the slit mouthed woman

Midnight streets are always quiet, but tonight they felt emptier than usual. I shoved my hands in my pockets, walking toward the convenience store when a figure slipped out from the shadows. A woman in a long coat, her face hidden behind a mask.

“Am I beautiful?” she asked softly, voice muffled.

Half-asleep and careless, I muttered, “Yeah, sure.”

Her hand reached up, tugging at the mask. My stomach twisted—the rumors were true. The slit-mouthed woman stood before me, her torn smile stretching unnaturally wide.

I froze, staring.

“Say something!” she shrieked, eyes flashing.

I forced myself to meet her gaze and said calmly, “You are beautiful.”

Her face burned red. My mind panicked: She’s… my type? No, that’s insane. She’s a monster. She lunged forward—instinct took over. My hand snapped across her cheek in a sharp slap.

She stumbled, stunned.

“You are beautiful. Trust me,” I repeated firmly.

Her eyes welled with tears. The tension drained from her body, replaced by silence, like she believed me.

I turned away. “Well, that’s goodbye.”

But her footsteps followed mine, soft but persistent. I walked faster, reaching the door of my flat. My hand hovered over the handle.

Do I run inside and lock her out? Or do I open the door, invite her in, and see what comes next?

If you choose to run away…

Your hand leaves the doorknob, panic overriding reason. “Oops!” you blurt, legs pumping as you bolt down the hall. The slap of your footsteps echoes in the night air, but behind you, hers are faster, sharper, hungrier.

In seconds, she’s there. Cold fingers snag your arm, dragging you backward with inhuman strength. You twist, but her tear-streaked face is already inches from yours.

“You… betrayed me…” Her voice cracks, trembling between rage and heartbreak.

You meet her gaze—wide, accusing, almost childlike in its pain. But there’s no escape. You realize with a sinking dread that her face, twisted with sorrow and fury, will be the last thing you ever see.

Darkness closes in.

If you choose to let her stay…

I hesitate at the door, then glance back at her wide, waiting eyes. “Wanna come into my place?” I ask, voice trembling.

She tilts her head, then nods. “...Yes.”

And just like that, she follows me inside. Under the light of my flat, she looks… different. Less like a nightmare, more like a shy girl with a scar she can’t hide. And damn, she looks kind of cute.

I rummage through the kitchen and grab an apple, offering it to her. She accepts with a faint smile. But when she takes out a small knife, the way she cuts it makes my skin crawl. First she carefully peels the skin, long curling strips falling to the plate. Then she slices the flesh into pieces—too precise, too deliberate, like a ritual.

I watch silently as she sets the pieces down, eyes shining faintly in the dim room.

She looks up at me. “...Thank you.”

The air feels heavier now. She’s in my house. She’s staying.