Is She?

I keep telling myself I’m just being paranoid. That maybe it’s just the creeping gray skies and the damp chill settling into these old wooden floorboards beneath my feet. Maybe the long winter nights in this northeastern town are warping my mind, tightening the shadows until every creak, every whisper of wind sounds like something else—a warning, a threat. But when I look at her, really look, my skin crawls with a strange, icy certainty. She’s not who she says she is. She’s not human.

It's been three months since she moved in. At first, I thought she was just quiet, a little reserved. But it’s more than that. She never blinks when we talk, not really. There’s this cold, unsettling stillness behind her eyes, like they’re watching from somewhere far beyond the room we sit in. And when she smiles, it’s like the light dies in her face, replaced by something tight, too perfect, too sharp.

I’ve started paying attention—or rather, I can’t help it. The way she moves through the apartment, silent and sure, like a shadow slipping between walls. How she knows things she shouldn’t, like the exact moment the phone will ring, or when a neighbor will pass by the window. The way the dog cowers and whines whenever she’s near, hiding under the couch as if she’s some kind of predator.

Last week, I found a torn scrap of what looked like animal fur stuck to the hem of her sleeve. It was coarse, not like the soft strands of a cat or dog we’d have. I didn’t say anything, but my mind spun stories in the long, empty hours when she was out. Skinwalkers, I remembered—tales from Indigenous folklore about beings that could change shape, take on the forms of animals, steal human identities. I’d laughed at the stories before, but now? The laughter stuck somewhere in my throat.

She claims to be from a small town far from here, but every time I ask about her past, she skirts the questions, changing the subject with practiced ease. Sometimes, I catch her staring out the window at the woods behind our building. The trees loom like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches scratching at the glass like desperate fingers. She breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring just a fraction, as if drawing strength from the cold air outside.

Last night, I woke to a sound. A low thud, like something heavy hitting the floor downstairs. Heart pounding, I crept out of bed, careful not to wake her. The apartment was empty, except for the faintest smell of something wild and metallic—like blood mixed with earth after rain. I checked every room. Nothing. But when I glanced at the living room window, I saw faint, muddy paw prints just outside. The prints were too large for any dog around here, and they trailed off into the woods.

I wanted to believe it was an animal, a stray maybe. But the hairs on the back of my neck prickled with dread. Was she out there? Or was she something else entirely?

She asked me once why I looked at her like she was a stranger. I smiled, trying to hide the unease coiling in my chest. "Just distracted," I said. But the truth was, I didn’t know if I could trust her anymore. Not because she was unfaithful or cruel—but because she might not even be human.

The other night, I noticed a shadow moving outside the window, fluid and unnatural. I blinked, and it was gone. When I told her, she laughed softly, a sound that didn’t reach her eyes. "You're seeing things," she said. But the way she said it felt like a warning.

I tried to confront her once, gently. I asked her about the strange noises, the distant howls in the woods, the way the cold seems to cling to her like a second skin. She just tilted her head, eyes sharp and unreadable. "You have a vivid imagination," she murmured. But there was a flicker—something almost like amusement—in her gaze.

Last night, I found the kitchen window open, despite my certainty I’d locked it. A gust of cold wind blew in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something animalistic. On the windowsill were three small, dark feathers—black as midnight, slick with rain. I picked them up, fingers trembling. They didn’t belong to any bird in this part of the world.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this half-truth twisting in my gut. Part of me wants to run, to escape whatever darkness has crept into this apartment. But another part is frozen in place, unsure if I’m unraveling or if she really is something beyond the stories.

She sleeps beside me now, her breathing even and steady. But when I reach out to touch her, I hesitate. What if the woman I’ve loved isn’t a woman at all? What if the monster wears her face and smiles in the dark?

Tomorrow, I’ll try to find answers. Maybe there’s an old book in the library, or someone in town who knows more about the legends whispered on cold winter nights. Or maybe the truth will reveal itself in the shadows, just beyond the edge of the light.

For now, the air is thick with the promise of something terrible, hanging between us like a storm waiting to break.