Aunt Mabel

Content Warning: This story contains themes of violence, mental illness, and disturbing imagery. It includes descriptions of physical harm, hallucinations, and psychological distress that may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA

CASE NO: 2025-CR-0412

IN THE MATTER OF:

MABEL GATES

EVIDENCE DOCUMENT: HANDWRITTEN STATEMENT OF MARLEY PALMER, AGE 32

I killed Aunt Mabel. Bashed her head in with a frying pan. Blood everywhere. It got in my hair, on my shirt, even on my damn shoes. I just sat there on that ugly floral couch, staring at the wall, trying to remember if Theo was working late. Like that was the important part. Like any of this was normal.

I didn’t mean to do it. You have to understand that. She came at me first—bony little hands, surprisingly strong, clawing at my throat. But no one’s gonna believe me. Not about that part.

Aunt Mabel was a mean old bitch, and she was proud of it. Everybody knew that. She was Theo’s grandmother’s sister, but that sweet old woman didn’t pass any of her kindness down. Mabel took me in like it was a favor, like she was doing me some grand service by letting me clean her house, drive her to the store, listen to her rattle off every reason I wasn’t good enough for Theo. Too poor. Too stupid. A waste of space with my pointless literature degree.

Theo told me to ignore her, that she was just old-fashioned, that I shouldn’t take it to heart. But it wore me down. And Theo—he didn’t always hear me when I talked to him. He told me what to do, and I listened because he was the provider, because it was his money keeping us afloat. I felt caged.

That’s when I met Brad. Sharp jaw, shaggy caramel-colored hair. A 25-year-old barista with influencer dreams. I was never going to leave Theo for him—I wasn’t that stupid. But he was easy. He looked at me like I was something to want, and for a little while, I wanted to believe that. The third time we slept together, he told me he loved me. That was the end of it.

I broke my vows because I was bored. That’s the truth. And it makes me sick. Theo and I had our problems, but this wasn’t the way to fix them.

After Brad, I resolved to be a better wife. I opened up. We had sex like we were teenagers again. For the first time in years, I felt like we were really connecting. Like we were happy.

Then I missed my period. Two weeks late.

Theo and I had been trying for a baby for years. When I told him, he was so happy. And I was too—until I did the math.

It might not be his.

This morning, I sent Brad a message. I told him about the pregnancy. I told him I wouldn’t say anything to Theo until I had to. Then I spent half the morning in the bathroom throwing up.

“I don’t want you touching everything if you’re sick,” Aunt Mabel grumbled outside the door.

I don’t know why that broke me, but it did. The final straw. I trudged into the kitchen and screamed at her that I was sick, that I was pregnant.

“I don’t care what you are. You will not raise your voice to me in my own home!”

We were yelling, and then my phone buzzed on the table. A text from Brad. I realized, too late, that I’d left it there when we brought in the groceries. Mabel saw the screen light up and grabbed it before I could stop her.

“Hey, that’s my private—” I reached for it, but she yanked it away, bony fingers curled tight.

She read the message and started laughing. “I knew it. I always knew you were a no-good little whore. And now I have proof.”

I remembered it wrong. It was me who slapped her first.

I just couldn’t take it anymore.

She recoiled, then lunged. Her hands locked around my throat, pinning me against the fridge. Her grip was impossibly strong. My vision blurred.

“A no-good little whore!” she spat. Her nails dug into my skin. Her eyes—black, bottomless, inhuman—stared into mine.

I fumbled, my hand finding the frying pan on the stove. I swung. The first blow stunned her. The second knocked her back.

She wasn’t human. I swear to God, she wasn’t.

Drool—black-green, viscous—slid from her lips. She shuddered, then lunged again.

So I hit her again. And again.

By the time I stopped, she was just a mess of old flesh and blood.

I’m so sorry for what I did, Theo. I never wanted to hurt anyone.

STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA

CASE NO: 2025-CR-0412

PATIENT: MARLEY PALMER

ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: EDWARD THOMPSON, M.D.

FACILITY: ST. JOHN'S BEHAVIORAL HEALTH CENTER

DATE: AUGUST 25, 2025

SUBJECT: Psychiatric Evaluation and Observations

Diagnosis: Schizoaffective Disorder, Bipolar Type, with Capgras Delusion (Misidentification Syndrome)

Ms. Palmer was admitted to our facility following a psychotic episode marked by violent hallucinations and delusional thinking. Her husband, Theo Palmer, brought her in after she presented him with a handwritten “confession” detailing the murder of his great-aunt, Mabel Gates. Mr. Palmer, understandably alarmed, went to check on Ms. Gates—who was very much alive, albeit shaken and nursing a minor head injury.

Despite multiple attempts to orient Ms. Palmer to reality, she remains steadfast in her belief that she killed the real Mabel Gates and that the woman currently walking around is some kind of imposter. This persistent misidentification, combined with her history of agitation and erratic behavior, renders her unfit to participate in her own defense. An elder abuse case is pending, though given her current state, it’s unlikely she’ll be standing trial anytime soon.

Mr. Palmer, to his credit, has brought Ms. Gates to visit in an effort to prove to his wife that the woman is still alive. The results have been less than encouraging. Ms. Palmer refuses to acknowledge reality, growing increasingly distressed each time she sees Ms. Gates. She insists that the woman before her is not Mabel—merely a convincing stand-in.

At this time, Ms. Palmer remains in our care for further evaluation and treatment.