Chapter 2: Bride of the Dead

When I opened my eyes, the room was filled with white mist. I thought maybe the humidifier was on too high, but when I went to turn it off, I realized—there was no humidifier. At all.

There was a tapping sound in the living room. I looked toward the door. The white mist in my bedroom was drifting in from under the door. My heart leapt into my throat. I grabbed the cup on my nightstand and slowly opened the door, every muscle tensed.

I wasn’t sure if I’d forgotten to turn off the living room light, or if the cat had turned it on. Either way, the bright living room was filled with that pleasant white mist. I stood in the doorway, frozen.

The cat was lying quietly on the sofa, asleep. Completely unbothered.

At that moment, I suddenly missed my parents. Badly. Like a punch to the gut.

On impulse, I called them.

The call connected. I shouted, “Mom, I really miss you!”

My mom started crying on the other end. “Oh, honey, I miss you too. How have you been lately? Are you eating well? Is it cold at night? Do you want me to send you a blanket?”

My nose tingled. “Mom, I’m fine. I even had pot roast today, though it’s not as good as yours. And I don’t know how my cat turned into a tabby. So many strange things have happened. Everyone says I’m remembering wrong. I’m so confused I’m starting to doubt myself.”

My mom kept crying. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“Don’t cry, Mom. Where’s Dad? Is he asleep?”

“Yeah, he’s asleep. He was talking about you again just yesterday morning,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

Just as I was about to tell her to take care of herself, the living room light suddenly went out. I screamed, and the phone cut off at that exact moment.

The cat on the sofa meowed twice, and I instantly blacked out.

The next day, I woke up in bed, my phone on the nightstand. Remembering the call with my mom, I quickly checked my phone and saw there was a call made.

I dialed again, but a mechanical voice said:

“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later.”

I put the phone down and got up to wash up.

Even though I was sure this tabby wasn’t my cat, I still had to feed it since it was here.

I poured out some cat food and milk for it.

It just sniffed at them, as if deciding whether I was worth its time.

Someone in the yard called out, “Package for Emma Parker?”

“I’m here.” I put down the milk and went out.

The delivery guy handed me a big package. “This is from your family. Please sign for it.”

Two heavy boxes. I wondered if my mom had sent everything from home. Seriously, did she empty the whole house?

I opened the boxes in the living room—clothes, bedding, all kinds of snacks and toys, Sunny’s cat food and milk.

After putting everything away, Mrs. Sanders called from the yard, “Emma, your food delivery’s here.”

I ran out, confused. “I didn’t order takeout.”

Mrs. Sanders checked the order number. “It’s yours. 192 Oak Avenue, Ms. Parker, phone ending in 2024.”

I took the takeout and checked. It really was mine, with a note: ‘For my precious daughter.’

“My mom ordered it,” I said, smiling.

She gave me a look—one I’d seen before, full of pity. “She probably worries you’re not eating well.”

I nodded and went back inside.

I opened the takeout box. Inside were pot roast, barbecue shrimp, braised short ribs, steamed cod, and roast pork—all my favorites. I could practically taste home.

I took out my phone to snap a photo and sent it to my mom: “Mom, it tastes just like yours. Love you so much. You and Dad should eat well too. Mwah!”

The message went through, but there was no reply.

While eating, I muttered, “Are they really that busy?”

After eating, I sat in the living room scrolling on my phone. Because of the cat, I posted a help thread.

A comment caught my eye.

He said, “There are only tabby cats here: black, white, orange, and calico.” (Which, honestly, calico isn’t even a tabby pattern, but whatever.)

“Not used to it at first, right?”

I stared at the comment, thinking. What do you mean, only tabby cats here? No other breeds? And what does ‘not used to it’ mean?

After a while, I replied, “What do you mean?”

Soon, the commenter deleted his reply.

Thinking about all the strange things that had happened, a cold sweat broke out on my back. My shirt stuck to my skin.

That night, I didn’t dare stay at home. I took the cat and drove to a hotel.

The receptionist was a young woman with twin ponytails and a cold tone. “ID, please.”

I took my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it over.

She pointed to a black camera on the counter. “Face recognition here.”

I walked over and faced the camera.

A flash, and I saw my deathly pale face in the screen—it freaked me out—I actually yelped.

The receptionist looked up. “What’s wrong?”

I pointed at the camera. “My face?”

“Normal. Everyone looks ugly in this camera.” She handed me my room card and ID. “You’re in room 2448.”

I got in the elevator. There was a mirror inside. My face just looked a little pale, nothing unusual.

Thinking about the corpse-like face in the camera, maybe it really was just the camera.

I looked down at my license. The photo on it was exactly like the one in the camera—a deathly pale face staring back at me.

A wave of terror swept over me. I threw the license away.

When the elevator doors opened, I ran out as if escaping.

As soon as I stepped out, my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the carpet.

“Are you okay?” A woman with a pleasant fragrance helped me up.

I gasped for breath, cold sweat soaking my back.

“There’s a ghost,” I said, terrified.

The woman laughed. “Where’s the ghost?”

I pointed at the elevator. “She’s been following me.”

The woman let go of me and went into the elevator to look, picked up my license from the floor, and handed it to me. “Your name is Emma Parker?”

I backed away, afraid.

She laughed again. “What are you scared of? It’s just your own ID.”

Thinking of that corpse-like face that looked just like me, I backed away in terror.

The woman stuffed the license into my hand. “ID photos are always ugly. What’s the big deal?”

Then she turned and walked into the elevator.

I looked at the license again—the corpse-like face was gone.

The cat behind me meowed twice, and I headed to my room.

That night, lying on the big hotel bed, I couldn’t sleep.

It was noisy next door—the sound of a brass band never stopped.

I called the front desk, but no one answered. I had to open the door and go out, wanting to ask the next room to stop playing.

As soon as I opened the door, I saw that the hotel corridor was draped in red cloth, and the next room had a big red wedding sign taped to the door.

I raised my hand and knocked.

The door opened, and inside stood seven or eight people in bridesmaid dresses.

As soon as they saw me, they said, “The bride is here!”

Before I could react, I was dragged into the room.

The bridesmaids held me down and started changing my clothes.

“What are you doing? Let me go! I’m calling the police!” I shouted and struggled.

But the bridesmaids just kept repeating, “Bride, put on makeup.”

They put a red satin wedding dress on me—the fabric was cheap and rough.

“Let me go.” I sat on the chair, kicking my legs in protest.

“I don’t know any of you! If you don’t let me go, I really will call the police!”

“Bride, put on makeup.”

My voice was drowned out by the blaring brass band.

Four bridesmaids pinned me down, two did my hair, and someone used an unfamiliar powder puff on my face.

The person in the mirror had a horrifying makeup job—two round patches of blush like a paper doll, blood-red lips.

None of the people in the room showed any emotion. It was like they weren’t even human—just going through the motions.