Another Mother

The body of my sister, Annabelle, was found brutally stuffed inside an ottoman in our living room.

The house was locked from the inside, and the police didn't have a single lead.

Before she died, Annabelle left a note: "Beware of the Other Mom."

Chapter 1

Tuesday afternoon, I walked into the living room, sunlight streaming through the windows. The house was eerily quiet.

Annabelle should have been home, probably holed up in her room with her laptop, blasting music at top volume.

"Annabelle," I called her name, but no one answered.

A faint metallic scent lingered in the air, subtle but persistent. I frowned.

I stepped fully into the living room. In the center sat a wide velvet ottoman, usually used to store blankets. Today, it looked somewhat... bloated. A dark, sticky stain marred one side, almost hidden in the shadows.

I approached slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. My hand hovered over the lid. It was heavy, far too heavy, as I finally pushed it open.

The sight before me made the room spin.

Annabelle had been brutally murdered. Her body was crammed into the confined space of the ottoman. Her limbs were contorted into unnatural angles. Her eyes were vacant and lifeless.

"Ah!" A gut-wrenching scream ripped from the depths of my throat.

I stumbled backward, crashing into the coffee table.

Cedric found me curled up on the floor, dry-heaving. His usually calm and composed expression instantly crumbled the moment he saw the ottoman.

His scream intertwined with mine, a howl of pure terror. He lunged toward Annabelle, only to freeze, realizing the incomprehensible reality before him. We stared blankly, paralyzed by fear.

The police arrived. Their faces were grim, their movements practiced and steady. They took measurements, snapped photos, and asked questions we couldn't possibly answer.

There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle—at least not in the living room.

The house had been locked from the inside.

They shook their heads, their expressions unreadable. This was no ordinary case.

Annabelle had always been rebellious, constantly pushing boundaries. She was sixteen, quick-witted, and possessed brilliant tech skills.

She would sneak out, crash with friends, and go off the grid for days at a time. We had long grown used to it—worrying ourselves sick, though she always came back, usually armed with a sarcastic remark about our overprotective nagging.

But this time was different. This time, she never came back.

The police eventually left, concluding their preliminary investigation. They offered their condolences and promised to keep in touch.

I found Mom in her bedroom, curled up on the bed, weeping uncontrollably.

"She's gone, Kelly," Mom choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "My baby is gone."

I held her tighter, tears streaming down my own cheeks.

Later, when Mom finally fell into an exhausted sleep, I went into Annabelle's room.

The room was a mess, much like she had been. Clothes strewn across the floor, books piled haphazardly, a half-eaten bag of chips resting on her desk. Her laptop was open, the screen emitting a soft glow.

I hesitated before stepping closer. My fingers lightly brushed the keyboard. A password-protected note was open on the screen. I knew Annabelle's habits. She always used meaningful dates. I tried her birthday. Incorrect. Then I tried the name of her first pet. The password unlocked.

The note was short.

"Beware of the Other Mom." That was it.

A sudden chill washed over me.

The Other Mom? What did that mean?

Annabelle had always been good with computers—she knew all about encrypting messages and hiding files.

This was definitely no prank; it was a warning.

I heard the floorboard creak behind me.

My heart plummeted, feeling as though it might leap out of my throat. I spun around, holding my breath.

Mom stood in the doorway, her eyes red and swollen, her hair a mess. She wore a faded nightgown, her frame thin and looking incredibly frail. "Kelly? What are you doing in here?" she asked softly, her voice almost childlike.

I quickly minimized the memo and snatched my hands away from the laptop as if I had been burned. "Just... looking for some of Annabelle's things," I stammered, my voice trembling.

Mom sighed, a low, exhausted sound. "It's so quiet now, isn't it? Too quiet." She stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping over Annabelle's belongings. "She used to be so full of life."

Then, I heard a soft humming coming from downstairs.

A lullaby. Our mother's lullaby.

I whipped my head toward the direction of the sound. The kitchen.

My eyes darted back and forth between the doorway—where Mom was still standing—and the direction of the kitchen.

How could she be in two places at once?

The humming stopped. Mom was still looking at me, her face etched with sorrow. "Did you hear something?" she asked, her voice slightly raspy.

An intense chill hit me, erupting in goosebumps along my arms.

I stared at her, my mind a chaotic mess. Was I going crazy? Grief, trauma... they could make a person imagine things.

But that note said: "Beware of the Other Mom."

Was this what Annabelle meant?

"No, Mom," I said softly. "I didn't hear anything."

Mom nodded slowly, her eyes unfocused. "I think I'll go make a cup of tea. My head is splitting." With that, she turned and walked out, her footsteps light.

I stood completely still, digesting what had just happened. The chill lingered. I felt a profound sense of unease.

Was that my mother?

Or was it... the Other Mom?