The clock above the sink ticked past 11:42 p.m. when Alina finally made it home. The grocery apron dug into her shoulders like a brand, and her hands still smelled faintly of bleach from scrubbing office tiles. She stood in the dark entryway of her small apartment, too tired even to turn on the lights.
Then she saw them—muddy boots on the mat.
Not hers.
Her pulse jumped. She tightened her grip on the keys, ready to use them as makeshift claws.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“It’s me!” came a familiar voice, light, casual. “Come in, sis!”
Alina exhaled—but only slightly. Svetlana. Of course. She flicked the light on and stepped into the living room. Her sister sat sprawled across the couch, leafing through a magazine, her manicured nails tapping the pages like she was in a nail salon, not someone else’s home.
“When did you get here? And how did you get in?” Alina asked, her tone sharper than she meant.
“Half an hour ago. You remember that spare key you gave me last year? Used it.” Svetlana smiled, a flash of teeth. “You look wrecked. Maybe it’s time to quit one of your jobs?”
Alina took her time removing her jacket. “You could’ve called first. You don’t just—show up.”
“Didn’t want to waste time. We’ve got business.” Svetlana straightened, the easy smile fading.
“What kind of business?”
“Mama decided you’ll take out the mortgage loan in your name—for me.”
Alina blinked. “Repeat that.”
“Mama said you’d help. I need an apartment, and my credit’s trashed. But you—you’ve got clean records, steady work. The bank will approve you in minutes.”
For a long moment, Alina just stared. The exhaustion in her body morphed into something cold and brittle.
“Svetlana,” she said slowly, “you’ve got some nerve walking in here and saying that.”
Her sister scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s family. You can handle the payments for a while. Once I’m on my feet, I’ll take over.”
Alina laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “You mean like you ‘took over’ Mama’s car payments? Or the phone bills you stopped answering calls about?”
Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. “You always hold things over people. You think you’re so righteous because you work yourself to death.”
“At least I work,” Alina shot back. “You want an apartment? Earn it. I’m done saving you.”
Svetlana’s jaw tightened. “Mama said you’d help. She’s counting on you.”
“She can count all she wants. The answer’s no.”
A thick silence filled the room. The sisters stared at each other—mirror reflections gone wrong.
Then Svetlana stood, slowly, the magazine falling to the floor. “You’ll regret saying that.”
“Try me.”
She turned and left without another word, her boots thudding down the stairs.
Two nights later, Alina woke to a sound.
A faint click.
Her heart hammered. She knew that sound. The spare key.
She slipped from bed, grabbed her phone, and crept to the hallway. The lock turned again, softly this time.
The door opened a few inches, and a shadow moved inside.
“Svetlana?” she whispered.
No answer.
She flicked the hallway light on—and froze.
A man stood there. Tall. Gaunt. Wearing a hooded jacket.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat before he bolted. Alina screamed, but he was gone—down the stairs, out into the night.
The police came, took her statement, found nothing stolen. “Maybe he thought it was someone else’s place,” the officer suggested.
But Alina’s gut said otherwise.
When she called Svetlana the next morning, her sister didn’t pick up.
Three days later, Alina’s phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ms. Mayorova?” a clipped male voice asked. “From Capital First Bank. We’re confirming the mortgage application submitted yesterday.”
Alina felt the floor tilt. “What application?”
“One for a loan of 1.4 million rand, co-signed by you and Ms. Svetlana Mayorova. We have your ID scan and signature—”
“That’s impossible,” she snapped. “I never signed anything!”
A pause. “We’ll send you the documents for verification.”
The email arrived within minutes. Her stomach dropped. It was her signature—perfectly forged.
And the address listed under the loan? A new development on the city’s edge.
By evening, she was at Svetlana’s apartment. The door was ajar.
Inside, chaos. Drawers pulled open. Clothes scattered. No sign of Svetlana.
On the table sat a small envelope with Alina’s name scrawled on it.
She tore it open.
You could’ve said yes. Now I’ve got no choice. They don’t take “no” for an answer. Tell Mama I’m sorry. Don’t look for me.
A chill ran down her spine. “They”?
Her phone rang. Unknown number again.
“Ms. Mayorova,” said a calm voice, foreign accent thick. “We need to talk about your sister’s debt.”
Alina’s breath caught. “Who is this?”
“Someone who trusted Svetlana with money. A lot of it. She promised repayment through that mortgage loan. Now she’s… unavailable.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
A pause. “You will. Because if you don’t, we’ll assume you took her place in the deal.”
Click.
The next week passed in dread. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every knock made her flinch. The police brushed her off—“Sounds like a scam, ma’am.”
Then one night, returning from work, she found an envelope under her door. No note. Just a flash drive.
Curiosity warred with fear. She plugged it into her laptop.
A video file opened.
Svetlana. In a dim room, eyes swollen, whispering.
“They’re not human, Alina. Don’t sign anything. Don’t speak to them. They—”
Static. A scream. Then nothing.
Her hands shook. She replayed it again, catching a reflection behind her sister—tall figures in black, faces blurred, symbols painted on the wall.
She yanked the drive out and threw it across the room.
But on her laptop screen, a new window popped up.
Mortgage Approved.
Her name. Her ID. Her account number.
Approved that very minute.
And below it, a line of text appeared—typed in real time.
Thank you, Ms. Mayorova. Welcome home.
The lights in her apartment flickered.
And from the hallway came the sound of footsteps. Two pairs. Slow. Heavy.
Then—softly—her sister’s voice:
“It’s me, Alina. Come in.”
Only this time, Alina knew better.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t breathe.
Because the door was already opening.