me?”
I bared my teeth, dragging Toby into the sunlight. “Not you. Never you.”
With a final, furious scream, the skinwalker bolted for the darkness beneath the stairs, melting into shadow and then gone. Silence slammed into the space it left behind. The echoes of its voices faded, leaving only the sound of our own frantic breathing.
I dropped the bat, wrapping Toby in a hug that made us both shake. “You’re safe now,” I said, willing it to be true. “We’re both safe.”
But as I held my brother, I couldn’t help but glance around wondering if every shadow really belonged to sunlight, or if, somewhere out of sight, the stranger waited and watched, still trying on our smiles.
The sun hung high as we double-checked every door and window, never once letting go of each other. When Mom and Dad returned that evening, we ran to them Toby clinging tightly, me barely holding in tears.
I tried to explain. There was something in the woods. Something not Toby. All the wrong voices in our house. But their faces went slack with worry, listening like any parents would to a story that sounded half dream, half nightmare.
At dinner, the house felt too quiet. Shadows stretched in the corners, just a bit too deep. Toby barely touched his food. I stared at my family, watching for any little flicker a word said strangely, a look held a second too long.
Before bed, I passed Toby’s room. He was brushing his teeth, humming that odd tune our Dad used to sing, but stopping, like he’d forgotten the words. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was just a little slow to match his movements.
I turned away, telling myself it was only exhaustion, only nerves.
Still, as I lay down in the dark, I caught a voice outside the window just a whisper, as if far out in the fields:
“Jack… let me in…”
And in the mirror across the room, my own face watched me back, smiling just a fraction wider than I remembered.
I lay awake for a long time, listening, waiting, not certain if the morning would bring relief or another night of the stranger waiting, always learning, just outside the line of light.