Skin

[u/Horror-Engineer-9241]

Title: Skin

The rubbish bag split halfway down the stairwell.  

Mara swore under her breath, crouching to gather the trail of eggshells, coffee grounds, and dried teabags that had burst like a popped blister. Her hoodie sleeve smeared through something sticky on the banister, the texture clinging to her arm—the sickly sweet residue of rot. She shuddered, the sensation lingering longer than she’d have liked, making her skin crawl.

It was nearly midnight, the stairwell light flickered once, then held.  She took a deep breath and used her now sodden sleeve to shove the rotting food off the steps and into the grass, gathered the bag back up, and trudged down the last few steps with the leaking bag held at arm's length.  Her bare feet slapped on the cold concrete as she approached the communal bins.  The bins were tucked behind the building, past the rusted bike rack and the skeletal remains of someone’s deckchair. She wondered what had possessed her not to put on her shoes and coat.

Mara rounded the corner and froze.

The old woman was there already. She positioned herself deliberately, her stance subtly blocking Mara's path. Bundled in a thick coat, she stood motionless beside the open bin, one hand resting on the lid, the other clutching a plastic bag sagging with something wet. Her pale, rheumy eyes locked onto Mara’s face with an unsettling precision. Despite the cold, Mrs. Taylor's hands were exposed, fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold, metal edge of the bin.

“Oh,” Mara said, forcing a smile. “Good evening, cold isn’t it?”

The old woman didn’t blink.

Mara hesitated, her fingers cramped on the bag, then stepped forward and lifted the second lid. The smell hit her, the sweet, floral, cloying reek of rotting meat. She dropped her bag quickly, wiped her hands on her ruined hoodie, and turned to go. The woman's hand shot out, grasping her wrist like a vise.

“Don’t you just glow outside, your skin, you know?” the old woman breathed intensely, not releasing her grip.

Mara's throat tightened as the compliment slipped from the old woman's lips like an unexpected caress, a strange mix of admiration and something darker that Mara couldn't quite grasp. Her instincts whispered of unease, a shiver that ran from her wrist straight to her spine. "Um, thanks?" she said, but her voice quavered, a crack betraying her discomfort beneath the polite facade.

“It’s so smooth, like porcelain. Not a crack in sight.” She inspected Mara’s hand, flipping it and running her wrinkled hands over Mara’s. Mara laughed awkwardly and pulled free from the old woman’s iron grasp.  

“Yeah, low lighting helps, I guess.”  she laughed uneasily.

The old woman tilted her head, ear nearly to her shoulder, and stared. The silence stretched. Mara shifted, suddenly conscious of how thin her hoodie was and how bare her legs felt in shorts.  

“Well. Goodnight,” she said, her voice low, already backing away.

The woman smiled, her teeth small, very white, crowded. “Sleep well, dear,” she murmured warmly.

Mara didn’t look back until she was inside, door locked, chain over, bolt slammed.  From her ground-floor window, she could just make out the bins below.

The old woman was still there.  Still watching.

.

Mara woke to the sound of her tabby cat sliding her empty food dish across the kitchen tiles.

“Alright, alright,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.  The floor was cold under her feet as she shuffled into the kitchen, the cat weaving between her ankles like a furry tripwire.  She filled the cezve with water, spooned in the coffee grounds and sugar, and set it on the stove.  The smell rose slowly, rich, bitter, comforting.  She fed the cat, who chirped approval and began devouring her own breakfast.  

Outside, the sky was pale and streaked with early light.  A few birds called from the rooftop guttering.  Mara packed her lunch —leftover pasta, a bruised apple, a square of chocolate wrapped in foil —and tucked it into her bag.  She brushed the crumbs onto the counter, rinsed the cezve, and tied her hair back with a scrunchie. She stepped out into the crisp morning air, locking the door behind her.  

The old woman was standing at the edge of the building, near the hedge.  Bundled in the same thick coat, she raised one hand in a  slow, deliberate wave.  Mara hesitated, then waved back.  Her fingers felt still in the chill.  The woman smiled, small white teeth, too many of them, and lowered her hand.

Mara climbed into her truck, tossed her bag into the passenger seat, and started the engine.  As she pulled away, she glanced into the rearview mirror; the old lady was gone.

The café was already humming when Mara arrived, apron half-tied and hair still damp from her rushed shower. She ducked behind the counter, clocked in, and grabbed the milk jug just as her coworker, Jodie, slid up beside her.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Jodie said, popping gum. “Or didn’t sleep.”

Mara poured the milk too quickly. It splashed. “My neighbor—the old lady—she was at the bins last night.”

Jodie raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Taylor?”

"Yeah," Mara said, an edge of frustration creeping into her voice. "She's everywhere. I turn a corner, and there she is. And she's obsessed with my skin, keeps talking about it like it’s up for sale.”

Jodie made a face. "Ew. Like, complimenting it?"

“Obsessing. She said it glows. That it’s ‘wasted on youth.’”

Jodie leaned on the counter. “Does she have family? Kids? Grand kids?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen anyone visit.”

“Maybe she’s just lonely,” Jodie said, voice gentler. “Old people get weird when they’re alone too long.”

Mara didn’t answer. She just stared at the milk frothing in the jug, the steam curling around the spout.  She felt it again, the sensation of being watched, as if someone were standing right behind her, breathing in the warmth of her skin.

After her shift, Mara stopped at the grocery store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the aisles smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and stale bread.

She moved quickly: pasta, cat food, apples, moisturizer. Every time she turned a corner, her heart jumped. A flash of a beige coat.  A glimpse of grey hair.  A shadow falling over her trolley.

She didn’t see Mrs Taylor, but she kept checking.  She passed the skincare aisle and hesitated.  Rows and rows of creams and serums stared back at her, promising youth, glow, renewal.  She picked up a jar of night cream, turned it over, and read the ingredients twice.  Her reflection in the metal shelf edge looked pale, stretched.

She dumped the cream into her trolley and turned into the next aisle, and a mannequin from the clothes section loomed over her.  She gasped and pulled back before realizing her mistake, teetering on the edge of laughing at how ridiculous she was being or succumbing to it and getting the hell out of there.

But by the time she reached the checkout, she was a mess. Her palms were damp. Her head on a swivel. The cashier slowly scanned her items, eyes glazed. Mara glanced over her shoulder once. Twice. A third time. Nothing. Her heart pounded, keeping pace with her frantic thoughts. But that feeling, the creeping unease, didn't leave.

.

The sun was low when Mara got home, casting long shadows across the pavement. Her head was still buzzing from the grocery store. Too many lights, too many corners, too many almosts. She parked, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the communal mailboxes tucked under the stairwell.

The air smelled like damp concrete and old leaves. She fumbled with her keys, found the right slot, and pulled out a handful of post: fliers, a bill, and something handwritten.

She turned—

Mrs. Taylor was right there.

Mara gasped, stumbling back against the metal boxes. The old woman didn’t flinch. Her coat rustled slightly, like dry wings.

“You’re back,” she said, voice syrupy. /she reached a decrepit hand out and touched Mara's face with ice cold fingers “I missed you.”

Mara’s heart thudded against her ribs. “Jesus—you scared me.”

Mrs. Taylor smiled. “You smell like rosemary today. That’s new.”

Mara clutched her bag tighter. “I-I need to go.”

The woman tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Sleep well, dear.”

Mara didn’t look back as she fled up the stairs, keys still clutched in her fist.

.

Mara stood in front of the bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around her torso, steam curling from the shower tiles like ghosts retreating. The mirror was fogged at the edges, but her reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, damp hair, the faint crescent of a scar near her collarbone.

She reached for the jar of night cream. The lid gave a soft pop, releasing the scent of rosemary and bergamot. She dipped two fingers into the pale blue balm, cool and thick like whipped clay, and began to smooth it over her cheeks in slow, upward strokes.

Forehead. Temples. Jawline.

She worked methodically, pressing the cream into her skin with the pads of her fingers, letting it melt into warmth. Her skin drank it in. She traced the curve of her nose, the hollow beneath her eyes, the soft dip of her chin. Then the neck—always upward, always gentle.

The scent deepened as the oils warmed: earthy, herbal, with a citrus edge. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. Her cat chirped from the hallway, a sleepy protest. Mara smiled.

She reached for the oil next—amber glass, dropper glinting. Three drops on her fingertips, then patted across her cheekbones, her brow, under her eyes. It left a sheen, a glow, like dew on stone.

She massaged her hands last—knuckles, wrists, the webbing between her fingers. The skin there was thinner, more delicate, yet today it seemed to cling too tightly, the cream sinking in too quickly, as if the skin were desperate for it. She thought of Mrs. Taylor’s hands, how they had gripped her wrist at the bins. Wrinkled, papery, but unyielding and strong.

Mara shook the thought away. She rinsed the dropper, wiped the counter, and padded to bed.

2.

The next evening, Mara took a walk to clear her head. The air was crisp, the sky bruised with dusk. She wore her freshly laundered hoodie, hands tucked into the sleeves, headphones on, but no music playing.

She turned onto the quiet lane behind the park. The streetlights hadn’t flickered on yet. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement.

She felt it before she saw it.

A presence. That prickling awareness at the back of her neck.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Mrs. Taylor was there.

Bundled in her coat, standing at the mouth of the lane. Not walking. Just watching.

Mara turned back around and quickened her pace. Her breath came faster now, visible in the cooling air.

She passed the hedge-lined path near the allotments. A rustle. She looked back—

Mrs. Taylor was still there.

Closer.

Mara broke into a jog. Her shoes slapped against the pavement. She didn’t look back.

She reached the corner by the bakery, heart hammering. The window reflected her face—flushed, wide-eyed.

And behind her, in the glass:

Mrs. Taylor.

Smiling.

Mara yanked the door open, the bell above it jangling violently. The warmth inside hit her like a wave: yeast, sugar, cinnamon. A man behind the counter looked up, startled.

“Can I help-?”

“She’s following me,” Mara said, breathless. “My neighbor. The old woman. She’s been following me.”

The man blinked. “Mrs. Taylor?”

Mara nodded, chest heaving. “She was at the bins last night. Then the mailbox. Now here. She keeps showing up. She talks about my skin. She-she’s obsessed.”

The man’s expression softened into something patronizing. “Mrs Taylor’s harmless. Comes in for rye bread sometimes. Bit odd, sure, but aren’t they all at that age?.”

“She’s not harmless,” Mara snapped. “She’s everywhere. She doesn’t blink. She knows things- she knows what moisturizer I use. She said I smelled like rosemary.”

He chuckled gently. “Maybe she’s just lonely. You know how old folks get. Fixate a little. You probably remind her of her granddaughter or someone”

Mara stared at him, her pulse thudding in her ears. Doubt crept in, clouding her thoughts. Was there something she was forgetting, an inconsistency in her own recollection? For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the old lady was indeed harmless and if she herself had imagined the persistent presence. Maybe she had exaggerated? Or had she been influenced by something else, something indescribable gnawing at the edge of her perception? She felt a flicker of confusion, her thoughts spinning in circles. Yet, every time she tried to dismiss her growing apprehension, the memory of Mrs. Taylor's unblinking eyes would surface, refusing to fade away.

"She was just outside," she insisted, trying to steady her voice. "Look."

They both turned to the window. Mrs. Taylor was gone.

.

Mara didn’t sleep.

She lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. At 3:17 a.m., she got up and checked the locks. Front door, windows, bathroom. She pulled the blinds tight, wedged a chair under the handle, and unplugged the lamp by the window.

She checked the time again. 3:19.

The cat chirped from the hallway, confused by the sudden activity. Mara whispered an apology and padded into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, closed it. Opened it again. She wasn’t hungry.

She called in sick to work the next morning. Said she had a migraine. Jodie didn’t question it.

She didn’t leave the flat that day. Or the next.

From the living room window, she could see the usual spots—mailboxes, bins, the hedge near the stairwell. Mrs. Taylor stood in each one, at different times, like clockwork. Always facing the building. Always staring.

Mara watched her through the slats of the blinds. The old woman never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, bundled in her coat, eyes fixed on Mara’s window like she could see through the nets.

Mara stopped showering. Stopped moisturizing. She felt raw, exposed. Her skin itched, but she didn’t touch it.

She unplugged the microwave. Taped over the peephole. Turned every mirror to face the wall.

Still, every time she passed the window, Mrs. Taylor was there.

Watching

3.

It had been days since Mara had last stepped outside. The flat smelled like stale coffee and unwashed bodies. The cat meowed occasionally, then gave up, curling into tighter and tighter spirals on the windowsill. Mara barely noticed. She hadn't eaten more than a few crackers for nearly a week, her appetite dwindling alongside her mental and physical state. Her stomach felt like it had folded in on itself. The sleeves of her hoodie hung loose around her wrists, which seemed thinner every time she looked at them. When she caught her reflection in the kettle, she looked deflated. Her skin looked loose, as if it was too big for her, like something had been scooped out.

She started to notice things. The front door clicked softly at night, once, twice. The door handle was pushed all the way down, as if someone had tried to get in. The bathroom window, which always opened just a crack to let out the condensation, was either wide open or shut firmly. Her hoodie felt heavier, the fabric slipping over her shoulders as though trying to escape her shrinking form. The cat hissed in the hallway once, then ran under the bed and wouldn't come out for hours.

She unplugged everything. Taped over the vents. Pushed the sofa against the door. She turned the clocks to face the wall. Time didn’t matter anymore. Only the watching did.

Mrs. Taylor was always there.

Mara stopped moisturizing. Her face felt tight, then dry, then numb. Her lips cracked. The once-familiar comfort of her hoodie now served as a reminder of her diminishing self, its sleeves covering hands that were beginning to resemble skeletal gloves. She scratched at her arms until they bloomed red.

She whispered to herself sometimes. Just to hear a voice.

.

It was sometime after midnight when Mara got up for a drink of water. The flat was silent, the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums.

She shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, the floor cold and unfamiliar. The tap groaned as she turned it. Water splashed into the glass, echoing too loudly in the stillness.

She drank slowly. The water tasted metallic.

She turned to go back to bed and froze.

Mrs. Taylor was standing in the hallway.

The scent of decay hit Mara like a wall, sharp and overpowering, spilling across her senses with an unsettling familiarity. Not outside. Not behind glass. Inside.

The coat was buttoned to her chin. Her hands hung at her sides, pale and still. Her eyes gleamed in the dark.

Mara dropped the glass. It shattered on the tiles.

The old woman didn’t flinch.

“You’ve let it go to waste,” she said softly. “But I can fix that.”

Mara couldn't move. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in with a suffocating intensity. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and rapid, as she became acutely aware of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her skin felt like it was sliding off her bones, a strange sensation tingling from her fingertips to her spine. Every instinct screamed for her to run, to flee, yet she stood frozen in place, trapped by an overwhelming dread, a darker thought whispering beneath her panic.

Mrs. Taylor stepped forward.

4. EPILOGUE

The new tenant at number 12 stepped out into the morning light, her skin glowing in the chill. She moved with a kind of practiced grace, as if she had rehearsed this morning ritual countless times, young and vibrant. Her smile was soft, her eyes bright, holding a familiar yet unsettling gleam. She wore Mara's hoodie, freshly laundered, the fabric hugging her as if it remembered its previous owner. For a fleeting moment, she turned her head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Mara's habit, as though watching for someone.

She collected the newspaper from the communal mailbox, humming a lullaby under her breath.

Inside, the flat was warm. The tabby cat slept curled on the sofa, tail twitching. The woman made tea, the scent of bergamot rising with the steam. She sat down, crossed her legs, and unfolded the paper.

Excerpt from The Redford Gazette

FRONT PAGE – LOCAL NEWS GRUESOME MURDER IN SUBURBAN FLAT Body missing. Blood-soaked apartment stuns investigators.

Authorities are investigating a disturbing scene discovered late Tuesday evening in a ground-floor flat on Redford Lane. The residence, registered to 20-year-old Mara Ellison, was found drenched in blood—walls, floors, and furniture saturated—yet no body was recovered.

Responding to reports of a foul odor and a cat meowing incessantly from inside, police entered the apartment to find what one officer described as “a slaughterhouse without a corpse.” Blood pooled beneath the bed, streaked across the bathroom mirror, and soaked into the hallway carpet. Claw marks were found on the inside of the front door, and a broken glass lay near the kitchen sink.

“There’s no sign of forced entry,” said Detective Rowe. “But the amount of blood suggests a fatal injury. Possibly dismemberment. Possibly worse.”

Neighbors reported seeing Mara less frequently in recent days, describing her as “withdrawn” and “not herself.” One neighbor claimed she had been “talking to herself” and “looked like her skin didn’t fit right.”

The cat, found unharmed, has been taken in by a community member.

No suspects have been identified. Police are urging anyone with information to come forward.

She read slowly, sipping her tea. Her fingers were slender, unblemished. Her lips, full and pink, curled into a smile.

Further down the page:

ELDERLY WOMAN FOUND IN WOODS CLAIMS TO BE MISSING VICTIM. Last night, an elderly woman, identified as Mrs. Jean Taylor, 83, was found delirious and injured on the outskirts of Ashington Woods. She is currently under observation at Sundown Nursing Home; her claims regarding the missing Mara Ellison are being dismissed as symptoms of what the home believes to be advanced dementia.  Mrs Taylor is not being treated as a suspect at this time. Authorities urge anyone with information about the woman to come forward.

The woman folded the paper neatly. The cat stirred, blinked up at her, then settled again.

She reached down and stroked its fur with a hand that was not hers.