The Handprints

I don't know how to explain this, but I swear I'm not crazy. For the past two weeks, I've been noticing some strange handprints in different places in my house. They are not mine, and they are not my husband's. They are too big, too dark, and too...wrong.

The first time I saw one, it was on the bathroom mirror. I had just taken a shower and was about to wipe the steam off the glass, when I noticed a large, smudged handprint on the lower right corner. It looked like someone had pressed their palm against the mirror with a lot of force, leaving behind a dark imprint of their fingers and thumb. I was startled, but I thought it was just a prank by my husband. He likes to scare me sometimes, especially around Halloween. I called out his name, but there was no answer. He had already left for work.

I wiped off the handprint with a towel and forgot about it. Until the next day, when I found another one on the kitchen counter. It was the same size and shape as the one on the mirror, but this time it was on the white marble surface. It looked like someone had dipped their hand in ink or paint and then slapped it on the counter. I felt a chill run down my spine. This was not funny anymore. Who was doing this? And how did they get into my house?

I checked all the doors and windows, but they were locked. I checked the security system, but it showed no signs of tampering or intrusion. I called my husband and asked him if he knew anything about the handprints, but he denied it. He said he was too busy at work to play such childish games. He told me to calm down and stop being paranoid.

But I couldn't calm down. The handprints kept appearing, every day, in different places. On the walls, on the furniture, on the floor. Sometimes they were fresh, sometimes they were dry. Sometimes they were black, sometimes they were red. Sometimes they were human, sometimes they were not.

I started to lose sleep. I started to hear noises at night. Scratching, thumping, whispering. I started to see shadows moving in the dark. I started to feel cold breaths on my neck. I started to smell something rotten in the air.

I begged my husband to believe me, but he didn't. He said I was stressed out and needed to see a doctor. He said I was imagining things and needed to relax. He said he loved me and wanted me to be happy.

But he didn't understand. He didn't see what I saw. He didn't feel what I felt. He didn't know what was happening.

He didn't know that they were coming for me.

The last handprint I saw was on my bedroom door. It was huge, monstrous, clawed. It was dripping with blood.

It was too late.

They had found me.