The knife still dripped when Aika slammed her bedroom door and shoved the dresser against it.
Blood — her sister's blood — smeared across her arms, sticky and hot like tar.
The sound of Mother's voice floated up from the basement, a lilting chant that didn't belong to any human tongue.
Aika staggered backward into her room, her breathing ragged, her heart a hammer against her ribs.
The air tasted of iron and smoke, and somewhere deep in the vents, something whispered her name.
Aika.
She grabbed her diary — the only thing she had — and collapsed into the corner of the room.
The curtains were drawn. The door locked. But she could still hear the wet, slithering steps downstairs.
Still hear the way the wood of the house groaned under the weight of something heavier than human.
Through the cracks beneath her door, she could see the flicker of candlelight — unnatural, blue-white flames licking the hallway.
She pulled her knees to her chest, clutching the diary close.
Hana had smiled when Mother carved her open.
Not with fear. Not with pain.
She had thanked her.
Aika's hands shook violently. The world around her blurred, smearing at the edges like wet paint.
"I used to be normal," she whispered to the dark. "I used to be just a girl."
But the house had always been wrong, hadn't it?
The way the walls sighed when the wind blew.
The way shadows clung too long after lights went out.
The way her dreams bled symbols she never understood.
Somewhere outside her barricaded door, a board creaked.
A hand — too light to be Mother's — scratched once at the door.
Aika squeezed her eyes shut.
Tears burned down her cheeks.
She remembered something distant, almost forgotten: her father's voice, hoarse and terrified.
"I won't stay in a demonic house. That woman isn't human anymore."
He left them.
Left her and Hana with Naoko Mori, a woman who smiled too wide and hummed too sweet.
Aika opened her diary with trembling fingers and began to write.
Because if she stopped — even for a moment — she feared the thing that wore her mother's skin would find a way inside.
Tonight, words were the only weapons she had.
And maybe — just maybe — they could save her.
[Date: 7/11/20XX]
[My 16th Birthday]
[Location: My Room – Door Locked, Curtains Drawn]
I don't know how to start this without shaking.
My hands are still covered in her blood—warm, sticky, and real.
This isn't another dream.
This isn't another nightmare I usually scribble into this diary like some twisted horror author.
This happened.
My name is Aika Mori. I'm sixteen now. I used to be a regular girl… or at least I thought I was.
Maybe I've been stupid this whole time.
Maybe I've always known something was wrong with this house.
My twin sister… was Hana Mori.
She was the quiet one, always smiling politely, always doing what Mother said.
Today she was different though.
She wouldn't look me in the eye.
She just stood behind Mother, nodding when told, bowing like some weird servant.
And Mother—Naoko Mori—she smiled like something was chewing through her from the inside.
That smile. It was wrong.
Too wide. Too calm.
She didn't blink.
She hummed all day like it was a celebration.
And then came the basement.
She told us to come down. I didn't want to, but Hana pulled me gently and said, "It'll be okay, Aika."
But it wasn't.
It wasn't okay at all.
There was a shrine down there—some kind of twisted altar built out of bones and soaked black cloth.
Candles lined the room in a circle, and the air… it smelled like copper and rot.
There were symbols scratched into the floor.
Some looked familiar.
I think I've drawn them in here before—during those nights when I wake up from dreams I never remember.
Mother told Hana to step into the center.
She did it without hesitation.
She even smiled.
Like she wanted it.
Then Mother pulled out a blade.
It looked handmade, like it was carved from something old—bone or obsidian maybe.
She said something in a language I didn't know, but I felt it.
It scraped against my brain like claws.
And then—
She stabbed her.
Over and over.
Blood sprayed across me.
Across my face, my clothes.
I screamed, but Hana didn't.
She just looked up at Mother and said, "Thank you."
Thank you.
I ran.
I didn't even wait for what was next.
Mother turned toward me, eyes like coals, and told me it was my turn.
I locked myself in my room.
I've shoved my dresser in front of the door.
I can still hear her downstairs.
Chanting.
Laughing.
Sometimes I think I hear Hana's voice too… whispering through the vents.
And I remembered something today.
A voice from when I was little.
Father.
He said, "I won't stay in a demonic house. That woman isn't human anymore."
He left.
And now I understand why.
I'm not opening the door.
Not until sunrise.
Not until I figure out what's wrong with me.
Because I think…
I think I've always known this would happen.
I'll write more if I survive the night.
— Aika Mori