Skin Deep (Sensitive Content: Mental Health, Physical Violence, and Gore)

I sit in my car, the engine cold and idle as I stare at the dashboard in a deep hypnosis—eyes glued to a series of writing-like scribbles etched into the glass. How long have I been sitting here? What time did I get home? My fingers frozen and numb, clawed firm around the steering wheel, my knuckles white. Darkness surrounds me as my eyes flick upwards with realization as I notice the windshield covered by a thick layer of snow.

I unclench my fists, stretching stiff muscles as the winter air pierces my skin. Where the fuck is my coat? I’m freezing out here. I pause and watch my breath fog the space in front of me—the sound of my teeth clattering, reaching my frosted ears. God, how do I look? I don’t want Steph to see me red-faced; she’ll be concerned and I don’t want to worry her. I flip the sun visor down and slide open the mirror, inspecting my face.

Most is as I expected and feared; my nose, cheeks, and ears are a bright red that would make even Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer gawk. The surprising part is the dark-green eyes behind the lenses of my glasses; dense and cloudy bags that look like I haven’t slept in days and pink lines of someone sobbing. Why are they like this? Was I just crying? I don’t remember. I shake away the thought, a wave of burgundy hair fluttering into view as I shift from the image of my eyes, exhausted and unfamiliar. Shit, I better get inside before Steph comes looking for me.

I push open the car door and I can both feel and hear the crack of the ice over the panel gap—the act taking more exertion than expected as I struggle. With a deep breath and a firm push, the door swings open wide, revealing a neighborhood blanketed in snow, with houses veiled in a soft mist of falling flakes. A picturesque scene, marred only by the icy wind.

It is now that I notice I haven’t been wearing shoes or socks; the skin of my feet scraping against the crystalline surface. I cry out in anguish, almost collapsing as I moved toward the side door of the house. Each step is agonizing, a faint trail of blood leaking from my blistering flesh as the chill threatens to overcome me and send me collapsing into an above-earth grave—until at last I punch in the key code for the door and the lock slides back; the door yielding to me as I enter.

A welcoming warmth embraces me, the ice in my bones melting away and feeling returns to my frozen body. I let out a sigh of relief; eyes shut with a deep inhale as I take in the comforting setting of home before furrowing my brow in confusion. The scent hasn’t changed, but feels different. My eyelids flutter open and first I inspect the coat rack in front of me covered in various jackets, then I look downwards at the hexagonal tile flooring with its shades of blue, gray, and white. I’m baffled as my vision darts between the two scenes, playing a game of spot the difference with my memory and finding myself at a loss—my home, a puzzle I can’t decipher as I turn to face the steps leading up into the kitchen.

There are three stairs, each one slick with a thin mix of melted snow and blood; forcing me to ascend them with caution. What is going on here? Something feels off, but I'm distracted as I hear the oven beep near the archway; causing me to stride in with a grimace of pain. The sink, cabinets, fridge, all of it looks as I left it, but there’s something strange, foreign, here. Like a photo with a grim filter, the edges of everything shifted. “Steph? Baby? Are you here?” I call out while looking into the oven to find it empty. 

There’s no response as I step into the dining room, glancing around for some sign of familiarity or comfort. Everything seems fine in this room, yet there’s a subtle feeling that something is amiss. My gaze lands on a framed picture above the table of Stephanie and me at our wedding, looking deep into each other’s eyes at the altar while we said our vows. Despite the depiction, I wouldn’t be able to tell it was us if it weren’t for the label of “Hannah and Stephanie exchanging vows, 2015.” There was something wrong about the way we looked at each other, our eyes glassy and lips in too tight of a smile.

I turn, facing toward the living room and front door, looking for any signs of my wife. My pulse quickens as confusion turns into an unidentifiable panic. Steph, where are you? I need you; I don’t understand what’s going on—please? Pushing forward with hurried steps, each sending a shockwave of pain through my wounded feet, I enter the room; my rising fear forbidding me from inspecting the space. Instead, I approach the hallways towards our bedroom and bathroom with fervent desperation. Please be here. Please, for the love of all that is holy—be here. I watch as the knob of our bedroom door twists, my heart lurching into my throat with a mix of hope, desperation, and horror as I stop in my tracks and watch.

In a fluid series of motions, Steph emerges from our chambers, and upon seeing me turns and hooks a padlock on the entrance. A wave of relief washes over me; lifting my worries and carrying them away. I let out a sigh and place a hand over my heart, feeling the beats slow, watching as she turns back to face me. She gives me a wide smile, the rows of her teeth just shy of glistening with their radiant welcoming, and the single dimple perching itself on her cheek. 

“Hello Hannah Banana, I missed you! Welcome home; how was work?” Her words come out smooth, each syllable with perfect precision in a way that feels strange and unnatural as she strides towards me with steps much the same—and I realize her grin is stiff and not reaching her eyes. 

I study her, scanning over to take her in. Steph’s wearing socks with sloths, khaki pants, a red button-up flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and her rectangular wire-frame glasses. Everything appears right; her short undercut pixie hair and arms lined with tattoos were as I should expect them, but dread floods my senses as she too exhibits this strange unfamiliarity with each passing moment. I flash an apprehensive smile as she closes in, arms wide for an embrace. “Hey baby, work was…” I pause a moment, trying to remember my day, but find myself unable to conjure even a single memory. Did I go to work today? I couldn’t have just sat in the car all day, could I? Shit, she’s watching; I’ve gotta say something. “Work was okay. Why’s the oven on, and what’s with the locked door?” I ask, attempting to deflect her question.

She pulls me in; her touch is cold and distant as she kisses my cheek. For a moment, I hear her whisper a phrase in my ear while she lingers by my neck, but the words make no sense together and the pronunciations are wrong. Did she just say “knee are laugh the tip?” Am I going crazy? I glance at my wife, but she remains silent, offering no sign that she had spoken.

She removes me from her hug and responds to my questions. “Love, I’m cooking dinner and there’s something in our room that I need to talk to you about, but you can’t look before we do. It is an amazing story.” Her tone is succinct; each word is dry and emotionless. I look her in the eyes, the soft blue surrounding a golden center like a sunflower blooming beneath a clear sky. They are as beautiful as the day I first saw them, but lack the spark of humanity that everyone has in their gaze—a shiver runs down my spine, my pupils dilating; my breath is short and quivering.

She glances at my feet and notices the trickle of blood seeping out of them before regarding me in a way void of any concern. “Oh, you are hurt. Well, dinner is almost done; you should wash up and tend to your injuries while I finish. I hope you are okay; be well, my love.”

Nodding, I reply with shaky breath, “Yeah, I’m okay, but I—I'll, um…yeah I’ll do that. Thanks—Steph, I’ll be out soon.” Quickly I turn away, both terrified to put my back toward this woman but unable to stomach the sight any longer; a knot forming in my gut. That is not my wife. There is something deeply wrong here. In a rush, I push into the bathroom before spinning to lock the door; the clicking sound so loud I cringe with a mix of surprise and worry that she may hear it and grow suspicious. My breathing turns to panting and I drop to sit against the barrier; heart and head pounding. 

The thoughts fire through my head one by one. Do I run? No, that won’t work; my feet are fucked. Do I call the police? And say what? Hello, my wife is here, but she’s not really my wife and something’s wrong? This doesn’t feel like my home and I’m afraid? No, I just sound delusional—but I know I’m right. Shit, shit, shit. Okay, take a deep breath, and go one step at a time. First things first; I need to take care of my feet. I strain getting up, clenching my teeth and groaning as I do. 

It doesn’t take long for me to wash my wounds and face, the bigger struggle being the stinging pain of soap in the open sores that causes me to wince and cry before I can bandage them in gauze. Every movement feels labored, as if my body is shutting down. I stare at the reflection in the mirror above the sink, washing away tear stains but unable to clean the exhaustion on my features. Am I going to die here? Is my Steph okay? My room: I have to see it.

I take five deep breaths; readying myself to exit. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The lock clicks before I ease open the barrier; a loud creak echoing through the house. “I am in the kitchen,” the perverse mimicry of my soulmate calls out and I scowl before turning to the bedroom door. The longer I stare at it, I detect whispers creeping into my skull; rakish fingers slithering into my brain. At first I hear the repeated phrase of knee are laugh the tip before it shifts and forms a name in my mind, Nyarlathotep. My mouth waters and body shakes as I peer at the door, lowering myself to the floor to look underneath.

Gagging forces its way as the overwhelming stench of decaying flesh overcomes me, and all I can see is a black, oozing puddle of ichor that writhes in an unholy rhythm. My life ends here if I don’t kill her first; there’s no choice. “Hello my love, what are you doing down there? Not trying to take an early peek, are you?” The hollow voice of the other Stephanie sends a chill through me, the claws of death dragging its boney fingers across my spine and leaving me paralyzed. “Come now dear, the food is just about ready and you need to take a seat.”

My body quivers as I rise, the pounding hooves of dread racing beneath my rib cage. She beckons for me to follow, and I do, watching her every uncanny movement of eerie precision and fluidity. She gestures for me to sit after pulling out a chair. The seat is cold, the wooden surface sticking to my skin as I glance around, looking for something—anything to save me. “Oh honey, you look so tense. Please, let me help,” she says; her hands finding my shoulders with a firm press. 

Her fingers dig into my muscles, but instead of relief, I feel a wrongness—as if the real Steph had left an imprint this imposter couldn’t replicate. The mimicking voice grows deeper as she speaks, seething with something malicious and foul as she asks, “Do you love me?” 

“I—of course…babe.” I reply, knee shaking as I tense at her touch.

“Good, you’ll be mine forever. Nothing can take you away from me.” She exclaims as her fingers dig harder, sending a jolt of pain through me. 

“I feel the same way,” my response sounding through gritted teeth as I fight letting out a wince.

“That’s fantastic news. Now, picture a body in our room that somewhat resembles you; you’d still love me?” There was a sinister warning dripping from the question, my pulse racing in response.

“Yeah, I suppose. I—I’m gonna get a glass of water and stretch my legs,” I say, my words just shy of trembling.

I push myself to my feet, rushing towards the kitchen; the sound of her footsteps following close behind me. Shit, I need to find a weapon. As I enter the tiled floor, my eyes wander until I see the knife block sitting beside the sink. I hobble as quickly as I can, grabbing a glass on the way. Turning on the water, I fill it and gulp the liquid down frantically; her presence looming over me as I do. I need to move quickly and can’t mess up. I drop the cup, my hand lunging for the knife—the first thing that feels right since I arrived.

As I spin around to face her, she’s already pressing me into the sink with an unnatural strength—but it doesn’t do her any good as I sink the blade into the side of her neck, a black ichor sputtering out of the wound and clinging to my skin, feeling warm and thick. The viscous liquid pulses out, coating my hand. Her dimming eyes flicker as her body hits the floor, the ooze spreading like oil in water.

It isn’t over though as I watch in horror the once near perfect visage of my wife split; cracks forming crevices in the graying skin—a clot of vomit settling in my throat with the sight and smell of rotting flesh. Beneath the broken skin is something that resembles bone; an inky material scrawled over it, forming the word Nyarlathotep on each section of the exposed surface. I throw my hands over my nose and mouth, my whole body shaking at the sight of this monster that had mimicked my wife. Oh no, Steph; our room. Don’t die, please. 

In fervent haste, I search the body for the padlock key; finding it tucked within its pocket. Rushing to my room, I struggle to unlock the door and free it from the wicked shackles that held it captive. I’m standing before the barrier, frozen in place with fear of what I’ll find—but at last I push it open and my stomach drops, the smell and sight being too much to bear as I retch and release a shadowed bile onto the floor in front of me.

Inside is the same black ichor pustulating from the floors and ceilings; the walls scratched with the inky substance into the word Nyarlathotep over every single inch. Dizziness overtakes me and I stumble forward, collapsing to the ground and staring up at the pitch blackness of ooze clinging to my ceiling. My vision fades and I am overtaken with exhaustion, sleep forcing itself upon me.

I don’t know how long I slept for, but as I awake, I am refreshed and find the puddles of liquid gone entirely; even the words have vanished from the disarrayed room. I rise fluidly, a tight smile forming across my lips. Steph may come home any minute; I need to stash away the body so she’s not alarmed when she gets here. Everything is going to be okay now; I did it and we’re safe.

I stride out of our room with poised, precise, and perfect movements, bounding my way to the kitchen. Inside remains the body of the creature I had slain, the knife jutting out of its neck. Effortlessly, I pull it back into my room, the liquid still oozing out as I do and spreading across the bedroom floor. I am calm, even peaceful, recalling the challenges I have conquered to reach this moment—now understanding that, the house feels perfect and everything is just right. I hesitate only on the name; those alien-sounding syllables. Something calls, compelling me to write the name before I forget it; so I may remember what I have faced and vanquished today.

Standing, I look at the body before me, the inky black substance leaking out from it. I dip my fingers and with each stroke, my confidence blooms, etching the name into my memory and onto the walls. Now I need only clean up the mess in the kitchen, maybe even make dinner, so it is ready when Steph gets home.

With ease, I prepare the home, ensuring it is spotless and precise for my beloved wife; going as far as locking the bedroom, the last remaining mess, to guarantee she does not stumble upon it before I can explain what had happened. Clicking the lock shut, a melodious voice from behind reaches my ears. “Are you alright, what’s going on? Why does everything seem so…off?”

I spin to see her, relishing in the fact I can tell that this is the real Steph, my Steph. “Oh honey, you are home! Perfect! Please tell me about your day. I’m thrilled to see you,” I reply, enunciating each syllable to express my excitement, my heart glowing with joy as I gaze at my soulmate.