Mimic
by
Georgia White
There’s a mimic in your neighborhood.
It started with small things. Birds that sang songs a little off-key, or crickets who seemed to chirp backwards. No one thought anything of it, until the Johnsons’ cat Socks turned up for its nightly meal meowing louder than normal. It wasn’t until the next morning, when they let it out, that they found Socks cold in the backyard.
People are wary now. “Microchip your dog,” Mrs. Patterson is telling everyone. “It can’t imitate that.” Everyone listens after what happened to Felix the golden retriever last week.
There’s a mimic in your neighborhood. It’s getting bolder, people whisper. Lillian Epperly caught her son eating raw hamburger out of the freezer. When she turned on the light, he hissed at her with pale, bright eyes and tore through the screen door. Hours later, he stumbled onto the porch, half-sober from a baseball party, and didn’t understand why his mother wouldn’t stop screaming.
The rumors start, too. You can always spot a mimic in the eyes. The fingers, too spindly. A father on the next block leaves his daughter on the porch all night when she loses her keys. In the morning, three of her knuckles are broken from banging on the door.
Your aunt called to say something was off about your uncle. She was afraid to check his fingernails for blood. Unfortunate, the police said as they rolled caution tape over her door; if only she’d said something sooner.
There’s a mimic in your neighborhood. The neighbors have gotten double glazing on their windows so they don’t hear it asking to come in.
There's a mimic in your neighborhood. You can hear it on the steps if you listen, or—no, wait, it’s just your mom unlocking the door. Funny, you could have sworn she was already home.
It started with small things. Birds that sang songs a little off-key, or crickets who seemed to chirp backwards. No one thought anything of it, until the Johnsons’ cat Socks turned up for its nightly meal meowing louder than normal. It wasn’t until the next morning, when they let it out, that they found Socks cold in the backyard.
People are wary now. “Microchip your dog,” Mrs. Patterson is telling everyone. “It can’t imitate that.” Everyone listens after what happened to Felix the golden retriever last week.
There’s a mimic in your neighborhood. It’s getting bolder, people whisper. Lillian Epperly caught her son eating raw hamburger out of the freezer. When she turned on the light, he hissed at her with pale, bright eyes and tore through the screen door. Hours later, he stumbled onto the porch, half-sober from a baseball party, and didn’t understand why his mother wouldn’t stop screaming.
The rumors start, too. You can always spot a mimic in the eyes. The fingers, too spindly. A father on the next block leaves his daughter on the porch all night when she loses her keys. In the morning, three of her knuckles are broken from banging on the door.
Your aunt called to say something was off about your uncle. She was afraid to check his fingernails for blood. Unfortunate, the police said as they rolled caution tape over her door; if only she’d said something sooner.
There’s a mimic in your neighborhood. The neighbors have gotten double glazing on their windows so they don’t hear it asking to come in.
There's a mimic in your neighborhood. You can hear it on the steps if you listen, or—no, wait, it’s just your mom unlocking the door. Funny, you could have sworn she was already home.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
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