The Last routine

It was Friday evening, and for Jean, everything unfolded like a tired ritual — no surprises, no changes.

Pick up the kids from school. Cook dinner. Make sure they eat. Tuck the little one into bed. End the night with two glasses of the cheapest wine she could afford.

That was the extent of her luxury as a single mother.

Jean ran a hand through her messy hair as she glanced at the clock — another late night, another day spent barely keeping her head above water. Some days, the silence of the house felt like it was swallowing her whole. The laughter of her children, so fleeting and rare, was the only thing that broke the monotony. She used to dream about weekends, lazy mornings with a cup of coffee, but now it was all about routines. Getting through the day, keeping the children fed, and somehow keeping herself together. 

Jean longed for something beyond this — anything that would remind her she was more than just a mother. Sometimes, the guilt gnawed at her. She loved her children fiercely, but there were nights when she’d lie awake, wishing for a life that wasn’t dictated by the next meal, the next tantrum, the next school run. The yearning for herself, for a piece of her life that wasn’t swallowed by motherhood, lingered like an unspoken woun

But that night, something shifted — a small rebellion, almost accidental.

Nothing wild. Just a change.

Before bed, she curled up on the couch and started a movie.

It moved slowly. Too slowly. The hum of dialogue and music faded into background noise. Before long, Jean’s eyelids grew heavy, and somewhere in the sluggish middle, she drifted into sleep.

Outside, the night pressed against the windows — thick and black.

Inside, the faint flicker of the TV barely touched the walls.

Jean slept deeply — until a touch on her leg jolted her halfway awake.

At first, it was gentle. Barely there.

Then the fingers crept higher — ice-cold and insistent.

Suddenly, the light brushing turned into a grip — hard and violent. She cried out, kicking.

Jean snapped fully awake, gasping.

The room was dark. The TV was off.

Only the steady drip of water from the kitchen tap echoed in the silence.

Her heart pounded. Sweat clung to her skin despite the winter chill.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

No answer.

She pushed herself upright, hands trembling, and stepped toward the place where she’d felt it — that presence.

The air felt heavier. Colder. She took another step — and sensed it retreat.

Not afraid. Playful. Daring.

Then — footsteps.

Light, rapid — like a child’s.

And laughter. High and sharp. A giggle that didn’t belong in the silence.

Jean froze, breath caught in her throat. The laughter faded upstairs.

She blinked. The kids.

Panic surged. She ran up the stairs and burst into their room.

They were sleeping.

Peacefully. Unmoved. Unaware.

Relief washed over her like a wave, but it didn’t settle her nerves. The fear in her chest wasn’t just about what she couldn’t see. It was about her inability to protect her children. She was the one who held everything together, the one who kept them safe from the world’s dangers. But here, in the dark, with shadows creeping around her, she felt weak, like everything was slipping through her fingers.

This was a new rental. The letting agent had said nothing about past tenants.

The house fell silent again.

Still shaken, Jean tiptoed downstairs to get water.

Everything felt muffled. Even her own footsteps.

She poured a glass and drank deeply — but as the cool water slid down her throat, she felt something else.

A breath. Warm and close. On her neck.

She spun around.

A tall, black figure stood behind her.

She couldn’t scream. Her throat locked.

She looked down — the glass had slipped from her hands. Water spread across the floor like a stain.

The figure didn’t move.

Slowly, she stepped toward it.

It mirrored her. Covered its mouth — and let out a scream of its own.

Jean shoved it and ran, stumbling and soaked, back to the bedroom.

She collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

The kids stirred, awakened by the sound of her cries.

In the soft light from the hallway, Jean looked down at herself.

Her white pajamas were soaked. Her first thought was the wine — no, it couldn’t be. Her stomach churned. She reached out a hand to touch the fabric. It was warm. Sticky. Blood. No. No, no, no…”

She gasped

Thomas and Maria stood in the doorway, staring.

But something was wrong.

They were pale. Strange. Changed.

“You don’t look like this…” she whispered. “Thomas, your hair— it was curly. And Maria, your eyes— where are your father’s blue eyes?”

The children stepped back, fear etched across their faces.

A woman ran into the room — wild-eyed, frantic. She scooped them up, kissed them, sobbing with relief.

Jean watched, stunned.

The oldest child pointed.

“Mommy… someone’s sitting there. Crying.”

Jean looked at her hands.

Blood. Broken skin. Bone poking through.

She ran her fingers through her hair — it was matted. Not silky. Not hers.

She staggered from the room, dazed.

Down in the kitchen, a man lay slumped against the counter, blood pooling beneath him.

Jean fled the house in a blind panic.

Outside, sirens wailed.

She saw it — her car, crushed. Twisted metal. Glass everywhere.

She stumbled toward it, dragging her broken body. Her leg hung at an unnatural angle.

She crawled closer.

In the back seat — Maria and Thomas. Motionless.

Jean crawled closer, her broken leg dragging uselessly behind her. The sight before her was too much to bear. Her own face, wide-eyed and frozen in shock, stared back at her. Her hand reached out as if to touch the cold glass — to scream at the reality that was finally crashing into her. But the scream never came

Jean stared at the scene, her mind unraveling.

And then, everything went quiet.