Skin and Bones

The kitchen, once a warm and inviting space, now felt like a tomb. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating the life that remained within. Marjorie's gaze drifted to the window, where the setting sun cast long, ominous shadows across the yard. In the fading light, she could have sworn she saw figures moving, their elongated forms dancing at the edge of her vision.

A sudden clattering made her jump. Ruth had dropped her fork, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet room. "I'm sorry, Mommy," the little girl whispered, her voice barely audible. Marjorie turned, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It's alright, sweetheart," she said, her words hollow and devoid of emotion. She bent to retrieve the fork, her joints creaking like rusty hinges. As she straightened, a wave of dizziness washed over her, and for a moment, the world tilted on its axis.

In that instant, Marjorie saw something that made her blood run cold. Behind her children, looming in the shadows, stood three figures. They were tall, impossibly thin, with skin stretched tight over protruding bones. Their eyes were sunken pits of darkness, and their mouths gaped open in silent screams. Marjorie blinked, and they were gone.

She shook her head, trying to clear the vision. It was just hunger, she told herself. Just the hunger playing tricks on her mind.

Next door, Mrs. Albright watched with growing concern. The Taylor children, once rosy-cheeked and full of life, were now shadows of their former selves. Marjorie, too, had undergone a drastic transformation, her once healthy figure now resembling a scarecrow. Something was terribly wrong.

Mrs. Albright's cat, Mr. Whiskers, hissed and arched his back, his eyes fixed on the house across the street. She stroked his fur, trying to calm him, but the animal remained tense, as if sensing an unseen threat.

"What is it, Mr. Whiskers?" she murmured, following his gaze. For a moment, she thought she saw something moving by the living room window at Marjorie’s house, a dark, undulating mass that pulsed with malevolent energy. She blinked, and it was gone.

With a heavy heart, Mrs. Albright called the authorities. When the social worker arrived, Marjorie, with a forced smile, explained her situation. "It's just a rough patch," she lied, her voice trembling. "I lost my job, the divorce... I'm picking up shifts at a new place soon."

As Marjorie spoke, the social worker felt an inexplicable chill run down her spine. There was something off about the woman's eyes, a feverish gleam that belied her calm words. And was it her imagination, or did the shadows in the corners of the room seem to writhe and twist?

The social worker, though skeptical, had no proof to the contrary. Marjorie's house, though sparse, was clean. There were no obvious signs of neglect. Reluctantly, she left, a nagging doubt lingering in her mind.

As she walked to her car, the social worker couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced back at the house, and for a split second, she saw faces pressed against the windows – gaunt, hollow-eyed faces that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Marjorie's descent into madness deepened. Starvation, she believed, was a form of purification. By denying her children food, she was cleansing their souls, preparing them for a higher plane of existence. It was a twisted logic, fueled by a desperate need for control.

At night, as Ruth and Damon slept fitfully, their stomachs aching with hunger, Marjorie would pace the halls. She muttered to herself, her words a jumble of religious fervor and delusional ramblings. "We must be pure," she would whisper. "We must shed this mortal coil. Only then can we ascend."

Sometimes, in the depths of night, Ruth would awaken to find her mother standing over her bed, a looming shadow with eyes that glowed in the darkness.