Don't Take The Test

It was SAT day, a pivotal moment, when a text from my brother Michael – vanished three years ago – shattered the calm: "Don't take the test!" My stomach twisted. He' d resurfaced. But how?

Then, my world truly fractured. My 'Mom' entered, her smile unsettlingly wide, her familiar mole bizarrely on the wrong side. Her reflection in the mirror seemed to melt. My 'Dad' also felt wrong, his touch cold, wearing a hated rival's jersey. These weren't my parents. My home, my family, had become an unnerving performance.

As they subtly pressured me towards the exam, even Michael's best friend, Ethan, joined their unsettling charade. A mysterious 'Dr. Reed' called, claiming Michael was dead, that I was hallucinating his texts, suffering from PTSD. They presented a fake funeral video with glaring inconsistencies.

Was I insane? Was my grief twisting reality? Deep-seated defiance screamed no. Only a single, secret promise, known just to the real Michael and me, could slice through this elaborate deception. I texted him, and his perfect, instant reply confirmed it. This world was a meticulously crafted lie. Michael was alive, trapped somewhere. I had to break free, through every twisted layer of illusion, until I hunted down the true mastermind. My freedom, and Michael's, depended on it. And I was ready to crash this reality.

The morning sun cut through my blinds.

It was SAT day.

My stomach twisted.

I reached for my phone, a nervous habit.

A new message. Unknown number.

No, not unknown.

I knew that number.

It was Michael' s.

My brother.

Gone three years.

My fingers shook as I opened it.

"Don't take the test!"

Just that.

My heart pounded.

Michael.

He vanished right before his big scholarship interview.

Gone. Like smoke.

Mom and Dad said he ran away.

I never believed it.

We had a promise, a secret one.

He wouldn' t break it.

I tried calling the number back.

A cold, flat voice said, "The number you have dialed is not in service."

Not in service.

Of course.

It was always like that.

Little whispers from him, then silence.

"Sarah! Are you ready?"

Mom. Susan.

Her voice was too bright, too cheerful.

It grated on me.

I shoved the phone under my pillow.

"Almost, Mom!"

She came into my room.

She never came into my room in the morning.

"Let me see your phone, honey. Just want to check the time."

Her smile was wide.

Too wide.

"It' s on the charger, Mom. Dead." I lied.

Her eyes narrowed, just for a second.

"Oh. Well, hurry. We can't be late."

She fussed with my blanket.

"You look pale, Sarah. Are you feeling alright?"

"Just nervous about the test," I said.

It wasn' t a complete lie.

She touched my forehead. Her hand was cold.

"You'll do great. Just like Michael would have."

The name hung in the air.

A taboo.

Her face twitched.

"Don't you dare mention him today, Sarah. Not today." Her voice was suddenly sharp, angry.

Then, just as quickly, it softened.

"I just want what's best for you, sweetie. This test is your future."

She smiled again, that too-wide smile.

I glanced at her, really looked at her.

Something was wrong.

Her mole.

Mom had a distinctive mole above her lip, on the left side.

I' d kissed that cheek a thousand times.

Today, the mole was on the right.

My breath caught.

I looked away, then back.

Still on the right.

"Mom?"

She turned, and as she passed my dresser mirror, I saw her reflection.

For a split second, her face in the mirror... it wasn' t right.

It looked like it was made of wax, starting to melt under a hot light.

Then it was normal again.

I blinked.

My head spun.

"What is it, Sarah?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern.

"Nothing," I whispered. "Just... tired."

This wasn't my mother.

I knew it. Deep in my bones, I knew it.

This thing wearing my mother' s face was an impostor.

The mole was proof. The reflection was... horrifying.

"You need to eat breakfast, Sarah. A good, hearty breakfast."

Her voice was calm, but her eyes were like chips of ice.

I had to play along.

For now.

"Okay, Mom."

I grabbed my backpack, making sure my real phone, the one with Michael' s message, was deep inside a side pocket.

I left the decoy, an old, cracked phone, on my nightstand.

Downstairs, Dad – Robert – was reading the newspaper.

Or pretending to.

He looked up when I came in.

"Morning, champ. Ready to ace that test?"

He sounded like Dad.

But then he ruffled my hair.

His hand felt... wrong. Cold, like Mom' s.

And he was wearing a jersey.

The Wildcats.

Our rival team. Dad hated the Wildcats. He bled for the Spartans.

"Since when do you like the Wildcats, Dad?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

He laughed. A forced, hollow sound.

"Oh, you know. Decided to give them a chance. Can' t always root for the losing team, right?"

He winked.

It wasn' t his wink.

These were not my parents.

My real parents were... somewhere.

These things, they wanted me to take that test.

Michael said not to.

Why?

"Eat up, Sarah," Mom-thing said, placing a plate of eggs in front of me.

They looked rubbery.

I pushed them around with my fork.

"I' m not really hungry."

"You have to eat," Dad-thing said, his voice hardening. "You need your strength."

They were watching me. Both of them.

Their eyes were too bright, too focused.

Like predators.

I saw a flicker in Mom-thing' s eyes, the same melting quality I' d seen in the mirror.

Just for a moment.

Then it was gone.

It was in Dad-thing too, a subtle shimmer around his edges, like heat rising from asphalt.

They were both wrong. Unnatural.

The SATs. Michael disappeared before his scholarship interview, a similar high-stakes moment.

Were they trying to do the same thing to me?

Make me disappear?

I had to get out.

I stood up. "I think I left my calculator upstairs."

"I' ll get it," Mom-thing said, too quickly.

"No, it's okay. I know where it is."

I needed a reason to get away from them, even for a minute.

I ran upstairs.

My bedroom door had a lock. I never used it.

I locked it now.

My hands were shaking.

I pulled out my phone.

No new messages from Michael.

I had to get out of the house.

But how?

They would be waiting.