Today

I shoot up from my soft pink mattress to the sound of Daddy shouting downstairs.

“Come on now, y'all! We gotta talk about somethin’!” Dad's voice echoes throughout the house. I hurry out of bed and exit my room at the same time my older brothers walk through theirs.

My brothers, Nehemiah and Nete'yam, are fourteen years old, seven years older than me. My mama has always called Tey the ‘mean’ twin, but I don’t think that’s right; he’s not mean, he’s just selective of who he talks to.

“What’d you do this time, Nailah?” Nehem hisses at me as we make our way down the stairs.

“Nothin!” I whisper back as he pushes past me. Our parents are waiting downstairs; Daddy’s standing. His mouth combines with his salt and pepper beard to create the most irritated look on the planet—his lips mushed into a straight line, even the wrinkles on his otherwise bald head move with impatience.

Mama is the complete opposite, she’s sitting on the couch, leg bouncing up and down like a ball, and she’s avoiding our eyes, moving her long, dark braids out of her eyes every other second.

My brothers and I stand in the living room side by side like I've seen in army movies. I'm not sure what my face looks like, but Nehem is fidgeting with the urge not to bite his lip—Daddy always gets on him about that—and Tey is tugging on a loose string in his shirt.

Daddy clears his throat once. The sound is sharp, like he’s cuttin’ the room in half.

“Y’all listenin’ to me?” he asks, even though we ain’t said a word.

We nod. I nod the hardest.

He paces in front of us, slow, like he’s countin’ his steps. The floor creaks under his weight, and I think about how the house always makes noise when grown folks are mad, like it’s tryin’ to warn you.

“There are things out there,” Daddy says, “that look just like people.”

Mama finally looks up then. She doesn’t say nothin’. That makes it worse.

“Same skin. Same eyes. Same voice,” he goes on. “They laugh when you laugh. They ask how your day been. They’ll call you by your name.”

My stomach twists.

“They ain’t ghosts like in them cartoons. They ain’t rattlin’ chains or floatin’ through walls. Haints are smart. Patient.” He stops pacing and looks straight at us. “They wait.”

Nehem shifts beside me, but Daddy keeps talkin’.

“You do not follow nobody you don’t know. I don’t care if they smile at you. I don’t care if they got candy, ice cream, or a puppy cryin’ in a box.” His voice hardens on every word. “You don’t take nothin’ from nobody outside this house.”

I think about the porch. About how the ceiling over it is painted that strange, watery blue—lighter than the sky but darker than milk. I always thought Mama just liked it that way.

Daddy raises a finger. “You don’t let folks touch you. You don’t let ‘em lead you nowhere. And if somethin’ feels off—if your stomach starts hurtin’ for no reason, if your skin gets cold—you run.”

“To where?” Tey asks quietly.

“Home,” Daddy says. “Always home.”

He looks at Mama then, just for a second, like he’s checkin’ to make sure she agrees. She nods once.

“Haints can’t come in unless they’re invited,” Daddy says. “That’s why you don’t open the door for nobody. Not neighbors. Not family friends. Not even kin, unless me or your mama say so.”

That word—kin—sticks to my ribs.

“They’ll lie,” he continues. “They’ll tell you your parents sent ‘em. They’ll say they know you. They’ll say you’re safe with ‘em. His voice drops low. “That’s how they get you.”

The room feels smaller. Like the walls leaned in while he was talkin’. Like the blue on the porch ceiling was pressin’ down on us too, even though we were inside.

Daddy bends down so he’s eye level with me. His eyes are dark and serious, and I don’t see a single joke in ‘em.

“You understand me, Nailah?”

I nod. My throat feels tight.

“Good,” he says, standin’ up straight again. “Fear keeps you alive.”

Yesterday

The park smelled of charcoal and sweet smoke before the sun even started droppin’. Mama had been up early, humming old songs while she seasoned the meat, and Daddy kept goin’ in and out from the grill to the pavilion like he forgot somethin’ every time.

By noon, the place was full.

Cousins ran barefoot through the grass, hollerin’ and shovin’ each other. Somebody’s baby cried, then laughed, then cried again. Paper plates stacked too high on the picnic table, bending in the middle. The grill popped and sizzled while Uncle Reggie stood over it, beer in one hand, tongs in the other, actin’ like he was the only man in the world who knew how to cook meat right.

The music played loud—old R&B, the kind Mama cleaned to on a Sunday afternoon. It floated through the yard like nothin’ bad could ever happen with a beat like that.

But somethin’ was wrong.

I felt it. Like when you step outside, and the air feels heavy, even though the sky’s still blue.

The cousins didn’t notice. They never do. They wrestled and chased and argued over who cheated first. Juice got spilled. Somebody knocked over a chair, and nobody yelled. Nehem was already plottin’ how to get somebody in trouble.

Tey stayed close to Uncle Ernest. He always did. Uncle Ernest had a way of talkin’ real low, like everything he said was just for you. Tey followed him like a shadow, quiet and watchful.

The grown folks weren’t laughin’ like they usually did. They stood in tight little circles, shoulders turned in, voices pressed down low. When I got close, the talk would stop. Somebody would smile too fast and ask me where my mama was, even though she was right there.

Mama kept wringin’ her hands on her apron, over and over, like she couldn’t get ‘em clean. Daddy’s jaw was set so tight I thought his teeth might crack. Every now and then, he’d look around, like he was watching for something.

I followed Daddy’s eyes once, tryin’ to see what he saw, but I never saw nothing.

Aunties whispered behind their hands. Uncles leaned in close, brows furrowed, voices so low they sounded like the wind movin’ through tall grass. Every so often, someone would say a name, quick and sharp, like it wasn’t supposed to be heard.

I tried to listen.

All I caught were pieces.
—ain’t right
—been actin’ strange
—the children—

The music kept playin’. The grill kept goin’. Laughter would rise up sudden and loud, then die just as fast, like somebody remembered where they were.

I stood there with a paper plate in my hands, food gettin’ cold, and felt like I was the only one who noticed the space between things. Like the yard had holes in it, you could fall through if you weren’t careful.

I didn’t know why that made my chest hurt.

Today

The halls seemed smaller than yesterday, like somebody pushed the walls closer together overnight. The lockers were too loud when they slammed, metal bangin’ metal, echoing in my chest. I felt like I couldn’t breathe right, like the air was used up before it got to me.

My friends smiled at me, but their smiles seemed almost plastic today. Too shiny. Too still. Like they practiced ‘em in a mirror. I watched their mouths move when they talked, watched their teeth, watched their eyes to see if they blinked wrong.

“Hey, Nailah,” they said.

They said my name.

I wondered if they meant it.

In class, I sat real still in my chair, hands folded in my lap the way Mama liked. The teacher talked and talked, but her words slid right past me, like water down a window. I could see her mouth moving, hear the sound of her voice, but none of it stuck.

Daddy’s voice was louder.

“There are things out there.”

“That look just like people.”

I stared at the back of the head in front of me. The way the girl’s braids swung when she leaned over her paper. Same skin. Same hair. Same laugh when somebody whispered somethin’ funny.

“Same skin. Same eyes. Same voice.”

The teacher laughed too. Soft. Friendly.

“They laugh when you laugh.”

My heart started beatin’ fast. I pressed my feet flat on the floor like that might keep me from floatin’ away.

“They ask how your day been.”

The teacher walked past my desk. “You alright today, Nailah?” she asked.

I nodded quick. Too quick.

“They’ll call you by your name.”

She said it again when she called roll.

What if my friends were those things?

What if my teacher was?

Those haints.

I looked around the room, really lookin’ now. At hands. At mouths. At eyes. Everybody looked normal. Everybody always does. That’s what made it dangerous.

Those things didn’t look like monsters.

They looked like people.

They looked like us.

My chest felt tight. My stomach hurt, just like Daddy said it would. I didn’t know if that meant I was in danger or if I was already too late.

I kept my mouth shut all day. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t answer questions unless I had to. I didn’t let nobody touch me, not even when a girl bumped into my desk and said sorry.

When the bell finally rang, the sound was so loud I jumped. Chairs scraped. Kids rushed past me toward the door, all noise and smiles and voices.

I waited.

Tonight

After dinner, I went to find Tey. I needed to know if he was scared too—if Daddy’s words had crawled into his head the way they crawled into mine.

He was outside on the back porch. The sky was darkenin’, that soft late-evenin’ blue, and fireflies blinked in and out of the air like tiny signals. Crickets chirped steady and loud, like they were tryin’ to keep the night busy. It was almost beautiful.

Tey didn’t say a word when I stepped out. He didn’t even look at me. So I sat down beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, and started talkin’ anyway.

“I’m scared to go to school…” I whispered, even though there wasn’t nobody else out there to hear us.

He didn’t respond.

“I’m scared to leave the house,” I went on. My voice shook, and I hated that it did. “Daddy asked if I wanted to go with him to get ice cream, and I couldn’t, because all I could think about were those things—snatching me up!”

The words tumbled out too fast. I finished with a huff, my chest tight, just realizin’ how hard I’d been breathin’.

A second passed. Then another.

I started to think he wasn’t gonna say anything at all. Maybe this was a waste of time. Maybe I should’ve kept it to myself, like grown folks do.

Then he spoke.

“I wouldn’t be scared to leave,” he said finally. “I’d be scared to stay.”

I blinked at him, the fireflies blurrin’ in my eyes.
“Why?”

He stared out into the yard, into the dark parts where the porch light didn’t reach.

“Because sometimes the monsters inside the house are worse than the ones outside it.”

This Evening

I can’t stop thinkin’ about what Tey said yesterday.

The monsters inside the house are worse.

I try to figure out what he meant while I scrub the plates, my hands prunin’ in the sink. Who could be worse than the things Daddy warned us about? What could be worse than somethin’ that looks like us?

My thoughts race until Mama snaps her fingers in my face.

“Nailah,” she says sharp. “Finish up.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I mumble, turnin’ back to the dishes.

“Uncle Ernest is comin’ over, kiddos!” Daddy announces from the livin’ room.

That explains the fancy plates. The ones we only use for holidays and funerals. Why Mama’s been cleanin’ all day like the president himself was on his way. She wiped down the windows twice. Scrubbed the porch floor on her knees.

It also explained why Nehem was on his best behavior today. His pranks and antics seemed to lessen, I was worried.

Daddy always talked about Uncle Ernest like he was a hero. His big brother. Said he fought in the war. Said he saved people. Said if he ever needed someone to watch his back, it’d be Ernest.

Tey doesn’t say nothin’.

He sits at the table, hands in his lap, starin’ at the wood grain like it’s sayin’ somethin’ only he can hear. When I sit beside him, he doesn’t look up.

The door knocks.

Daddy’s face lights up. “That’s him.”

Uncle Ernest steps inside like he owns the space between the walls. He’s tall—taller than I remember—and dressed too nice. Black suit, pressed clean. Dark shoes that don’t make a sound on the floor. His beard is long now, hangin’ low over his chest, shadowin’ his face.

He smiles, wide and easy.

“Where my family at?” he says.

My parents laugh. Hug him. Clap him on the back. The house fills with his voice, warm and loud and familiar.

He sits at the table. Right next to Tey.

“Boy, you quiet today,” Uncle Ernest says, restin’ a heavy hand on Tey’s shoulder. “Ain’t you happy to see your uncle?”

Tey stiffens. His mouth opens, then closes. He nods once.

I don’t like the way Uncle Ernest’s hand stays there.

Mama sets the plates down quick. Daddy pours drinks. Nobody says nothin’. The food gets passed around. Forks clink. The R&B hums low from the radio.

Uncle Ernest leans in close to Tey.

“You remember that surprise I was mentioning?” he says softly. “The one I was talkin’ about giving you?”

Tey’s fingers curl tight into his napkin.

“Give the boy some space,” Mama says, her voice polite but tight.

Uncle Ernest chuckles. “I’m just talkin’.”

His eyes flick outside to the porch, to the blue ceiling. His smile shifts. Just a little.

“That’s a pretty color,” he says. “Funny how y’all think that’s gonna keep anything out.”

The room goes still.

Daddy clears his throat. “Ernest—”

“You really believe I’d be fooled by paint?” Uncle Ernest interrupts, his voice calm. Amused. “By sky-colored lies?”

The lights flicker.

I look at Tey. His eyes are wide now. He’s tryin’ to move. Tryin’ to speak.

He can’t.

Uncle Ernest stands.

And keeps standin’.

His body stretches, bones crackin’ soft like knuckles poppin’. His suit hangs wrong now, draped over somethin’ too tall, too thin. His smile disappears into his beard, and where his face should be, there’s nothin’ clear to look at. No eyes I can follow. No mouth I can read.

Just shadow and hair and wrongness.

“I waited for my invite,” the thing says. Uncle Ernest’s voice, but older. Deeper. “That’s what you do when you’re family, you let people in.”

The plates explode.

Glass shatters. Windows burst inward, rainin’ shards across the floor. The walls groan like they’re in pain, cracks splittin’ through ‘em like veins. The blue on the porch ceiling peels and flakes, fallin’ useless to the ground.

Tey doesn’t move.

I scream, “Nete'yam!” But the sound gets swallowed by the house breakin’ apart around us.

The thing looks at me.

“There’s no place like home,” it smiles.

The floor buckles.

Daddy shouts. Mama cries out. The house collapses inward, like it’s foldin’ around a secret it can’t hold no more.

And Nete'yam stays still.